Feeling the roar of the engine under her, and the wind blowing past her helmet never got old. Zigzagging between cars, going off the road into alleys, the never ending loop of adrenaline was just what she needed to start off her job. Eventually of course, she would reach her desired destination. Kicking down the kickstand of her motorcycle and taking the keys, she was quick to dismount and remove her helmet, walking with hastened pace into a fairly regular building, from the terrace where she managed to land her vehicle on.

Tobacco smoke and gloominess only interrupted by neon lights greeted her inside. “Can’t help yourself huh? Quite the show you put out there, almost makes me think you want us found out.” A man inside said, his feet kicked over a large expensive mahogany desk while he smoked a Habano; he shook it lightly over an ashtray. Placing a hand on her hip and staring back at him, the woman replied. “Just enjoying this a little bit, can’t be all serious about hunting those silly things can we?” She said as she took one of the documents laid on the table, perfectly placed to let her know it was for her. Her faint smile vanished as she focused on the document, quickly reading through all its contents.

“Hm, that’s it? Alright boss, consider it done.” She said, mocking a salute as she went downstairs, the man continuing to enjoy his cigar as the woman descended into the bowels of the city. Winding paths and strange geometrical aberrations awaited her, being swiftly dealt with, as was routine. As she traversed the inverted staircases and swirling pipes she checked her weaponry. A duffel bag on her back was brought forwards, opened, and examined. The first was her knife, a special resonant uranium self sharpening blade, useful for cutting things, hard and soft, flesh or tool steel. Its modular construction allowed it to deform, splitting into smaller triangles and automatically changing its geometry as to accommodate for the wielder’s desires. Nimble and deadly, she would be able to drive it like a quill on paper even without her extensive cybernetic enhancements.

Dropping down, she used the blade to slow down her fall, generating another ravine onto a long shaft wall, long abandoned yet still useful for entering the underground city. Feeling the wind blow past her and knowing it would take a few moments for her fall to be over, she moved on to her rifle. With a chrome finish, black matte polymer grip, hand-guard, and stock, a ceramic barrel, and a rosary wrapped around its front, her rifle was her second weapon choice in case things got heated. Over-pressure electrothermal-chemical telescoped case-less munitions were loaded in place of its regular 7.62x51mm rounds. The modified Galil ACE 52 had both electronic and regular mechanical components, making for a deadly mix of mechanical reliability and the ease of use granted by a fully integrated computerized firing system. Each round was made of mercury-silver amalgam with an outer aluminum jacket. The white bullets would spell doom for any demon particularly sensible to its holy might; even the capacitors used to fire the rifle had holy electrolytic fluid.

Landing with a thud, the woman continued further in. “Alright-” Saving her weapons, she sneaked past the same distracted receptionist and went into the hotel. “Oh right, I should wear these-” She thought to herself as she put on a pair of red horns bought from a local dollar store, their built-in systems immediately generating a disguise for her, adding a programmable tail and allowing the horns to glow red. “No, not that color, it sucks.” She said to herself, stepping into the elevator and using the time it took to get her to her desired location to make both the tail and horn a hot pink. “Much better.” And then stepped out. In spite of not needing a disguise, she really loved the pink horns and the color options.

Other than that, her attire consisted of black military boots, a camouflage service jacket with a small ‘Castañeda’ tag on it, a white shirt, and light gray cargo pants. Considering the strange atmosphere of the bar, the loud music, and flashing lights, she did not even need to blend in at all. “Now all I’ve gotta do is find that lard-ass demon.” She thought, looking around aimlessly as if expecting her target to suddenly materialize. Without clues, the search would take quite a while, the human woman walking amongst the sin and opulence of the demons and some humans for what felt like a good few minutes. She checked the booths, waited, and finally followed her target to a bathroom.

She made quick work of the demon, only hearing him say. “Selena-!” Before she slit his throat with her special blade and placed him in one of the many stalls inside the bathroom. Locking the door, she sat atop the corpse of the fat orange skinned demon and scanned his memories with a modified Nokia 9110. “That looks familiar.” She mumbled, looking at the reconstruction of a strange succubus, a high value target that could perhaps bring her closer to a proper big hit. “Right, I know what I’m doing this evening.” And with a smile, exited the bathroom, leaving the dead demon and going over to the booths she was at earlier.

Surely by waiting for a bit the snow haired succubus would come out and she would be able to interact with her. Without blood on weapons on her she was sure it would not seem suspicious at all.

Atramentous though the Alderson disk was, Dangerrutito Fontaniuxic sank gently, almost seductively really, corpuscating through that Vantablack nightworld as he calibrated the Recursive Diolunium Dial on his Aromatic-Polyamide Weave Gloved Left Hand. Activating the spozmodiametrical aspect of his Panoptic Hex Texx-Gogs. It looked just like home as it faded away. First the Alderson Disk, Fontaniuxiciccix 4 as he lovingly called it, was one, then two, then on and on in just that fashion (as that is the manner in which one counts) Balthazars away. It was a needless bit of ceremony of course. Out here in the Double Deep Jeiti far from the meddling of any other, femrikilometers into the Toroidal Body of a Stibious and Frangulic Galaxy, here he was truly and wondrously alone. And hungry. Also horny. A little tired. Slightly confused.

It was a most needless task yet he must insist upon it. And shall. And is. Whispering to himself he entered a euphmoic trance. As his Aromatic-Polyamide Weave-Gloved Hands settled upon each bit of equipment he whispered its corresponding name into the Pourii depths about him.

Neoborhium Manticulated into an Q-Bramble blade, sometimes referred to as a Q-Bramblade, polished to an intrinsically implausible sheen, it was his ultimate adytum. He sensed it, NAY!, he heard it, NAY AGAIN!, he tasted it before he felt it. The Blade of Legend. The Sword of Myth. The Katana of Dread. The Loosener of Shackles. The Remover of Bras. The Sabre of the Downtrodden. The Zweihander of the Einhanded. Trapped within it the soul of his Bastard Child, B-Rad. Ever pleading in perfect iambic pentameter to be loosed upon the world. It's name was Trilobisekni.

Only one such as he, Dangerrutito Fontaniuxic, could wield such a blade and only with it could any being even dream of performing the famed manuever known only as the Hiden Doblee Triplut Forbidan Yin Releese Ohm-Mega.

The names of the rest of his gear are longer still, their reputations more reputationy still. These things were taken by the winds of space, that they may not fall upon the auricular caverns of one unproven. His whispers taken by the very pulse of the galaxy and his urgent calling growing more urgenter with every passing drot of time goo, he had to pull himself from the reverie.

No longer free to franisculate in such frivolity. This time too must pass.

Grimly and with much conscious intent Dangerrutito Fontaniuxic began resetting his Panoptic Hex-Texx-Gogs to an awareness of a scant 14 Muons and corpisculating his Nascense fullindrically he ceased his dramatic dithering. Gravity had no bearing here. Gravity was for blutos. There was no reason to free fall Balthazar by Balthazar as his beloved home, the Fontaniuxiciccix 4, disappeared into the enigmatic and all around pretty damn excellente effluvium. Even so in his inchoate ritualism it had a value. A brief respite from the glin and the gribbum of this stolid spacescape. Tomorrow would wait not one femtoparsec longer. Dangerrutito ventures once more...



Gravid, crustaceous, and corralescing through a vantablack sea of ectoplasmic inexistence, Dangerrutito Fontaniuxic comes to a most non-fortudious and vexxing conscious knowledgiment of self. He should have taken that left at Albuquerque. He couldn't hardly grok it. This was not the illustriously illicit interspatial galaxy of Whore Island 6 at all. Despite his trepiditious knowledge of Barreliann mathematics and Ciccixitracxtical Physics he must have forgotten to carry the 5.

What a Vetrutooti he was. A real blummerschoot of a dilly of a pickle this had turned out to be. Verily, he hathed committed an honest to God fucky-wucky.

Clicking the Xeogenix Toggle on his Panoptic-Hex-Texx-Goggs again and confirming that their awareness was still set to a scant 14 Muons, for what kind of mumpity wumple would risk a Muonnic Conclipse, he began to explore this new world. The atramentiest of vantablacks, this place had been sucked dry of all color life and sound. Twas a verifiable veritable void of all...oh.

Despite the Aromatic-Polyamide-Weaved--Gloves encasing his hands in a flexible weave stronger than the strongerest of n-Dimensional Space Spiders he could still tell what the problem was. That light switch right there was turned to the Off Position. Most inconvenient really. Terribly terribly rude.

Flipping the switch the world became most pollutudiously brightened. A sea of bright beige and grey.

"Step right this way," said an equally beige manthing.

"Kyter!" Dangerrutito declared, "What is this?"

"Huh?" the heavily tattooed but still quite beige and not particuarly interesting, really not worth describing in any further detail or developing any further in terms of character or motives, man replied.

"KYTER! WHAT IS THIS!?!?!?!?" Dangerrutito repeated himself very loudly and very coherently.

After a rather long and confusing conversation involving much illurid and truchasious terminologies Dangerrutito emerged from the equivalent of Not Hell ICE (Immigrations and Customs Enforcement) and stepped into Not Hell Proper.

"Hmmm, I can smell the Q-Goo." he vocaloided into his Thaumic VocoRecordoer as he held one Aromatic-_-Polyamide-Weaved--Gloved-Hand to shield his Panoptic-Hex=Texx-Goggos from the glare of an entirely too illuminolating landscape.

"Mmmmmm," he mumbled to himself very masculinly as he reached up without even looking and locked in the Xeogenix Toggle then cranked the Muon Capacitator down to an even more scanter 10 Muons. It was a really paltry total Muon count at this point, but Dangerrutito had seen one Muonnic Conclipse Event and as the old saying goes "One Muonnic Conclipse Event Is One Muonnic Conclipse Event Too Many" if you know what Dangerrutito is talking about.

Well below the zero-point now Dangerrutito took it all in. Curvillinear spaces properly luminolated. Tesseracts tesseraed real nice like. Demon people doing demon people type shit. It wasn't at all like in the Chronicles of Xeniikuhix the Brave But Foolish. There was a lot more leather. A lot more cigars. A lot more scantily clad demon and or angel and or other vaguely religious or at least spiritual ladies. Many of them had nice big tatas. There was also a lot less polychromatic goblins with huge wangs tearing people apart with hacksaws while gibbering at the moon.

"Not Hell huh," his artificially deepend and made-to-sound-more-cool voice entoned in an attempted one-liner, chuckling briefly in a very unorganic but quite cinematic way, "Hell...ha ha ha...I could get used to this."

"Yeah, that's fucking great bud. That's kinda the idea right? What can I do for yas since ya standin in da road? What's your poison? Booze? Uppers? Downers? Boomers? Zoomers? Whammers? Women? Men? Dogs? Hah, I'm just fucken witcha bud. We ain't do that shit round here. We're not monsters, just demons."

"Hmmmm," Dangerrutito intoned again, looking down at a Squat Bearded, Pot Bellied, Bespectacled, and Otherwise Accessorized Demon, he replied in his best Enigmatic Protagonist Voice while winking slowly and with great effort "Surprise me."

As the hustle and bustle of Not Hell surrounds him Dangerrutito Fontaniuxic spreads his arms wide open as if to embrace all that Not Hell might have to offer, looking slowly across its expanse, just really letting it waft over him. Yeahhhh, yeahhhh. He could get used to this. In time it might even feel like home. It just might. It really could. Waiting for some dramatic music to start up and the credits to begin and then a nice slow fade to black. That would be nice. Right about now.

"Ey, douche canoe, get in the fucken cab already. I can get other fares ya know if you just want to stand there monging about like fucken Spidermans on a rooftop and shit. I got demonlings to feed and if I get home early I got demonlings ta make if ya know what I mean. Imma fuck my demon wife is what I mean. Now get your big metally ass in the cab, I got a surprise for ya."

"It's not metal," Dangerrutito mumbles forlornly as his big finish is now ruined, "It's way better than that it's a genuine Aromatic Polyamide Weave over Ventrificai-"

"Just get in da fucken cab before I Airamatic Polemike ya fucken head in already."

"Cheezus Criminus dese fucken foreigners is all da same. Fuckin too old for this shit. Fuckin gas prices...fuckin Union..."

The cabbies cursing continues until he slams the door of his Not Hell Cab shut and drives into Aeternus, eager to drop this jamoke off in a demon bar or demon titty club or demon fight pit or really whatever comes up first that the fella seems to take any interest in. As the car pulls away into the heavy traffic going to one den of sin or another this post does actually begin a slow dramatic and extremely cinematic fade to black. It washes over you like a thing which would be very pleasant to have washing over you.

If you turn the volume up you can just barely hear Dangerrutito bitching about how if the cabbie had just waited another minute he could have gotten his proper fade to black ending. Whether you turned the volume up or not you can definitely hear the cabbie's brakes screeching hard against the Not Brimstone streets.

The screen pinholes to perfect black and then immediately slingshots back out as a comically small demon cabbie hops out of the driver's seat, scurries over to the passenger door and tosses a much larger Dangerrutito Fontaniuxic out of his cab and into the Definitely Not Brimstone street. Dangerrutito twists his legs up under his body and sits himself on the curb, checking his illustrious catalogue of legendary and powerful and very specifically named gear. Once more whispering each items name into the night.

"Fucks wrong witcha? Ya eat too many paint chips? Dropped on yer head? Crystal meth?"

"Trilobisekni," Dangerrutito muttered as he caressed his Q-BramBlade.

"Nope. Nope. Nah. Nuh uh," the cabbie replied heading back around to his car and taking off. He had places to go, demon babies to feed, demon babies to make, as previously discussed.

His ritual complete again he looked about him and saw a rather curious door in the corner of a wall, pulsing light emanating from it. Pretty sick. He also saw that he was impeding hoof traffic, which is to say demon foot traffic because demons have hooved feet.

Sniffing the air he detected a curious smell. Well several. A puff of smoke quickly fading away. Likely from that dick head cabbie braking so hard and then peeling away. Beneath that something very similar to but definitely not brominated hexachlroric benzene-formaldehyde carbonic crystal centered nanostructural condensate. Which is to say Not Brimstone. That would be the street.

Beneath that is another smell. More familiar. Mundane even. So mundane it was difficult to place. Dangerrutito took a deeper sniff. Yep. Yeah. Yep that was piss. Someone had pissed in the gutter and his shoes had just been soaking in it during his long and very important but also completely needless ritual accounting of his inventory. Dangerrutito hoped that the smell wouldn't set into his Aromatic Polyamide Weave boots and ankle supports. They were a real bitch to dry clean.

That was his cue. Dangerrutito would be alone in this but that was fine. For whatever reason Dangerrutito often found himself alone. He was just so cool others found it hard to keep up. Dangerrutito would have to find his own trouble, unless of course the trouble found him first...

But it didn't...

No topless ninja demonettes with blue hair and purple eyes and daddy issues and student loans popped out of the alley, and as such Dangerrutito set to examine the weird corner door over there. The smoky one with the strobing lights and the big funny looking statues on either side. That door. Probably some cool shit in there.

Within the approximate area of Dangerrutito, approximately in the air a hundred and some odd feet above and to the left, a small crack formed in the narrative layer. Through this crack bled a spray of energy that approximately resembled a combination of broken glass, television static, and the rainbow that forms on the ground where oil and water mix. It was a weird pastel energetic emission that slowly ate away at the narrative layer and eventually split it open entirely. From this split between reality, unreality, and fiction came forth quite a strange figure. A very large fat giant of a man, heavily bearded with hair that hangs down onto his back. His beard and hair alight with blue flames, and these flames were made out of feathers. Every aspect of this guy was weird. He had no eyes, just the sunken in lids where eyes used to be. Above those eyes, floating in a half-lidded stare, was a projection of a single green eye just in the center of the forehead. A pair of psychokinetic wings, made up of the same blue feathered flames as the tips of his hair and beard.

These wings, were, at the moment desperately scrambling in the air to try and get lift or attempt to glide. The mutual attempts of which were not conducive to finding either solution, and if he had just committed to one or the other, he would have succeeded.

So too was his manner of dress strange; On his right shoulder he had an entire goat's skull, complete with horns that curled up and over the shoulder. On his left arm and right leg were strange metal frameworks that seemed to be connected directly to the bones in the limbs. These metal frameworks were spring-loaded and made of some unidentifiable metal that looked tarnished and definitely unsanitary to have as an implant. Around his neck was a necklace made from an eagle's claws and feathers, around his waist was the entire pelt of a tiger excluding the head. Strangest of all, the clothes he wore aside from these odd trinkets, were totally mundane. A cracking graphic t-shirt of a mushroom on a surfboard. The words; "Grandma's In The Hospital Again." are barely legible on it. The pants are heavily worn, tattered at the cuffs, blue jeans with an unidentifiable pattern on the pockets. There's a white plaid jacket that has turned yellow from years of wearing, it is missing all of the buttons on the cuffs but he doesn't roll them up. Lastly, his feet have knock-off crocs with gel insoles, the crocs are black but they've faded to grey.

Why mention all of this? Because it is necessary to outline the oddity of his appearance as he spilled through a hole into a completely different reality, one not usually tethered to this one by any portal or gateway. He flopped and he flailed, flapping and thrashing as he crashed through the air, finding absolutely no providence from his rapid angled descent towards the side of the building that Dangerrutito was standing just outside of. Like a meteorite his immensity of mass and acceleration towards the ground turned him into a projectile, and he crashed into the corner of the structure. Sending a cascade of whatever building materials they use in hell spraying from the point of impact. As well, changing his trajectory so that he crashed bodily into the dirt. Burying his head and right arm entirely in whatever material the ground was made of in hell.

With his impact, he groaned into the earth, and just dangled there. His knees fell down and touched the ground, his other arm came to rest on the ground with the palm facing downwards. The fingers of the free hand swirled in the hell dirt, drawing little spirals.

As he was in such a humiliating position, he would be contraposed by a flickering aura that became visible like a screen-tear of the same pastel colored television static and broken glass. It would grow out from somewhere on his person, pulling an outline of itself from nothingness. Then it would snap back to the body, disappearing once again. The wings on his back of psychokinetic fire, they were slumped against the earth. Their enormity of form contrasting the utterly pathetic and embarrassing position they lay in.

With thus, Rory arrived.

“Ugh…” Selena groaned as she heard the demon’s voice sprout from the same stall she had left him at. She knew it would not be the first, or last time she’d have to kill him. For whatever reason, it seemed that fat bastard simply refused to die. Before, she had tried to dice him into small little chunks, something that did not work as next week after Dr. Ottovordemgentschenfelde put the jigsaw puzzle back together and let him go with more stitches than flesh back home. The next week she tried to dissolve him in acid, but a special division from the French multinational Péter-Puant condensed his gases back into a solid form and modeled him again from the play-dough they got. After that fiasco, she had simply decided that whenever she had to ‘slay’ him all she would do was leave him incapacitated enough to get what she wanted.

Still, the blunder left her somewhat frustrated, and so she tied a rope to her machete and flung it through the door, “Fuck you!” splitting the demon into two one last time. After she recalled her weapon, her face turned to the rest of her environment. *‘Well shit.’* She thought to herself, everything silent and loud at the same time as she glanced around at the demons, her weapon in hand as she readied herself to escape, only to be confronted by another one of the demons.

Her gaze lowered to the stranger, her height more than half a foot taller than the small centaur looking thing. She was not truly listening to him as much as she was trying to figure out what it was that he was trying to say. Something about a family perhaps, and a ridiculously long name that probably belonged to that Ixxa demoness she read earlier.

Before she could collect her thoughts however, one of those small future crystals she had failed to look at whilst scanning the room was hurled at her. She took a quick leap back, watching as the smoke escaped the strange rhombus and produced some malformed copy of herself. “Huh, what a neat party trick.” She commented, readying her blade to meet the bat wings as she lowered her posture. Both of the edges of the wing and the blade Selena held met, letting out sparks and a cloud of boiled electrolytic fluid, a brief hum that lasted as long as the machete cut through the wing followed, with the end result being the destruction of the tool’s edge, and the wing being cut off and flying off before it lodged itself into one of the walls.

The vapors, blessed beforehand and noxious to a demon, enveloped the spinning copy of Selena as she had made a vortex, and before the second wing could reach its target, the young demon hunter pressed a button atop her machete’s handle, letting out a strong lighting bolt that bridged across the demon and into the ground, forcing her muscles to spasm and making her other wing miss Selena. “So, your idea of showing them I am not a threat is to have me fight some mutant that vaguely looks like me? How does that even work shorty?” She asked the Minotaur as she readied her stance again, a smile spreading on her face. “I don’t even think I’ll need to take out my rifle to deal with this one.” Selena continued, confidence running through her as she kept her defensive stance up, still trying to figure out her enemy and what tricks they would have up their sleeve. As for her blade, the chipped part receded into it, and was replaced by another part of the weapon that still had a finely tuned razor thin cutting edge, one of the perks of a free geometry melee weapon.

“Easy, perhaps too easy…” Selena thought with suspicion, her blade cleanly searing through the construct’s flesh as if it were not there. Her gaze eventually rose from the attacker, looking around for the sponsor of the strange apparition, but to no avail. “Oh, it was a distraction. Fucking coward.” She shook her head, extracting a single magazine-like cartridge from her weapon, ejected out like a cycled round, a crack being heard as the last of its liquid was ejected and burned out before being replaced by a brand-new supercapacitor. With a click, she turned to the demon that had left, but only found a raging wall of hellfire left behind from a single cigar. “Bullshit.” She let out audibly, taking out her phone as her head turned to the two other demons there, vapors from the sizzling demon blood on her blade being let into the device as it began to think, its tendrils reaching out and latching onto the fading apparition next to her and keeping it from disappearing. Luckily the other two had plenty to talk about.

In fact, the time it took the others to begin their synchronous speech was more than enough for Selena to recognize who it was that sat next to the other demon. “Her-” She thought, analyzing her for a moment just like how the two gazed into her. “I can’t.” She decided silently, receiving a response from her device, magical and opposite in nature to the fire. “You have done enough. Get out.” The device replied.

Regardless of the news, it was something that worked out with her current plan. Before the fire had spread to the very edge of the door that opened, Selena entered the hollowed-out body of her alter-ego, blood and the remaining entrails covering her from the fire just enough for her to not be erased from existence. The innards of the being were instead transfigured by her device to open a path through the flames, having reloaded the spent cartridge she had discarded not too long before, turning it into a partially extinguishing anti-demonic cloud to further alleviate the flames.

Once she got to the other side she too began to escape, her flesh suit being discarded in a quick chop, spreading the altered blood all over the still partying attendees, soaking them with the same soul essence of Selena to confuse the sentient fire into consuming the other demons. Unlike the mini-centaur, the hunter hopped over the heads of some of the demons to get out of view as quickly as possible and out into the wild, crashing through a wall and breaking a few bones. Looking up, she would notice Rory, and would hear the ‘Find me’ echoing from within the hotel, making her turn to face it once again.

“What a reckless execution. It was wise for me to come with you for this small mission.” The device spoke again, white light fibers extending from it similarly to what it had done to the corpse to mend the injuries Selena had caused to herself. Meanwhile, she looked at the group of strangers outside. They were far too strange to be naturally from here, especially the guys with the crocs. “Who are these people?” She thought silently, waiting for her angel to be done fixing her body.

At the intersection of Sodomy and Skeet, a fountain dominated the muddy rutted foot traffic; ancient porcelain riddled with varicose cracks and pungent stains. It was plain, or would have been were it not gaudily-painted and gilded in a style describable with two appalling words: Frida Kahlo. Apt, given its placement above the city of Aeternus’ central sewage line. From the “art project” erupted a constant, but irregular, discharge of deep yellow urine, much of which aerosolized in the hot humid stale air while the rest splashed rudely back into the basin.

Most denizens rarely noticed it anymore, beyond its presence as an obstacle to circumnavigate. Or a convenient urinal. Unless their tongue became an unfortunate host to a particularly zesty particulate.

Yet, at this unusual moment, it was ringed by a small audience.

Yes, some were merely there to relief themselves. Others, however, were given to quite the show. Its jaundiced depths churned and splashed, the primordial ectoplasmic sediment of urea, kidney stones, and coins disturbed. Why would anyone wish in such a foul thing? Foul wishes bode foul deeds. Within, engaged in the utmost of existential warfare, thrashed something that appeared wrapped in several bands of heavy wool. No onlooker stirred, transfixed as they were. Until, bored, they sauntered off. Such is the way of things. It mattered not to them whatever drowned in the vile drink, harangued by scat cassowaries: the hell-born shit-sculpted and animated variation on the species one might find were they to traipse a mere block away, enter the elevator in Vileiro’s — known by tourists as The Pleiades Casino & Resort —, and ascend to the upper mezzanine.

Whatever was was hot as, above it, the fountain’s fluid boiled and popped.

After an unforgivable amount of time in which no assistance was lent, a wet drape flung itself over the brim of the fountain, and the mass heaved itself up, over, and out. In a viscous ripe pool that spread and grasped at the heels of those roundabout, it rung itself out and bellowed,

“Horruh! Absolute horruh! Ma vestments befouled! It wis a dire situation, like nae other! Against ma will, befouled by pure foulness. Ye heard it richt, piss from the nape of Satan himself!”

“Twas a fine evenin’ in the Scottish highlands, yet but a moment ago. There I was, standin’ on the edge of’ a bonnie ole loch, takin’ in the serene beauty o’ the land. Out o’ nowhere, this fierce urge tae relieve meself consumed me in a raw instant! I scoured the area, desperate for a wee place tae answer nature’s caw.”

“Finally, a wee bush, shrouded in secrecy, appeared tae be the ideal spot. Ah, relief! I unbuckled me kilt, whipped it up, and began the blessed act o’ releasing’ Grendel’s mighty arm. But ye ken, sometimes nature has a cruel sense o’ humor, ye see.”

“Wi' a gust o' wind, which I swear felt like the roar o' a Clydesdale, me urine took on a life o' its ain. It twisted and turned, as if tae mock me feeble attempt at aimin' correctly. The golden stream strayed fae its intended path, arched through the air, and bathed me in its warmth.”

“That’s when I felt the knife in me spine, cretins, and fell o’er dead!”

Revertetur In Terram Suam

The words echoed through the darkness surrounding him, encasing him in the endless night. The darkest depths of his soul tortured by the haunting whisper reverberating through his bones - shaking them like some witch's hex. Eyes closing tighter, muscles tensing as his entire body absolutely shivered under the weight of the words. The voice deep, dark - an ominous sound bouncing around inside of his skull. He clenched his fists against it, bracing himself for more. Nails dug into his flesh, piercing through and letting his blood flow freely from the wounds. He didn't respond, he made no motion to respond. Scared of what might come, scared of the darkness that enveloped him from his mind.

Revertetur In Terram Suam

Again, the voice boomed within his mind. The sound of a command, not a request, and again he fought to control his body's involuntary impulses. The reaction of his subconscious mind against the war that voice began within him. He didn't want to go, he didn't want to leave. It wasn't a request. He knew it, felt it deep in his bones. Already, he could feel the consciousness leaving his mind as his body drained into nothingness. It sank into the darkness, his conscious mind separating from the physical body built for it. The call of the depths reaching up from the void, pulling at his very essence - dragging at what counted as a soul, warped and twisted as it were. The soul pulled from flesh, drug beneath the surface of reality and ripped asunder from the material world he came to call home.

"Wake up, Valkyr. You're home." The voice didn't hold the same measure of weight anymore, it wasn't the booming, resonating sound of a mental command, more the quiet sound of a person speaking in close proximity with another. Not commanding, but not friendly either.

"No, this isn't my home anymore," the response was cold, without emotion or inflection, "you tore me from my home."

"It's been too long since you visited, my son, your power was waning. Replenish yourself of me." The voice spoke softly now, the calm, quiet tone of a mother to her child. Asking the child to eat their vegetables, so that they might gain some measure of strength. Yet, the command was there, hiding beneath the surface.

Valkyr opened his eyes, and looked up at the statue of ice in the middle of the lake. Towering over the icy lake, massive beyond comprehension and even then only a physical manifestation of the idea behind it. Valkyr coughed violently, trying to stand but without the strength to do so, only lifting himself up onto one knee. Almost like some force held him down, forcing him to kneel before the stature, his head bowed low enough to touch against the frozen fire.

"As you wish, my Lord." His talon-like fingers reached up, scraping at the iced statue for only a moment, before the force released itself around him. As if the air lost a massive weight, holding him in place under it. He pushed himself to his feet, standing, eyes scanning and searching. He wanted to fight back, to fight against the voice commanding him. To go back to where he called home now, to the material world outside of this horrifying existence. Yet, no escape to be found, he could only succumb to the commands of the Almighty.

"I will drink of your essence, and in your presence become whole." Valkyr's hand reached up, lifting a golden chalice from a shelf along the precipice of ice. The blackened, viscous fluid within looking like a violent mixture of excrement and blood swirled into a single, horrifying beverage. Yet, he knew from experience that it held no flavor, no taste. It simply existed to sustain, flavor mattered little here. In the darkest, deepest pits of hell the only thing that mattered was obedience.

Tilting the cup, swirling the liquid. Valkyr watched it closely, before turning his head back and sucking the liquid down in one, smooth gulp. Immediately he felt the changes within him, the power returning. His body tensed to a stop, nothing moved - no rise and fall of the chest, not even the movement of blood through his veins. It seemed as if the world stood still in that moment, as the drink poured its power through his body. And then he shivered, a deep shiver that ran its course through the whole of his body. The cup dropped, but dissolved into nothingness even as it fell from his grasp.

"Welcome home, my Son. Now, I believe I have some business for you."

"Yes, Magnus. As you wish, Lord."

Stultus Luminaria

His movement carried him through the crowds milling around the streets, going about their business and yet unconsciously giving him space. As if some force were pushing them away from him, either passive or active. He glided through them, feet not touching. Beneath the hood of his crimson cloak, there seemed to be only the darkness. No face, no eyes. Nothing to be seen except for the darkest of blacks, a void of its own making. And then he reached the center of the main street, leading to the courtyard and up to the casino itself. The lights shimmering from it, inviting the people in to their games and their fun.

He looked up from beneath his hood, orange eyes beginning to glow. Already the stench of this place bothered him, this fake hell, this side-show that sought to be something, but only ended up a stain on the name of his true home, of his true masters. These people fancied themselves demons, yet they knew nothing of true demons. They understood nothing of Hell, except their false existence and their claim to be like him and his brothers.

"Exstingue," the word fell from his lips as barely more than a whisper - but the implication of it was clear. The magic swirled around him, manifesting from the rivers of power that flowed through his home and into him, sinews of power that while only visible to himself, carried an immense strength behind them. The whisper echoed for miles, across the entirety of this would-be hell, this knock-off perdition.

Almost as soon as the word uttered, the lights of the casino winked out - as if the power keeping them going were flipped off. The darkness began from there, and much like a blackout when transformers go down - the power began to die around it. Until, after a few moments, only darkness remained. "That's better." Valkyr said, before continuing up the path that would eventually lead him to the casino, and through the courtyard.

Out went the lights, the glitz, the glam. Even the unnatural gritty red glow of an indeterminate building-blocked horizon faded, subdued by underworldly darkness. A chill ran through his fabric as he wrung himself dry, the piss pool beneath him extended over ancient alabaster pavers. The strange graffiti-stained city fell silent, tumult made of the soft urinal paternoster he futilely gargled.

God was neither there nor elsewhere.

Barely, he saw. Not with eyes, for none adorned him, a fallen soul, an infernal revenant; rather, by quasi-spiritual receptors sewn in the dyed wool banners and tabards of his person. As for light, evil eyes glinted malice in the dark, but he also possessed his own queer source: polonium threads that hissed away and vaporized the last particulates of piss that perfumed his person. On him blazed the crests of Óengus, Fidach, Ce, and Fib — tell-tale signs of his mortal betrayals.

“By Eóganan mac Óengusa’s florid taint and Saint Andrew’s merry horn o’ mead, ta’ch mad realm o’ despair afronts mae poo’ over-burdened senses!” he bellowed.

Words swallowed by night, he peered around horrified. Then he remembered the only grand scene he noted before his filthy bath. Foreboding faint footfalls gave him a wide berth as he rolled and tumbled theretoward, in his mind, the castle of this realm; or, of it, what he last saw before night settled sudden and sharp over the unfamiliar landscape: the Pleiades Casino & Resort.

Owned by the eccentric intergalactic casino mogul and ice devil, Vileiro. Upon entry, exotic aromas produced by enormous fuchsia kadupul whelmed nostrils with a slight hint of sulfur, followed by unfurling vines offering early blossoms of ghost flowers. Floating off-white gloved hands greeted guests the instant their soles, hooves, whatever, touched the calacatta marble floors. Some carried menorahs of cold, midnight-blue flames for ambiance, and others, golden trays of the most selective hors d’oeuvres the Hells could offer. Admittedly, many of these delicacies were of an acquired taste. Ranging from its mini brimstone broiled Kalua Demon Boar Quesadillas, all the way to its Southern-Style Deviled Harpy Eggs.

Further inspection revealed the lobby's overgrowth of red throned vines belonging to an enormous lime-green carnivorous plant, Thornaldo The Bewitching, playing one-half receptionist and the other security. He was a regal and dignified plant, with an air of authority and sophistication. Carrying himself with grace and poise, it was easy to forget his diet exclusively consisted of unruly guests disrupting the tranquility of the hotel's lobby. Very appropriate, considering this was no little shop of horrors. It was a big house of the deepest terrors parading under a single roof.

Attached to a lower deck of the casino, at the restaurant Melchior, overlooking the busy streets of Allure, a tall, clean-shaven devil with razor-sharp pointed ears and undersaturated blue skin like he was suffocating calmly enjoyed his plate of angulas drizzled in virgin blood, seasoned with reaper peppers and dried saffron. Vileiro took in the views and epileptic assault of lights that were only a sample taste of what you'd see if you took the elevator down to the -666th floor.

Quite accustomed to the chaos, with all on his mind going in Allure, it was relaxing to treat himself to an early evening of fine dining. The visceral screams following a nearby car accident indulged his sensitive ears like that of a great symphony until the sensation of uneasiness infiltrated his spirit. The fine dark purple hairs of his body stood on end. It was far. Very far but seeping out the grand elevator was a presence like a seductive dog whistle to powerful demons. Only approved demonic forces had clearance to enter the surface and into Allure from Aeternus and it worked on a visa-like basis, allowing for swift deportation, dragging them back to hell on the slightest whims.

Every ward established is only as powerful as its caster. Considering the not-so-dark secret of the casino is that its ironclad barrier was forged by Mafia head Ealdorman Sarcoen, an ancient archdemon preceding time itself, this was worrisome. It was likely a rivaling force from hell being this powerful enough to be felt on the surface. Unchecked, it could break the barrier between the worlds resulting in a war between Allure and Aeternus. No matter the lives lost, frankly, the biggest concern was that it was outright bad for business. EarthF67x was already on high alert after the mass replacement of Spain. Dozens of New Roswell satellites sat perched in the direction of the city at gunpoint. A disaster like this checked off all the reasons for the government to wipe Vileiro’s flagship casino off the map. Sweating profusely, his perspiration formed icicles before falling, shattering into little sprinkles of ice on his off-white tux.

“WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS?!”

Vileiro’s emotions flipped like a switch. His anger alone brought a brisk frost to the other restaurant-goers' breaths. Obsessively worried about his public image and self-aware enough, the frost demon reeled himself back in before he effectively turned the place into a winter wonderland. The bulging blue veins in his forehead flattened upon his return to rationality. The answer to his question was quite obvious, though the devil didn't want to admit it. Tugging at his cold soul he knew the answer. Opposite in every way, his hot-headed brother was not only alive, but well, and up to his same old tricks. Eyes closed, taking a deep breath, the devil grinded his teeth exhaling an icy chill through his asymmetrical flaring nostrils.

“Bring the check…”

Signing the slip, the tall, lanky demon cleared his throat, stood, adjusted his tie, and headed for the exit through the thick sea of concerned eyes. His rectangular head narrowly avoided the once candle-lit chandeliers he effectively put out in his rage. Entering the hall, the casino owner ducked slightly, avoiding the embossed archway. Immediately upon poking his head into the hall, Vileiro noticed the lights were off. A mix of confusion and annoyance formed between his puce eyes and wrinkling forehead. A blood-curdling shriek echoed throughout the halls, followed by a slight tremor signaling the activation of the surface hotel's backup power source, The Crucible of Souls, burning with a white flame from The Eternal Pyre.

The malevolent process in which it harvested them was quite simple. Like a machine, it whirred in its start-up, anticipating fresh souls. At any time, those who made deals through the casino for fame, wealth, fortune, and power could be ensnared by one of its infinite hooks, dragged across the threshold between worlds, and wrung to be used as fuel. Whenever a scream was heard, it just meant another miserable soul perished. For every expended, the crucible’s flames danced, twisting in defiance of the void as the energy spread further and further down into Aeternus with bald-faced impunity to counteract. It wouldn’t be dark for too long but it wasn't exactly a permanent solution.

“We've got problems on the lower level, Sir!”

Zazzie, a black imp carrying a mischievous smile and fur exuding a kaleidoscopic sheen approached Vileiro. Balancing on a gold trident, the creature filled the ice demon in.

“The Aeternus lobby, no, the whole square mile of the building’s radius has been swept with a great darkness. Might I say, it’s kind of neat” she snarked.

“I wonder if the two anomalies are related?” Vileiro couldn’t help to air his thoughts out loud. “Tell Thornaldo to clear everyone from the library. I’m on my way. There is something I need to do.”



Succubi roamed the streets in raunchy designer, leaning into the windows of triple-parked beige ElDorado Cadillacs soliciting clientele. The neon lights of various nightclubs proudly touted their admission fee of "1 Soul" yet creatures of all shapes and sizes fought just to get in. Cauldrons of bats populated the streets like city pigeons, hanging from living gargoyle statues who'd occasionally devour them for midnight snacks. It was always midnight here. In this dimensional cellar lies everything wrong with humanity, yet it thrived. Various celebrities from around the universe could be seen casually strolling down the streets enjoying the paradise of vice after selling their souls in their respective fields. Even charlatans, televangelist grifters, false prophets, and idolaters alike congregated in and outside the resort and its competing chains, attending satanic galas, frequenting museums like the Hall of Torture & Sadism.

A gang of green flame-headed ghost riders sped by, leaving a trail of exhausts smelling like burnt rubber and brimstone. One veering too close to the sidewalk, inadvertently or not, launched some street smuck on the crimson cloak of a grim, hooded figure murmuring to himself. Bearing a shadowy visage, he sauntered towards Thalgrim’s wing of the casino, whispering, casting a single-word hex echoing throughout the infinitely stretching Vegas strip. It did so until it perhaps made its way back through the gates of hell like most inconveniencing forces to the casino had a propensity to do. Enigmatic displays of force like that vacuum effect let the cat out the bag long ago that someone powerful was protecting their assets even from the darkest pits of Hell.

"Extingue.”

The incantation was heard, but far from the oddest occurrence of the day or even minute for the demonic denizens going about their usual antics. Once the darkness crept in, many took the opportunity to dial up the usual marauding and debauchery to even higher levels despite the demons having the innate ability to see quite clearly in the abyss. Even then, antique gothic street lamps glowing with unwavering hell flames dispelled some of the obsidian veil cast on areas.


Upstairs, motley crews of demons continued their revelry unfazed by the blackout which they assumed would be resolved sooner than later. Much of the casino was dark but several demons and the staff themselves took it upon themselves to light small objects on fire with controlled blazes, giving them just enough visibility for the visibly challenged creatures among them to play their games. At one table, a group of burly devils smoking the room up with their endless consumption of Regius Double Corona cigars were locked tight in a heated game of poker using their ashtray full of burning butts as a light source, wagering souls, and ancient magical artifacts with a warlock dealer.

In another corner of the massive room housing thousands of games, a pair of slender empusa languidly lounged by the roulette wheel, encouraging what looked like a group of lawyers and greedy landlords to gamble what was left of their souls. One flicked their spade tail upwards, gently caressing the stubble of a visibly nervous man in glasses. The combination of her sultry smile and entrancing eye contact made his lenses fog. In efforts to appear confident, he gulped, wagering it all.

Tons of other games continued simultaneously despite the inconvenience but amidst the chaos and clamor, a lone, stoic man in an onyx padded piece blazer slouched at the blackjack table. Locked in thought, he paid just enough attention for the game to continue but not enough to react to the results. In fact, he was on a winning streak. Hot hand after hot hand. He couldn't lose. The man was clearly someone's favorite.



“What! I paid good money to have access to this library for a photo shoo—wait! What are you doi—?!—AAAAHHHHHH!”

“Farewell, Sir. May the ground below embrace you as warmly as my hospitality.” In his retort, a mysterious scarlet sparkle of magic gleeked from under Thornaldo’s tongue.

Thick thorns receded and shards of an enormous shattering stained glass window pelted the grounds below like razor hail. The uncompromising guest was promptly dealt with, freefalling with his last visuals being a breathtaking view of the alien city that was Allure. Just as the coins dropped earlier in the filth fountain of Aeternus, he too plopped the same and without a wish (or so he thought) in a mirroring fountain in Allure. One that was much cleaner, decorated with alabaster statues of peeing angels into crystal blue waters. In a miraculous exhibition of good luck and magical fortune, the man found himself not crashing into the shallowness of the fountain but submerged in the deepness of a putrid murky expanse, resurfacing with a mouth full of unknown excrements sliding through the gaps in his teeth. With foul liquids and odors embedded into every inch of him and his clothes like a symbiote, a dread-laced scream escaped his exasperated lungs. If this man could just look at the bright side, perhaps a slither of relief could be found in that he survived. The only problem now? Being surrounded by sheer darkness. Reeking of far more than a single spritz of the city’s least finest Eau de toilette, he was now to navigate this strange world alone.

Allure City, Another Day in the life

“Aleck, answer your phone. We need you to come back, there’s important things going on here. The Company is in turmoil, we already recalled the monster, you shouldn’t still be there either. Call me back.” His finger pressed the little red button, ending the voicemail call before he shut the phone back and put it in his pocket. A lot of people had smart phones these days, especially with the advancements of Xanathan and the other corporations that basically controlled the world. Yet, Aleck preferred his burners. Untraceable and cheap as shit, they’d always served him well. His sister was one of the others, the ones with the expensive, bulky things – though at this point, he was pretty sure she’d opted for the implant Xanathan offered its senior executives. She was insistent that he come home, though, but really – why? There was nothing left in Xanathan for him. Bharata was a madman, running the company like a personal army.

He wasn’t the biggest fan of the company, never had been. He’d only signed on as a mercenary, and eventually became one of the top officers in the militia side of it. In fact, his status was why he’d been embedded in Allure to begin with. Long before it ended up here, before Xanathan ended up here. He still wasn’t entirely sure how they’d managed to find this place, or what happened for them to set up shop here. And yet, here they were. As the city settled into its new location, she’d already begun calling him. She’d known about his mission, hell it was her idea to send him on it, he’d bet. She’d never admit it, but Alex never did enjoy him being around.

Smart, serious, and sensible described her. He was the exact opposite, depending on luck and charm to get his way. It led to some weird family dinners, and their father always did favor his little princess. The thought of that made him sneer, a momentary break in his ever-smiling demeanor. It was a flash, a moment of disdain for his family, before he was back to himself. His mission wasn’t changed, as far as he was concerned with it. Infiltrate and observe. Watch and learn the habits of the aliens, the denizens of this massive city, which now took up the place where – if his education in Earth geography from his childhood held up – Spain used to be, a small country replaced by a sprawling metropolis. “Shit’s wild”, he said aloud as he pulled himself up from his chair. His news broadcasts were nothing but turmoil, and he was almost out of smokes.

Walking to the corner store seemed simple, but Aleck knew he’d have to deal with the moochers nearby. Usually friendly and upbeat, today just wasn’t his day. He didn’t want to deal with those clowns and their incessant need to beg him for his last few credits. Besides, he barely had enough for himself right now. Checking his watch, he reached for the door – tucking his pistol into its place just behind his hip – and grabbing his bag from beside the door.

Large, it was clearly a survival pack of some kind. A go-back most of his operators called it. It, to him, was just a comfort to have on him. A few extra magazines tucked here and there, as well as a couple on his person in easy reach tucked into the vest beneath his jacket. The bag contained his rifle, as well, Xanathan-made it featured several folding points that made it stowable in smaller compartments. His senses reached out, touching the familiar knot of emotions he kept locked away in the back of his mind – another of his small comforts. It let him know his sister was alive, as well as their father. Opening himself up to it, letting the thoughts inside, would give him as much information as he wanted, but it also opened his mind to them. And he refused to let them in, not anymore. His ritual completed, he opened the door and stepped outside, reaching down to check for his keys, and then realized he forgot them. “Well, fuck.” He pushed the door back open and reached up to the knife stuck in the wall – which held his keys looped around the hilt, and pulled it from where it was embedded in the picture of his father. “See ya’, Markus.” He said, closing the door and locking it behind him. “Ya, fuckin’ prick.”

Aeternus Entrance, The Courtyard Leading to.

Valkyr kept his ever-moving, slow pace toward the front of the Casino. His eyes losing their malicious glow with each step, the power receding from within him. The magic flowed strongly here, through his veins and into his organs (such as they were, anyway). It burned like fire rushing through him, boiling water in his veins as it battled against the very nature of his being. His essence, his power – it was like the rushing of a river, and yet calm and peaceful like the sea at the same time. Two parts of him, constantly at war within him. He sought only to find relief from it, to finally get some relief. Magnus refused to allow it, coercing him into things like this. Shutting the Casino down, as some affront to the name of Hell? This place was its own special kind of hell. Ten minutes, and he already felt the deep shame this land held. His fingers dug into his palms, fingers clenching tight into fists. His yellowed teeth gritting against themselves, jaw locking in frustration.

“Why must I be this way, why must I do this? Let me rest, Magnus. Give me peace!” His words were audible only within his mind, reaching out to the edges of this realm – pushing them toward the outer regions of Hell, to the darkest recesses of him. Always an answer came, the sound of the control Magnus asserted over him. The deal made for eternal life; it held a lot of sway over his being. And yet…silence was the only answer. No return of voice, of command. Not even the dark laughter that usually accompanied his pleading for peace.

For a moment, he dared to hope – his eyes widening and his mouth opening as if to exclaim some form of surprise. “Magnus…are you there?” Only silence. “Could it be true, surely not. He’s toying with me. I must continue forward, continue with the plan.” His body began gliding once more. The very fact his power worked here told him Magnus’ influence was still on him, that he still had a connection with the outside. It was a test. A test of his mettle and his resolve to do as he was told. He entered the courtyard just in time to hear a voice, and the overwhelming stench of human excrement. Not the man he needed to speak to, he could tell from how he was dressed – and the putrid odor swimming in the air around him.

“Can you take me to the owner?” Valkyr’s graveled voice, double and triple layered sound, resonated with suggestive power. The words themselves seemed to hang in the air, encircling him and projecting themselves. “Or, if you can’t, could you point me in the direction of someone who can?” He meant the owner of this pocket world, this injected, shit-riddled realm that sought to attach itself to his home and become a part of it – even if only in this one, weird, small way.

Allure City, The Back Alleys of Sin

The horrid scent of the air told him he was in the right place, the back alleys that served as places for drug dens and whorehouses. They littered this part of the city, at least two on every corner and four on most. The ground seemed forever sticky, though from what Aleck didn’t even want to think about. He didn’t really want to be here, but his cover depended on him doing business in this part of town. Mostly with one man, a guy who claimed to be comrade-in-arms with some of the biggest drug dealers in the city. Whose boss, apparently, ran a lucrative crime trade. Bharata sent him here to find the guy in charge, and though it’d been more than two years since his arrival in Allure, he didn’t really feel any closer to that goal. Pretty frustrating, really.

“Yo, Tommy, you around?” He called out, his voice bouncing back at him in the silence – broken only occasionally by the sound of rats digging through trash. Both homeless and animal alike, and sometimes the faint moans from one of the whore’s rooms upstairs. He hated the whole stench of the place, and he hated having to be here. His fingers curled around the grip of his pistol, easing it in the leather and fingering the safety switch off. Just in case.

“Yo, Aleck, my man. You good?” The questioning tone came from behind him, and he almost drew his gun out of instinct. He recognized the voice, though, and turned with a smile on his face. “You need something, out here yelling my name in the streets like that?”
“Yeah, man. I need some stuff. You know, it’s bout that time again. I just need something to get me through.”

“Aleck, you’ve got a problem man. You’re one of my best customers, and I enjoy the repeat business – but if you don’t slow down, you’re gonna die, man. You can’t keep going like this, and if you die that’s a lot of potential money I lose out on.” A savvy businessman, Tommy knew the secret to dealing. You never let your customers kill themselves on the supply, a dead customer is a customer who can’t spend money, after all.

“Man, shut up and get me my stuff. I’m fine, I got control of it.” Aleck’s voice, friendly as it was, said he wasn’t going to argue with him.

“Nah, man. I can’t let you do that today, besides – someone bought my supply out just a bit ago. Waiting on a call to pick up some more.”
Instant rage. The anger washed over him like rain – or at least that’s what he showed on his face. He wasn’t really an addict, after all, just portraying one trying to get in with this man’s crew – hoping to work his way up to the big boys that ran things eventually. Though, he’d enjoy a bit of the Psispice a time or two. It wasn’t bad stuff, really, for most people it gave them visions – mild psychic moments. Nothing major. For Aleck, it was like doing literal crack, though. Psions shouldn’t be using psionic-enhancing drugs, an inheritance of his father’s power, Aleck had a strong affinity for telepathy. He could sense his sister and father from here, thousands of miles away after all. The first time he took the Psispice, though, he sensed everything. Everywhere. All at once. Or at least, that was how it felt to him – the whole of the planet’s thoughts seemed to flood into him at once, and he couldn’t turn it off. In ways, it was like the strongest psychedelic a man could take, and in others he made him want to end his own life just to shut it down.

That feeling kept him from ever doing it again, anyway, so addiction wasn’t a concern for him. Tommy thought he was taking it, though, and he wanted him to think he was taking it. “Well, look man…just put me in touch with your guy already. I been a customer for a while, you can trust me, man.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Aleck. Though, I don’t trust you. At all. It’s that he doesn’t trust you, man. Nobody trusts a junkie.”
“Alright…alright. Just, let me know when your next shipment comes in man. I need that shit.”

“Sure thing, Aleck.”

Aleck turned to leave, taking a step or two before a sense of malice raised an alarm in his brain. He could easily find out who Tommy worked for, all it would take was reaching out with his mind, touching thoughts. That simple thing could end the mission right now. He’d started to do it once, when he first began trying to infiltrate it. The thoughts he saw in the other’s mind drove him crazy, though, the things the man had – the images in his mind. The things he did to people, for the pure joy of doing them, caused the bile to rise in Aleck’s throat.

Besides, telepathy made his job too easy – there wasn’t any challenge in it. Yet, now even without touching his mind he felt something sharp and painful stab at the control center of his brain. Something told him to move, that he needed to just slide slightly to the left, and he listened to those instincts clearly.

In that same second, a flash of silver rushed past his neck – and punched at the air in front of him. The silver glint of a knife, sharpened tip protruding out the front of what – moments before – would have been Aleck’s throat. His body reacted purely out of instinct now, and Aleck grasped the other’s wrist, flinging his body around as he shifted his feet and used his hips to leverage the other’s body, flinging him over and slamming him into the asphalt of the alleyway back first, wrenching the knife from his hands.

“The fuck, Tommy?”

“Shut up, Xanathan Scum. You think we wouldn’t find out you been working for them? We always find out. Get him, boys.” Tommy screamed, as people began rushing out from the alley. Aleck almost opened his mind completely, ready to crush them under the weight of his psionic energy. Then he stopped, opting instead he launched himself directly at the first, the closest. His hand grabbing his own knife, pulling it from its sheathe and slashing through the air.

Not silver, but fiery red and burning red hot the laser-edged blade tore through flesh and bone smoothly, like butter the skin separated. For a second, blood sprayed and then the heat of the laser cauterized their wounds. His head turned and his right hand pulled his pistol up, the safety already off and the first round already chambered. Squeezing the trigger even before the gun was fully pulled up, the first round blasted off like thunder in the tight alley, the echo carrying it further than necessary. The round flew, and then it split – the mental control he held over metal manifesting in that moment – fragmenting the bullet in mid-air, adding velocity and power.

The fragments became fragments, tore themselves into smaller pieces and split a dozen times over – turning into like slivers of metal so small they’d be nearly invisible to the naked eye. Each one tore through a person, into their throat so precisely as to be surgical. As soon as the fight began, it was over – Aleck replaced his pistol in its holster, mentally activating the safety.

And he looked down at the body of Tommy and sighed. He’d spent a good portion of his time here building his cover and getting in with this guy and his hoodlums for nothing now. The man’s body lay limp, unmoving except for the excited rising and falling of his chest. Eyes widened in fear, as Aleck knelt next to him. He picked up the other’s knife and ran it along his cheek for a moment.
“How’d you know?” Aleck asked, genuinely curious.

“Your sister. She called looking for you, explained that she heard my name in your mind. Thought that was weird, but whatever, you know? Said she needed to speak to you, about your mission to infiltrate the gang, to get to the leader. Ya’ know, always thought something was off about you. Apparently, your sister is a crazy fucking bi…” his words cut off as a death gurgle, his own knife buried deep into his throat. With a violent, teeth-gritting twist of the knife, Tommy’s head separated from his body.

“Nobody calls Alex a bitch, Tommy.” Aleck said to the lifeless, glazed over eyes. At the same time, Aleck began rifling through the other’s clothes. Wallet, keys for his car and house, and plenty of free cash just hanging out in his pockets. Aleck definitely kept that for himself, and then pulled out Tommy’s phone – pocketing it before walking out of the alleyway. He opened the door to the other’s car, an import from the look of it. BMW, the steering wheel said. A good brand, though for some reason the letters were changed to BWM. Probably a knock-off reproduction from some company in Allure.

He flipped through the on-board GPS settings, the most recent places. A casino kept popping up, several times he’d been there according to the tracking software, whose security was barely existent to an expert in advanced electronics. “Guess I’ll start there, eh?” He put the car in drive and took off. At the same time, opening his mind to his family for the first time in years. “You really are a fucking bitch, Alex.”

Aeternus, outside the Speakeasy

Both Selena and her phone angel were about ready to depart. That minotaur was quite bothersome with his sentient fire and it was clear to both of them that the human hunter had come underprepared. For her punishment Selena thought it would be the usual: A long corporate meeting on why going into the hotel alone and without a clear plan for escape was a very bad idea and how she could have died if her guardian was not there in a 90s Nokia, all stuff she knew but that she had disregarded just to have some fun with the local demon hotspot.

Things would not be so simple however.

The lights suddenly shut off for a brief moment, darkness enveloping Selena and her electro-mechanical holy power relay. She would have been left quite literally in the dark were it not for the flashlight the device had installed. “This reminds me of my neighborhood.” She said, looking around the bottom of the city and seeing chaos begin to develop. Selena readied her machete again, shifting the phone’s light into the infrared to not be seen and instead used her eye’s infrared vision mode. After attaching it to her chest she prepared to leave again the way she came in, but before she could she heard, or rather felt, a very peculiar entering into the city. Somewhere in a foul fountain a good distance away someone had entered from Aeternus, in a very unorthodox way too. Such an access point would be quite desirable if she could extract it.

Wasting no time the young hunter went to the location, waiting a little bit for a demon in a motorcycle to come by. The fat orange demon exited the speakeasy once again, his wounds sealed and his tie and suit redone. “Pesky hunters, can’t have a nice evening out without being gutted by one.” He huffed, getting ready to depart before being grabbed and thrown forwards. “Waitwaitwa- AA-” The demon screamed and wailed as he was once again chopped to bits by the chain of an oncoming demon. The hunter had used the stranger again to block an incoming hell chain, using the extended weapon and running over it to get to the bike and then throw off the rider. “Fuck off.” She said, watching in the rear view mirror of her motorcycle how the rider that stole her motorcycle rolled on the ground and then got split in half after striking a light pole. Now ready, she accelerated to the fountain and once she arrived descended from her bike. “Who are you all?” She asked the group that had formed around the fountain from a distance, raising her voice slightly.

Two World Trade Center, Heaven

As all large hierarchical structures did, Heaven had its own bureaucratic centers dedicated to dealing with whatever paperwork an infinitely large domain produced. Many of the buildings were reused from old destroyed human ones to reduce costs and also to bring an air of familiarity to all humans who perished and went up from their good deeds, repenting, breaking the karmic cycle, among other things. This small subdivision was transferred from Earth not too long ago, a little bit before Spain was obliterated and a large number of devout white collar workers got transferred to the new vacant buildings that began to pop up all around the place.

Instead of getting a nice apartment in Barcelona or the hanging gardens of Babylon, this angel was assigned to the south tower. This commercial center served as the largest on Earth at some point in the past, with unimaginable office space ready to be filled by an equally endless supply of bureaucrats ready to do some paperwork. Known by a more human name, Ilaria, she was gifted with technological abilities that would allow her to excel in Excel, make the best coffee machine possible from her feathers, and also keep the electricity bill low by powering her own electronics. Her current job was to supervise one of the many human agents heaven employed irregularly to gather demonic data to then analyze for a more efficient day of judgment. However, the person she was supervising decided that perhaps things were far too easy for her assigned angel and had ventured unprepared into Aeternus.

Sighing, she got up, placing her halo on top of her head and finishing her coffee before taking the elevator down to the bottom floor. As much as she loved to drive, this was no time to take it slow and so she instead flew to the gates, passing through many strategically positioned portals until she was at the Earth-Heaven checkpoint. Walking forwards, she looked up to the demon running the checkpoint and spoke: “Excuse me, may I go through?” And then waited for him to either give her the go ahead or to complicate things, expecting the latter more than the former. Appearance wise she was human shaped, 6’7”, clearly female with soft skin, ink black hair, golden irises, paper white skin, and eyebags fitting of a dot com bubble era office worker. She also had a regalia fitting of a powerful angel: A white shirt, black tie, black trousers and white sneakers.

Close in the darkness, cold and monotonous, a voice inquired of him — of all confused, distraught, and enboobed souls, himself, Uí Senan! — where the ruler of this realm might be found. Well, he wasn’t having it, not without a fuss! He flagellated one of a dozen wool vestments alit in hues between yellow and pink upon the pavement and he remonstrated, “Ye clob-gobber, if’n there be any Lord o’er this befouled and cursed realm, seek for him in yon castle as I inten’d meself to do!” Then mounted another unsolicited inquiry from another strange voice which asked, “Who are you all?” and, of course, he did not rightly know, for even his body had forsaken him and his mind, polluted and perfumed, was not in a state where such questions were a matter he could have simply and steadfastly focused upon. It left him collapsed, as a pile of filthy laundry, upon the ground, and he bellowed, “Aye, meself is who I art!”

An eye full of crust creaked open in the courtyard of Thalgrim’s Gambling Quarters. A mixture of soot and atrophied concrete fell from the corners as its iris ping-ponged, scanning the area. A peculiar visitor drew its attention. Watching the somber spirit, he engaged in a one-sided conversation with an obstreperous man, whose boisterous personality overshadowed their dismal surroundings once polluted by the flashing lights of the strip.

Before they got anywhere, screaming from the distance was a girl on a motorcycle far too big for her.

“Who are you all?”

The sewage-bombed man of the fountain approached her from the rear, dripping out the fountain towards her. With who-knows-what wedged into the wrinkles in his anguished expression, he brought his scum-streaked face uncomfortably close to Selena. If she didn't see him, she certainly smelled him. With a voice cracking through torment, he pleaded “He–lp…me.”



Illuminated by a silver-flame fireplace, sipping coffee as dark as the abyss, the suave and debonair Dupin sat cross-legged, finding solace in the oddly soothing cadence of the chaotic symphony ringing through the city. No shadows danced off him, nor did his reflection grace the lone mirror in the room. Indulging in a rare moment of respite, the Aeternus hotel manager sat down his porcelain cup on a levitating, embossed silver saucer. Its black steam clung to his inhaling nostrils waving like tendrils, obscuring his momentarily pupilless eyes.

A peculiar and probably troublesome, grim figure crossed his thoughts, entering the courtyard. Would Dupin act? Not likely. While Thornaldo, the well-spoken carnivorous plant safeguarded the surface level of the Pleiades, a mere human (or so he would have you believe) reigned over the massive hellish underground. Not many knew what resided beneath the manager's facade of civility and charm, but for now, this middle-aged hint-of-gray visage was the default that greeted guests.

Standing over him, a grandiose oil-based portrait, framing the twisted depiction of a nightmarish abomination defying mortal comprehension. Staring intensely, Dupin challenged it, inviting a clawing madness to the edges of his psyche. Instead of succumbing to the mire of confusion, he felt the opposite. A surge of clarity washed over him as the subject itself communicated directly, peppering bits of ancient power and knowledge onto already unfathomable insight. His blackened heart reveled in the experience too much. It was uncanny. Realizing he was lost in thought, the hotel manager averted his gaze from the painting, finally blinking. Enough time had passed. He changed his mind, which he had a nasty habit of doing. It was time once again to stalk the corridors of the hotel.

Through cunning, ruthless measures, Dupin used every tool and elaborate trap at his disposal—both mundane and supernatural—to instill a satisfactory means of order. His tolerance for chaos operated at a much higher threshold than at the resort's surface-level security. However, unlike Thornaldo, when provoked, Dupin’s heavy-handedness caused even devils to cower.

“Can you take me to the owner?”

Listening in, his brow arched upwards. That was an easy answer but also very complex had they knowledge of the casino’s backer. An antique rotary phone with miniature skulls on opposing sides of the gold handset floated toward his rhythmically twirling dark fingers. Extending his silver-ringed index, starting with the area code (666), he dialed the counter-clockwise retracing rotary wheel.



*RING RING*

On the other end was Vileiro. “I, Nocturnelle Dupin, Maestro of the Nightwhisper have quite the development to share." You could almost feel the twirling of his mustache over the speaker. “On top of your slew of problems, a patron of hell would like to speak to you. I don't suppose he wants to casually chat considering he is the source of the power outage. Oh—and I'm sure you already know about…”

“Yeah, yeah, Nocturnelle. I'm already addressing it. I’m sure you’re already planning your usual high-jinks as we speak...” A slight smirk formed on Dupin’s face.

Deep within the Asmodeus Athenaeum, standing before an elegant mirror matching even his eight-foot frame, Vileiro placed his purple-nailed hand slowly against his reflection. Feeling a subtle frost, the ice devil carved his unique sigil birthed to him by hell. Snuffed out of the room was all warmth, filling the space with sinister chills coiling around every corner bearing the coldness of Zamhareer. Vileiro paused and gulped.

A voice that seemed to reverberate from the very bowels of the planet shook the magically enclosed room temporarily sealed off from Earth.

“Speak, consigliere.”



The travertine stone flooring of the courtyard in which the unique lot of individuals stood stationary grew soft, undulating with an eerie, liquid-like motion of a waterbed. At the light tap of Dupin’s right heel from the safety of his abode, a domineering force stamped the grounds. Like a loose pool cover snatching and submerging its naive prey, the environment indiscriminately enveloped them all with an insatiable force.

They found themselves adrift in a realm of nightmares, blared by a cacophony of anguished screams and tormented wails, endlessly falling, accompanied by inconceivable visions contorting into grotesque shapes mirroring the deepest recesses of their subconscious. Some were confronted by grisly abominations resembling twisted caricatures of their loved ones. Others witnessed their most egregious examples of failure and regret on repeat with cosmic entities in audience.

Each visitor's journey was personalized. In Selena’s case, not only did she get a slice of the domain’s usual brand of terror, but once again, she was confronted by the demonic rendition of herself she fended off earlier. This time, however, it was like looking in a mirror. She felt like she wore her remains again. The nightmarish dopple moved as she did, and looking into her eyes, the devil displayed pitifully intense signs of vulnerability, even fear. Since wearing the hollowed-out corpse to avoid succumbing to Ceven’s living inferno, Selena probably felt something tainting her soul, lingering like the faint odor of body sweat. To her, it was probably just the stench of the slain demons left in her wake, but the signs were there. She was just the last to smell it. Being in this realm only exacerbated the funk, and it reeked of hell. Part of the gem’s distorted future spirit-cooked into her through the heat of the sanguine flame. Selena felt her devilish copy’s foreboding dread followed by the heavenly condemnation of what appeared the very same angel she confided with. Every painful twitch of her wings, every nervous breath, every single pulse of her accelerating heartbeat. Selena felt it all. That shared grip of encumbering guilt and shame leading to damnation had a violent clutch on her heart until it suddenly… didn't.



Like the rest of the group, Selena was deposited to some part of the casino. Probably disoriented and bewildered by the abrupt displacement from her reality and the horrors she witnessed just seconds ago. She had dozens of reasons to believe what happened was and wasn't real. The young demon hunter found herself beside the shell-shocked, muck-ridden fountain man of earlier in a puddle foaming at the mouth. Towering over her, the roulette wheel was mid-spin, just starting to slow down as eager faces hung, eyes glued in nervous anticipation. Too wrapped in the game, they didn't even acknowledge them.

The loud, animated soulbound revenant found himself suddenly a close spectator to a blackjack game in which an impossibly ongoing winning streak attracted a crowd hovering over a gambler who frankly looked over it.

As for Valkyr…

The patron of hell stood before the hotel manager clad in a tailored plaid three-piece suit of the finest charcoal wool hugging his lean body. The silver-flamed flickers of the fireplace in Miskatonic Lounge cast light to both individual's silhouettes, as well as busts of various hell beasts and antiques decorating the room. Simultaneously, Dupin’s imperious leer felt up on his guest’s spirit. The Maestro of the Nightwhisper stared directly into the void in which Valkyr's face would have been with morbid curiosity, purging deeper.

"Ah, it seems you've called upon the conductor of this sinister opera, have you not? He’s a tad bit busy."

<< Theme: Solitude >>

A silent scream scathing my throat, a moan escaping my clenching teeth. I wake. The dream vanishing, the day before fading, the samsara renewing.

I know, as usual, nothing.

Sleep paralysis subsiding, I emerge from the chrysalis of slumber. My senses awaken to a peculiar reality. Telltale coral or perhaps sponge wedges cling to the ceiling, floor and walls of this otherworldly chamber. My bedroll hovers, suspended by silk ropes that form a celestial grid. Clothing dangles from these same ropes, swaying like forgotten memories. Small, oddly angular furniture hangs on the rope walls, too, as if utility and function have forsaken their duties. And there, a wending path leads to a small irregular door. An exotic monochrome cage, perhaps just due to the silver candle light, but I know somehow that the door to this cage is easy to open. Everything is loud and silent. Blood roars through my veins, a freight train hurtling toward eternity, yet my joints pop and ache in eerie quietude.

I can move, so I stand and don garments that inform me of my elusive identity.

I approach tarnished glass and bear witness to a horror I already know, and the fact of that knowledge is a shock. Before me looms an ugly person, an abomination, an assemblage of decay. Bald. Skin like smallpox. Body lean long and desiccated. A husk, with pits for eyes. Deep, dark pits, like igneous spiral mines, where from fleeting strikes of light onyx glints sharp amid the basalt. Lips held forever silent with iron twine. Beyond my ugliness, another sensibility looms, a sensual somber dignity of poise, frame and breeding flaunting itself in the shadow of my bodily debris. I wear the simplicity of a sleeveless scoop neck gown, heather grey with diamond dust; something between royalty and flapper. Shimmering fabric that contrasts against my tawny corpse flesh. Without the shoulder straps, I’d be naked. My breasts, infertile and scant, make modest my risqué attire.

I turn from the scene. Woven into the rope wall, I remove a pair of elbow-length lace gloves and hide my hands; mostly plain, but the palms combine to disclose a secret: a glyph of an arc girding an inverse pyramid within which looms an eye. Someone precious once told me of its origin, but I struggle to recall the story. I trace backwards in time, to the Freemasons and Knight’s Templar. No, older. To Moonshaft and Amarna. No, older. Finally to Leth, the first world-seeders, creators of woman, womb and sex.

Remembering where I am, I exit my meditation chamber. My hotel room. Down the hall, down the stairs, into the lounge. It is all very overstated. Garish art deco. Clashing geometric patterns and false gold enamel burden the senses. Along my journey, I see many strange creatures. Demons, damned, fallen angels. All I want is lotus blossom tea, preferably steeped in tears. False tears are better. I can drink it through a metal straw. Through the small necrotic gash in my left cheek.

“Your usual, Lady Ruohtta,” approaches a spade-tail red imp in a tuxedo, a charming Rick Blaine corruption. It offers a decanter from which meanders an intoxicating aroma of duplicity.

He was on a journey. A personal quest to rediscover a long lost sibling who had been stolen from him by a mad demon. The same demon responsible for driving him into an equally insane trinity of myth, flesh, and steel – of primordial beast, artificial monster, and an accident born from the clash between a noble patriarch and a gluttonous experiment. A distinct lack of meaning for the third’s existence permeated every aspect of his soul, rendering his mind stagnant, and actions worthless. Consequently, the third piece of the abominable amalgam comprising Taluge had his nihilism resolved through the hellish merging of bodies, minds, and souls.

Through him, the way to reclamation of familial unity would be realized, just as the one who was sought had led Tage through the frozen labyrinth of purpose, melting the sealed exit and allowing him to emerge into the stellar warmth of spiritual companionship.

Presently, the consolidated form of the Raging Singularity soared on shadow-tinted platinum wings, propelled by yellow plasma emissions streaming from the tips as well as the soles of his feet, knuckles dragging and skipping across the astral sea whilst the burning propellant vaporized the surreal waters in their wake. Within the rising steam trail, a surge of animated scenes floated up; creatures warring, sadists torturing, inhuman youths frollicking through a combination of differing lands, spun and woven into each other in a manner too abstract for the mind to comprehend. An uncountable number, both simple and complex sprouted, blossomed, and withered into ocean mist, blown away and scattered unto nothingness – reflected in the twin hexagonal shape of a scarlet left, and sapphire right pair of eyes, pupils still and motionless on a draconic face whose serrated lids did not blink. None of it meant anything to him – a raspy, metallic exhale passed through barely opened jaws, everything appearing as mundane as blowing leafs in a damp forest.

A twitch of impatience made him snort, the scent of mundanity leaving him directionless, agitated, and irritable. His frustration amplified his desire, made his mind snuff out all irrelevant details like a blizzard blowing out all the smaller insignificant flames, letting only the brightest infernos survive the storm of longing.

Then it appeared like a bloodstained hurricane.

Nine and a half foot horns released a maroon plume from their tips, billowing everywhere and nowhere, drifting toward the cyclone and being vacuously sucked into the swirling clouds, blending into a liquid mix of decadence and impending doom. It reeked of foulness, triggered thoughts of his damnation, and attracted his wrath like a tower attracting lightning; he would strike out at it until the place was either fried to a crisp, or the difference was so insubstantial as to be non-existent.

Traveling into the storm, his emotions came to a boil, and no amount of magic would be able to hold him together, and thus…

–
A three-sided star rose over a lavender horizon. Its rays illuminated a frozen ocean, the cracks of which hid an infinity of nanoscopic organisms, compacted together into clumps of sleeping maroon. The first face of the stellar mass shone sapphire, assaulting the ice with repeated thunderbolts, gradually penetrating deeper and deeper through the stillness, several of them colliding and repulsing each other, which lead to seismic tremors and a full scale collapse of the glacier.

The crimson face rotated into position, blowing noxious coronal mass onto the broken land, melting away the glaze, causing the ice to fragment more and more until the cracking became splashing and sloshing. More fire was coughed out, hitting the water like globs of molten snot, hissing its surface, evaporating the whole of the ocean into a cloud of scalding steam that only incensed the swelling fury.

Finally, the last face – a mass of platinum, wrapped in shadowy coronal loops turned to view the destruction, but unlike the others, it did not seek to add to the carnage. Instead, a spread of electrical bass thrummed through the sky and plume, followed by high-pitched bytes like fingers racing over a control board. From the depths, a pile of maroon, nanoscopic beings stacked atop each other, constructing a spire that assembled itself in an ascending path toward the star, puncturing it at the point of high noon, and emitted an explosive revving sound, like a chainsaw cord that had been pulled by the hands of a giant.

A nuclear pulse shot pain, agony, and despair into the star, inducing a critical fission reaction that led to structural failure, and ultimately a break in the psyche. The three faces split, the spire's peaks branching out in equivalent directions, their tips expanding into hooks which secreted an amber substance, crystallizing along the arms and snagging the three stars in place. Originally, the crystalline material had been used to produce gaps in genome sequences, wherein new coding could be inserted to act as adhesive to bond foreign strands together – in this soulscape it held a metaphoric function, an abstraction of physical reality reverse engineered into spiritual glue. The strange matter branched upwards, surrounding the stars, and holding them in place, roots feeding on their mass, drinking an infinitesimal, but nonetheless sufficient to ensure their continued stability.

In the aftermath of this controlled mayhem, three draconic drones emerged from the clouds, each bearing a tricloptic set of enlarged eyes, all projecting bright spotlights of colors corresponding to the division of once singular radiant mass, whose ghost was a small, transparent sphere. An indefinite surveillance period was enacted, manifesting as constant orbiting rotations, made all the more necessary by the jagged rifts in the east and west of this domain, through which stellar mass was slowly sucked through…

–

Gray clouds, as dark as the perpetual midnight enshrouding Aeternus swirled into a descending vortex, its tail grazing the edges of a six-story red and white pagoda. Its pull tore half the floor off, and with it several prospective targets of jikininki, their victims falling to the streets in heaps of broken bones and shattered skulls. Ordering the oni guards to investigate the commotion, several units of red and blue-skinned demons brandished iron kanabo clubs and leaped into the tornado to bludgeon the intruder into submission.

On ground level, flanked by rows of gargoyles leaping from their perches, the tornado fizzled out just as quickly as it had arrived, leaving the massive metal dragon hovering in place, the jagged crimson and sapphire scars running from tricep to the mid-section of his forearms flashing a silent blare of spiritual alarm. A few of the stone demons charged Taluge, only for the beast to suddenly spin himself, accompanied by a loud revving sound shaking the glass of gambling window as thousands of micro-blades along his tail harmonized a counter-frequency to their brimstone flesh, producing a sharp embering ring as they were bisected and fell to the streets in shattered chunks of scattered rock. A mad growl quickly turned into a shouting screech as a permeable field of maroon enveloped his form, the deafening cry echoing for miles, its shockwave thoroughly disrupting traffic as it made tires pop, lights flicker on and off, and made the heads of lesser demons burst like blood-filled balloons.

His metallic scales peeled off, hundreds of thousands of wires retracting out of a secondary black layer, eliciting a pained shriek as several gallons of acidic green blood were tossed in random directions. Streetlamps melted, the faces of gamblers and their dealers alike dissolved, doorways collapsing as a strange combination of havoc and excitement ensued as many assumed this to be the start of a demonic parade festival, though others were not so stupid as they fled the scene. By the time the onis hit the ground, a cloud of acidic mist had risen to greet them, their corroding bodies shredded apart as shards of cybernetic steel cut them apart in a whirlwind of ascending shrapnel.

The rising shrapnel menace was quick to reassemble itself, tearing chunks out of minkas, converting wood and paper into a platinum skeleton, that was layered with off-white flesh, and finished with a shadowy rendition of synthetic umbral metal, forming the scaled armor of a distinctly bipedal form that was twenty-four feet tall, and quite broad. Yellow plasma emissions kept Tage aloft, scarlett optical units situated between serrated eyelids darting to and fro and search of a safe place to take perch as the second stage of the demerging process initiated itself.

Settling atop a smoke stack puffing the cremated remains of souls used to restore Aeternus’ power, the Offspring observed the revealed form of Alucroas, his biomass dramatically reduced, excess biomass used to sustain his previous form dissolving a crater into the street. A seam spread along his back, jaws split open horizontally, revealing a second mouth connected to a blackened skull, its lengthy neck functioning as the musculature of a gruesome tongue that hissed a deep, meaty, brazen hiss as it threatened everyone and everything that could hear it. The muscles on his rear and fore inflated, flexing with violent determination as it appeared the one was in fact made of multiple fused pairs, tearing and stripping apart, ending as one rib-cage literally slid free from another, connected only by loosely hanging ligaments and sparking ligaments magnetizing themselves to their original bodies.

Flexing his arms inwards, the seam along Alucroas’ back split wider, like he was tearing a shirt, when in reality it was Zucroas – the first half of the abomination flinging both sides of his back and wings to either side like a torn blanket. Excess vertebrae, neck muscle situated within the split jaws deteriorated and fell, bone pairs separating as the body of the second bipedal component of the monstrous amalgam stood up for a moment and dropped back to all fours. His black skin gradually whitened, scales shrinking down to a size unnoticeable without the aid of microscopic instruments. The fast detachment of separating spines emitted a disturbing sound, vertebrae unzipping, muscle and all wetly stripped and peeled away from each other, with the bottom tail slapping the pavement like so many fools who had used suicide as a futile means of escape from their deals.

The creature that was now more or less standing atop Zucroas pathetically tried to leap as his muscles and bones pulled themselves together, giving the drake enough time for his back to seal itself shut. Somehow it was enough, the physiological and anatomical structures of the two solidifying neatly into place, with Zucroas already raising back up into a full-standing position, the slender, almost feline form of Aludon with his sharply pointed snout, blood-red eyes, and lengthy tail that ended in a sharply curved bone leaping off. Acting on pure whim, Aludon immediately sprinted off, carelessly, and quite recklessly crashing through the window of a lounge where a demoness was just relaxing for a drink. Neither malice, nor aggression characterized his statuesque stop in movement, genuine curiosity born from an inexperience in interacting with beings outside of his trio, and it was very apparent in his wide-eyed stare.

As Tage watched on, his only concern being the safety of his companions, he watched Zucroas with caution as already, the drake was tapping into their shared existential ley-lines, the scarlet aura coated in a thick energy solvent. He felt the flow of souls rushing through the dragon’s nearly pure-white body, the blue and red scars of the dead snapping and crackling in an emission of wrathful sound that almost sounded like knocking on wood, and breaking of bark. His jaw opened wide, tiny human hands compressing into a blue, plasmic light, screaming and wailing pouring from his mouth as he unleashed a beam of pure anguish in the form of a super-condensed stream of souls flowing out as lightning, and aimed at what little remained of the pagoda.