“What the hell is a blood cult?”

They were laying down prone at the crest of a hill looking down at a ranch. It was a big property, with a large house, a larger barn, silos, a fenced off field with cows, goats, and donkeys, and a large corn field, the entire property peppered with a variety of vehicles. Dozens of people were rushing around from spot to spot, carrying heavy bags and gardening equipment. Derrek had never seen a ranch, but this was about what he expected.

Discord pulled the binoculars away from his eyes. “You met most of the sane gods last night, but there are things way older than them. Older than me. Older than names, even. Gods from times so long past they may as well never have been. Old, insane, and hungry. Most of them just exist in their own spaces, somewhere outside of space where concepts have more substance than actual mass would, oblivious to their own obscurity. Then there's the blood god.”

He scratched at his neck and handed over the binoculars so Derrek could examine for himself. “The blood god is a persistent one, can't fault it for that. It wants back into the physical world, so it can claim all the blood for its own. Hell if I know why, probably just so nobody else will have any. Selfish as shit. It reaches its tendrils into the thoughts of the bloody-minded, folk who’re just serial killers waiting to happen. It whispers promises of power, seduces them with visions of their enemies made corpses at their feet. Then it draws them together so they may complete its work, that work being killing enough people to get enough blood for it to regain substance.”

He produced a flask and took a swig. “Its been trying at it for millennia. I've been holding it back for millennia. Pretty low effort, all things considered, just have to wipe the cultists out wherever they start up in earnest.”

Derrek had been examining the barn, specifically the heavily reinforced door, triple locked and barred from the outside. He put down the binoculars and looked sidelong at Discord. “‘In earnest?’ So it's fine if they only kill a few people, just not enough that it becomes your problem?”

“That's the gist. We aren't human, Havok. As blasé as it sounds, we can't make every mass murder our problem. These guys almost never get past ten or fifteen people before the authorities catch on. The blood god gives no advice on covering anything up, just a need to spill blood. Nine out of ten fires burn themselves out.”

Derrek shook his head and looked back through the binoculars at the house. “I don't think that's true. Fire departments exist for a reason. I don't see why you can't just tip off the authorities after the first one or two.”

It was Discord’s turn to shake his head. “I tried that before in India, caused a massive firefight that left the entire commune and twelve officers dead. All over three bodies. Then there was Jonestown. I was downright lucky they have to sacrifice non-believers for them to count, otherwise that might've just been the end of things.” He looked right at Derrek. “Most things need to play themselves out. Our responsibility isn't to stop every bad thing from happening, just the really bad things. I know you're a philanthropist, but there's some problems you can't fix, and some that you shouldn’t.”

There was some sense in that. While Discord was waxing on, Derrek had been considering distributing funds to police offices nationwide, how he might be able to have them trained to identify and stop this kind of threat. A great deal of his time as an employee of Frostbyte had been spent in budgeting; he had even planned the ecological excursion to Germany that changed his life. It was simply infeasible. Even if the cost wasn't outrageous, there was no way he could justify training cops to hunt down murderous cults to his board of directors. And even if he could, he would be limited to the United States, and the other ninety-five percent of the world would be squarely outside of his jurisdiction. There was no way to stop the problem entirely. There was nothing he could do.

“I hate it when you're right.” He shoved the binoculars at Discord. “If these guys are on your radar, then how many have they killed?”

“At least fourteen, I’m not sure.”

“Fourteen people?!” Derrek said it louder than he meant to. He guessed it had to be at least ten, but the number still shocked him. Fourteen people. He coughed and carried on, trying to ask the right questions. “How have they gotten that many without being caught?”

Discord grinned just a touch wider. “At least fourteen. They take in a lot of converts, and kill the ones that don't work out. Mostly hitchhikers and vagabonds, looking for as little civilization as they can live with. They aren't all bad people, just lost.” He put the binoculars down, still gazing at the ranch. “It's plain bad luck they chose to come here, but their fates are sealed.”

Derrek grimaced. “Do we really have to kill all of them?”

“We do. If we let any of them survive they’ll just go and start another commune. They're like ants, except they're all queens.”

Derrek hated the idea of killing anyone. During the attack at the Schadenfreude, he’d had to kill six of the poachers, Bernmore included, and it weighed on him. Bernmore aside, it was much too easy; he had killed all the others in single strikes, tearing through them and their weapons like tissue paper. It made him realize just how powerful he had become, how fragile people were, how easily entire lives could be snatched away. But what bothered him most was how little it affected him. He expected nightmares, tremors, paranoia, some kind of guilt, but all he felt was that same persistent calm as always. Those six lives weighed on him, but only as much as the air around him did. He breathed it in with every inhale, and out with every exhale, simply a part of him. A part that needed to exist.

Derrek steeled himself, he was ready for what was to come. “How are we doing this? Guns blazing or are we going quiet, one-by-one?”

Discord held up a hand. “Woah there, tiger. I love where your head’s at, but there's a better way.” He laid his hands flat on the ground and pushed himself straight up to his feet. He loudly snapped his fingers and his entire person changed in an instant. His coat had shortened to a jacket, dark red and travel worn, his pants and shirt drab and dirty. His hair was shorter, tangled, and slightly gray with a full overgrown beard to match. To tie it all together, he was a full head shorter than an instant before. “We’re going Incognitus.” He spoke with an indecipherable accent and sounded like he was gargling gravel.

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Derrek felt silly looking up at him from the ground, so he rose to his feet. “What the actual fuck are you doing?”

Discord posed with his hands on his hips. “The names Donatello Castello, but everyone calls me Donkey. I've been bummin’ around longer than any three so-and-so's put together. Been everywhere this side the Mississippi, and two thirds of everywhere on t’other. Nicky Cage bought me a sandwich one time.” He stabbed a finger toward Derrek. “And you're some punk I took under my wing back in Topeka.”

Derrek shook his head. “You are out of your damn mind. You really think I’ll let you walk me in there and offer me up as a sacrifice?”

Discord smiled under his beard. “As expected, you're still as sharp as my can-openin’ spoon, but you ain't the bait in this trap, boy. You'll be the bright-eyed convert, a lost soul lookin’ for a home. Ol’ Donkey’s too perfect a lamb to pass on the slaughter. Ain’t believed in nothin’ since Oasis broke up. Them blood so-and-so’s’ll be chomping at the bit to spill my blood!”

Derrek pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is stupid. Do you need information from them or something? We can just interrogate them.”

Discord sighed and dropped the accent. “If we just wipe them out the cops will still be looking for a perpetrator, and I don't feel like dealing with the feds this week. If I act as the sacrifice, they’ll all gather at the altar for the ceremony at sundown. My immortal blood will desecrate the altar and sever their connection to the blood god, driving them all into a murder frenzy. They’ll all kill each other, we’ll wipe out the stragglers and pose them accordingly, and the whole story will be old news in a week. Just another suicide cult, water cooler chatter at best.”

Derrek stared at him, horrified. “We’re going to make them kill each other? That's horrible.”

Discord shrugged. “If you’d rather go down there, spill blood and make a pyramid of their heads, I won't stop you, but I'm trying to minimize our role in this. It's easier to steer things your way when no one sees you at the wheel. If we went down there and watered the grass with their blood, we’d be done by lunch, but then we’d have a few very specific agents sniffing at our trail. These guys have already connected you and I with two thumbtacks and a piece of string, and they’ll take any excuse to grill you for details, even if they can't arrest you.”

Derrek blinked. “Why wouldn't they be able to arrest me?”

Discord stared at him. “You have money. Laws don't apply to you the same as everyone else. You've lived in the states all your life, haven't you?”

“Of course I have.”

“Then none of this is news. You can quite literally do whatever the fuck you want, and nothing will stick to you. I do the same, but because no one can physically stop me. They come after me, they’ll die. They come after you, your lawyers will make them wish they were dead. They’ll get you off on every technicality they can find, bribe every witness, and replace the jury so many times they won't even know what they're trying you for!” Discord’s voice had been steadily rising, and he took a breath and brought it back down. “What I’m saying is it’ll be a pain in the ass, but you’ll never do any time. If you wanna go and get bloody, go on ahead, but you’ll be doing it alone.”

There it was, then. It was Discord’s way or the hard way. Derrek didn’t want to kill anyone at all, but if doing so would save innocent lives, he would do it without hesitation. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but Discord was right. Again. It was an absurd plan, but it was also the path of least resistance. Assuming the cultists didn't sniff them out right off and force a confrontation.

“Fine,” Derrek said, defeated, “we’ll do it your way. Do you have a hat or something for me?”

Discord grinned disconcertingly. “‘Or something,’ is right.” he snapped his fingers and pointed at Derrek. He waited expectantly for a moment, realized something, and produced a small mirror from his jacket. Derrek took it and examined himself with a sinking feeling. The face bore no resemblance to his own. His hair was a shaggy dark brown, his hollow cheeks were adorned with scattered acne and a poor attempt at a beard, and his eyes were bright blue. He looked down and saw his clothes had changed too. He had gotten himself a long coat similar to Discords, but in dark blue; It made concealing his weapons easier on these Saturday excursions, and went well with the plain dark shirt and pants he had been wearing. He was now wearing jeans, a gray t-shirt, and an army jacket, all worn, dirty, and threadbare.

Derrek took himself in for a moment, then shot a glare at Discord. “If you can do this, why can't you make my hair brown?”

“First off, it would be a lame cop-out.” He took the mirror back and tucked it in his jacket. “Second, what I did to you is just an illusion, one that only lasts a day and that I'm too lazy to keep applying indefinitely. Not to mention these kinds of things always fail at points of major narrative significance, like while you're in a big meeting or addressing congress or hooking up with a sexy demon.”

“While I'm what?”

“Don't fuck a demon, Havok. Vagina dentata ain't just bad sex ed, it's a warning.” Discord held out his hand expectantly. “Now hand her over.”

Derrek had been regretting learning Latin, but that regret was replaced with sharp annoyance. “You can’t be serious.”

“I can, I just usually chose not to be.”

“I am not going in there unarmed. No, not again. And before you quip about how I ‘didn't die,’ there's a big difference between a bar fight and a murder cult!”

Discord was in prime quipping position, pointing a finger at the sky and his mouth half open. He let the arm fall limp. “A heavy-duty beauty like Lillith doesn't mesh with your trampish visage.” he reached into his jacket and brought out a small revolver. “This’ll track better, and won't leave behind shell casings. Plus you've still got your knives, I’d hardly call you unarmed.”

Derrek wanted to argue, but there was no point. He would only have six shots, but at least he would have shots. Better than nothing. He drew his pistol and traded it for the revolver. It was smaller than he was used to, but still had a good weight to it, all the metal scratched and tarnished, electrical tape around the grip.

“That's all cosmetic,” Discord commented as he tucked Lillith away, “everything that matters is still oiled and primed for violence, don't you worry. Truth be told, it's one of my favorites. I did all my usual etchings internally, a major proof-of-concept. No strength like seeming weak.”

Derrek tucked the unassuming pistol into his inner jacket pocket, the weight felt different, but comforting. “So what do we do? Just stroll up and ask to work for a meal?”

Discord's eyes shined eagerly. “That's a great idea! I was just gonna say weird shit until they shut me up with a knife. You're a natural born insurgent.” He coughed deeply and slid back into the voice of Donkey. “Now all we need is a name for the so-and-so you're playin’. Somethin’ snappy, like Mikey S. or Junebug. I do the whole D. C. so-and-so for all my aliaseses, but I don't give a square shit who knows I'm me. You may feel differently though.”

Derrek thought of using his middle name, Lloyd, but that would be evidence in and of itself. The less breadcrumbs the better. He supposed any name was as good as another.

“Shawn will do. Shawn Bates.”

“Where’d you pull that from? Kindergarten bully?”

“Just the first name that came to mind.” Derrek began stretching before the climb down. Always important to stretch. “I didn't go to kindergarten.”