Mickie did not hesitate. The gun cracked as he fired right at Belphegor, and then he was running for the open double doors. He hardly made it more than a few steps before a vice of iron latched onto him, stopping him dead. A clawed hand had grasped hold of Mickie’s forearm, and no matter how he tugged it did not budge in the slightest. Emerald eyes glinted through the clearing smoke of the gunshot.
‘Come now, there’s no need for such hostilities.’
The arm whipped to one side and tossed Mickie like an oversized stick into one of the walls. He slammed against the hard surface with such force it left a divot. Bones broke and the mortal’s vision darkened briefly before he gasped back to awareness. Miz-Mag had been on his shoulder, yet now his partner was nowhere to be seen. Hopefully the little demon had vanished into its usual resting place before suffering an injury. As he attempted to rise Belphegor approached, adjusting the jacket of his suit and smiling like a shark. Some painful looking burns ran along the demon’s jaw and down its neck, the only sign of Mickie’s attack.
‘Truly an interesting weapon. Unfortunately, I am made from sturdier stuff than your average imp.’
The wounded mortal managed to stagger upright and attempted to stumble away. From behind there was a deep chuckle. Something connected with the side of Mickie’s knee so hard his leg folded the wrong direction. He cried out and collapsed, hardly able to turn onto his back before Belphegor was upon him. The old fiend placed a taloned foot upon the branded man’s chest and compacted him with the weight of a mountain.
‘A derivative of the Soul Lord’s mark. I do wonder what that upstart had planned for you, I’ve almost come to miss its little schemes.’
Hooked claws pressed into his Mickie’s shirt, slicing through fabric and gouging his flesh. He could not even draw enough breath to moan at the pain of it.
‘At first, I simply wanted to know what had crawled out of the Palace. But now. Well, you seem harmless enough and I’ve found its usually best to unravel that soul sorcerer’s before making any rash moves.’
With screaming lungs Mickie tried to push aside the crushing limb. Black spots were dancing in the corner of his eyes, turning from butterflies to twisting snakes.
‘So, I think I’ll have you do some work for me. Make up for killing dear old Funk. How about it?’
It was hard for the mortal to focus, he attempted to parse what the demon had said but his mind felt foggy.
‘Nothing? Well, no news is good news.’
Something changed within Belphegor at that, the invisible force the old fiend exerted began to press upon the world. Even through his fading consciousness Mickie felt it, like a hand had grasped his frantic heart and slowed its beating. Then the demon spoke, and Hell itself went still at the sound.
‘Sleep.’
And he fell into darkness.
----------------------------------------
Consciousness returned with the force of a thunderclap and Mickie sucked in a ragged breath before coughing up a wad of bile and blood. He attempted to rise but found anything more than a crouch impossible. Manacles glowing with bloody runes encircled each wrist, chained to the floor by heavy metal loops. The bindings were set into opposite sides of an unadorned cell, keeping his arms pulled apart. He faced a blank wall of dull metal, though when Mickie craned his neck, he could see a series of bars obscuring a dim hallway. Emerald eyes glinted at him through the barrier of metal, a wicked grin forming upon noticing his attention.
‘Welcome back to the land of the dead, my dear enigma. I have been eagerly awaiting your return.’
Belphegor’s voice was the same smooth baritone as when it had been crushing him to a pulp.
‘It is a curious bargain you have made. Partial invisibility, impressive recovery, and improved strength on top of that nasty weapon. Rare for one of my kind to give so much of itself.’
The demon sounded inquisitive but did not outright ask for details. Mickie cast about for Miz-Mag, but it appeared his companion was still missing, off in its strange limbo. Hopefully the little fiend would return soon, because there was no way Mickie was escaping this place without help. Belphegor had fallen silent, seemingly waiting for a response. With a body still throbbing from his last meeting, Mickie was not willing to test the old demon again.
‘What do you want?’
His voice was dry, and his diaphragm ached from the effort of shaping the short question.
‘Many things, dear boy, many things.’
The door to his cage clicked, and Mickie craned his neck in an attempt to catch sight of his approaching captor.
‘However, I expect we will have more than enough time to chat in the future. I would love to hear the tale of how you slipped by Rainzell.’
The gentle tapping of claws on metal came to a stop right behind him. Mickie attempted to give the demon a defiant look, but a clawed hand of red flesh clamped upon the top of his head, forcing him to look forward.
‘I’m sure you will speak in time, my dear enigma. I will learn who you are, and why you carry that mark. But first you need to understand that you are mine, and that you are not indispensable to me.’
With a dark chuckle Belphegor released his head and moved to the exit.
‘Prepare yourself. You will need to give a better showing than you did against me if you want to survive.’
The cell door clicked shut and the ancient demon disappeared down the corridor. Mickie waited until the sound of its steps had long faded before testing the limits of his prison. He pulled at the chains, finding to be as durable as the dark iron implied. Next, he attempted to summon his gun and found the weapon came to him without issue. Strange, Mickie had been wary of the runes glowing upon his bonds, but they appeared not to inhibit his powers. They chains were restrictive, though not so much that he could not turn the weapon upon them. Wedging the barrel into the metal links, the branded man paused to contemplate his next move. A fiend as nasty as Belphegor could not have overlooked this possibility. They had mentioned these cages were designed to contain summoners. Yet, what else could Mickie do? Until Miz-Mag came back his options were to limited to the extreme.
In the end he decided it was better to at least cross the option off the list and squeezed the trigger. The flash of gunfire was accompanied by an equally bright glow from the runes. Mickie’s ears rang as his arm was yanked painfully by the chain. As the steam and smoke cleared, he found an almost unblemished chain, glowing with intense red light. The twisted script upon the metal had not dimmed as the echoes of the blast faded. In fact, it was almost as if the light was getting brighter.
Something tickled him, something inside his chest that wanted to get out. Mickie gave a couple of coughs, but the feeling only got worse, sliding like rough stone into his gut. Next his back itched with a spine deep ache, not the kind that you could remove with a scratch. The mortal swallowed, feeling short of breath. The inconvenient aches and pains intensified, moulding, and merging into a nebulous glob that filled his body. It began to burn worse than any fire could, burn with a pain that only his brand had ever produced. Mickie writhed on the floor, twitching yet unable to even cry out. His vision became consumed by the red glow of his chains, bright enough now that his entire cell was coloured a bloody red. Unable to think, unable to even draw breath. It felt like he was going to die, like the abyss below had crept up from nowhere and was wrapping arms of crimson about his neck.
Then the pain began to recede. Like the tide it withdrew as the light of the runes faded, returning the Mickie’s faculties to him with agonizing slowness. For a time, all the human could do was lay gasping on the hard floor of his prison. That had not been a pleasant experience.
‘Note.’
He coughed wetly.
‘Note to self. Don’t shoot the chains.’
Stuck waiting for his companion and with nothing but a blank wall to occupy him, Mickie’s thoughts turned inward. It sounded as if Belphegor did not actually know what had occurred within the palace. Strange that there had been no word between the eighth and ninth circle at all during the Kindle Kin’s rebellion. If the Palace Lord had sent for reinforcements the outcome of the battle might have shifted in the oversized centipede’s favour. Yet the creepy old demon had not even bothered to send a note upwards. There was something he was missing, most likely tensions between the castle and the city.
As time dragged on within the cage, the tension Mickie felt began coalescing into jittery nervousness. He had never been good at sitting still, preferring action to patience. Mickie had always found that with enough energy and momentum he could get just about anything done. Then again, it was not the patient who died young. Sometimes momentum hurled you right into a brick wall, and you were moving too fast to stop even if you saw it coming. The mortal emptied himself of his restlessness with a few steadying breaths. He needed to keep his wits about him in this viper’s nest, Belphegor could return at any time.
The sudden sound of a motor whirring to life drew Mickie from his meditation. With a lurch the floor to which he was chained lurched and began to rise. Turning about he found it was not just the floor that was shifting, his entire cell was. The dim light from the hallway outside gradually thinned as his prison lifted into the air. Soon enough it was gone entirely, plunging Mickie into darkness but for the bloody glow of his chains. After a time rising the cage shuddered and began to slide forwards. He cursed loudly, Miz-Mag was too slow in returning. Whatever fate awaited Mickie, he would be facing it alone.
As the prison made yet another shaky shift in direction, Mickie began to hear something new over the clamour on a motor. A distant roar, continuous like the cascade of the waterfall. The sound grew as his cage rose, eventually consuming even the sound of his ascent. It was the overlapping cries of a crowd, the noise as fluid and chaotic as troubled water. Light began to filter into his prison, and as it did the roar reached all new levels of fervour.
‘And nor for a truly special bout. My dearest damned and damaged, do we have something special for you.’
A digitally enhanced voice boomed so loudly it shook the rising cage. The crowd cheered in response, the general clamour masking a chant, something about a bloody beast. His chance to discern anything further was cut short as light poured through the bars of the cage. With a sudden thunk the metal barrier fell away, and Mickie craned his neck to make out what awaited beyond.
Then, to his surprise, the manacles binding his wrists popped open and dropped to the floor. Mickie rubbed his tender skin and frowned at the glowing metal. For some reason, his newfound freedom did not provoke anything more than wary caution. He stood slowly, turning towards the opening of the prison and the roar of the crowd.
‘On one side, a killer of the roundest order, an angry oval we all know and love, the Bloody Bean!’
The crown screamed their approval as Mickie neared his cage’s opening. His eyes adjusted slowly to the bright exterior, revealing an expanse of white sand bordered by a tall wall of steel.
‘Facing the crimson kidney, we have a new arrival to the Cauldron, and what a specimen he is. One century ago, a being of outstanding power and obscene violence betrayed our dearest Sovereign. For years now, we though the soul lord dead and gone. Now however, its mark has returned, on the skin of a mortal no less. So, without further ado, I present, the Marked One!’
With an abrupt lurch the open cell tilted forward, and Mickie was helpless to prevent himself from tumbling out of the opening. He rolled on to the sand, accompanied by hesitant cheers. It appeared the crowd were unsure what to make of him. Mickie for his part could care less about the opinions of the audience and quickly scrambled to his feet. He had been deposited upon a huge sandy field, hemmed in by a large wall. Atop the wall were rows upon rows of demons. Stadium seating stacked far into the black sky, absolutely packed with hell spawn of all varieties. Hanging above the viewers were what Mickie supposed had to massive screens, though all he could see from the field was a sheet of dark material.
‘Furthermore, my attentive attendees, this will not be a typical fight. I have received word from both backers that we have a duel to the death on our hands.’
The cautious enthusiasm of the crowd roared back to life at that proclamation. In the arena however, the traped mortal hardly took any notice. Instead, his attention was drawn to the empty cage as it sunk into the floor, stopping when the metal roof was flush with the sands.
‘Place your bets real quick, because we will be under way in 10, 9…’
There was something else in the arena with Mickie, directly across from him. A round, lumpy object that could easily have been a misshapen boulder, if not for the crowd’s rising chant.
‘BLOODY BEAN, BLOODY BEAN’
As the countdown neared completion, the chorus gained momentum, and Mickie began to look at the strange object with a rising apprehension. He had long since picked this to be some form of gladiatorial arena, housed at the top of the spire. Yet the question remained of what he would have to face.
‘2, 1. In the name of the rising Mizaraphel, let blood be spilled!’
A horn sounded over the speakers, like an ancient call for battle. Grains of sand shifted and shook with the force of it, though not nearly as vigorously as the lumpen object across the field. Seams began to appear in the strange boulder as it expanded, unfurling like a horrific flower. A creature akin to a giant sea anemone rose from the sand. Though instead of softly swaying strings of flesh, this monster was formed from a host of human limbs.
Legs and arms of all variety emerged from a fleshy core to form a dense forest. They held the beast aloft, providing a base of support upon which it could move. Within the twisted libs Mickie caught a glint of bloodshot blue eye. As the monstrosity had garnered Mickies attention, he seemed to have caught its. Legs tensed and arms shoved, moving the hell spawn in a rolling walk towards the branded man.
‘Oh, fuck me.’
Mickie had faced down humanoid insects, a three head chihuahua and a horde of bloodthirsty machines. Yet the amalgamation of human flesh before him was the most disturbing thing he had encountered yet. It appeared slow at first, the innumerable appendages making movement difficult. Yet as he stood transfixed, the beast closed with increasing momentum, turning faster and faster in a spray of sand.
Mickie was almost too slow to react when it came upon him, realising at the last moment that its limbs were not the normal size for a human. The arms and legs were another half as long as might be seen in a mortal, and the discrepancy had thrown off his opinion of its size. Running and diving to the side, Mickie did not quite clear the beast as it tumbled past. A searching hand wrapped about his ankle, dragging along through the sand.
Luckily, the bean’s speed was such that it could not keep hold of him as the body rotated. Mickie was hurled across the arena as the monster continued towards a wall. Even if it got in his nose and mouth, the sand was an effective cushion. As the crowd roared their approval of the monster the branded man stood, having suffered little more than some bruises. The human-anemone was turning in a lose arc, tumbling about to roll in his direction once more. Mickie took a slow breath and emptied himself of the churning disgust and fear. He took in the proximity of his adversary to the wall, the slower speed at which it tumbled, and made a decision.
Instead of waiting for the monster to roll his way, Mickie ran straight at it. To effectively avoid the bob he needed it to be slow, so it was better to close the distance before it got going. The plan proved effective, and as the monster came upon him, the branded man did not even need to dive away. He darted to the side, summoning his gun and shooting the beast in its lumpy mass of flesh. Blood and limbs sprayed across the sand in gory cascade as the monster rolled to a shuddering stop.
‘Take a look at that blaster. We’ve got a fight on our hands!’
The Bloody Bean was sluicing blood in a viscous waterfall. The rate at which the lifegiving fluid poured from the central body was alarming, even a creature of its size could not sustain that loss. A sudden writhing shift within the monster resulted in the immediate cessation of blood loss. It had somehow folded in upon itself, becoming marginally smaller and sealing the hole in its body. While the damage might be gone, the signs of the attack were not. As the grotesque bundle of appendage rolled in his direction once more, blood sprayed from gore coated limbs. Mickie cursed as he ran towards the beast. It looked like he would need to whittle down the self-repairing monster.
As the anemone came upon him, Mickie repeated his strategy of darting to the side at the last moment. Right before he fired into the body however, the monster shifted direction. A forest of arms and legs had halted the bean’s momentum, then straightened out to launch itself after the slippery human. Taken by surprise, Mickie barely managed to dive aside as it rolled past, a leg clipping his shoulder painfully. The crowd roared in approval at their favoured fighter’s display while the battered mortal rolled to his feet.
If his adversary could adapt to his tactics, then Mickie was going to have to change it up. He ran for the nearby steel wall as the bean circle around to strike again. Legs pumping, he glanced over his shoulder to find the violent bundle of limbs gaining, far faster than his pact enhanced muscles. The clamour of the crowd began to rise as they sensed blood in the water. Then Mickie hit the arena’s barrier and dropped flat against the ground. It was not a moment too soon either, as the monster slammed against the steel with such force that the ground rumbled.
Mickie however, was not crushed by the impact. By huddling low, the round large anemone of flesh had failed to catch him under its mass. That did not mean the branded mortal was in the clear though. Even as he raised his gun the creature began to shudder and shift, its lumpen core distorting and pushing grasping hands towards its cowering prey. A blast of golden light met the innumerable limbs, punching a hole in the greedy forest. Mickie had hoped that the monster might recoil after taking the hit, but it only pushed harder to take hold of him.
Blood from the wound washed over him in a crimson wave, blinding him in the deluge. As a hand caught hold of his jacket, some of the fluid got into his mouth. It tasted of rotten copper, and he gagged at the viscous sensation of it. The bean began to reel him in, more hands grabbing hold and dragging Mickie into an inescapable net of flesh. His weapon finished reloading with a squelching thunk, and the beast received another shot, aimed right where his first had been. This time it did the trick, and the soaked human was dropped to the sticky sands as the bean hastily backed away from the wall.
‘Oh my, would you look at that, what a beautiful shade of blood.’
The crowd was in a frenzy, screaming at the twisted abomination and cursing Mickie with every manner of colourful insult. He found it all difficult to make out with ears clogged by blood, and was too focussed on his enemy to bother clearing them. Having retreated a short distance, the monster shuddered and folded upon itself again, this time becoming visibly smaller. Hopefully that meant Mickie was getting close to killing it for good. The shifting beast seemed to bring about a change in the observing crowd as well. The hysterics settled into a thumping mantra, a call to the wounded abomination.
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‘Flatten him. Flatten him. Flatten him.’
Mickie stayed by the wall as the bean finished its reformation, the centre almost invisible amongst the dense wall of limbs. It was too small now for the same trick to work again, he would have to face the beast head on. When the bean moved, it moved fast. The body tensed low before springing into action, coming at him in a fountain of sand. As the crowd screamed the mortal raised his weapon and fired. It was all he could manage before the monster crashed into him. The combination of the blast and his attempted dodge saved him from the full force of the blow. However, even a glancing collision was enough to send him careening into the barrier.
Stars blossomed in the abyss above the arena as Mickie lay dazed upon the sand. His left side hurt terribly, a stabbing ache then spun the lights above in a dizzying display. Nearby the Bloody Bean detached itself from the steel wall and rolled in his direction. Desperately, the woozy mortal righted himself, coughing up a large mouthful of blood. It was getting hard to breath, his chest felt full, yet he yearned for air. Mickie pointed his gun at the approaching monster, but it was still spewing steam, not yet reloaded.
It appeared the Bloody Bean was forgoing its usually healing ritually, accepting the loss of blood to strike down its prey. Unable to shoot, Mickie attempted to run away. The monster was faster than him however, and he had hardly made it more than a few steps before hands began to reach and grasp at his back. He spun to face the creature, dismissing his weapon to fend it off with both arms. But it was a losing battle. The beast had too many limbs and too much reach.
Even as blood coated the sand from a nasty gash, the beast caught hold of an arm and dragged Mickie in. Desperately, he tried to pull free, but his laboured breaths were giving way to failing muscles. The monster grabbed his shoulder, his calf, his hair. It dragged him into its embrace and towards a bloodshot eye, wide with rabid hunger. Skin parted like tearing fabric, revealing a maw that was more a bloody hole than true mouth.
‘No, no, no.’
One of his hands was fed into the opening, and the pain of it was staggering. He felting his skin begin to boil, his flesh meting as if it were wax. The leather of is jacket do not hold that acid inside at bay for long, dissolving to reveal the flesh beneath. Mickie screamed in fear and agony but was cut off by a fountain of vomited blood. His chest was suddenly lighter again, and the fading human took in a breath of blessed air. Clarity hit Mickie like a sizzling thunderclap, and he called forth his gun. It formed within his right hand, inside the body of the monster. He blew a chunk of flesh from the Bloody Bean, but his adversary was so fixated on its consumption it seemed not to care.
More of Mickie was pulled into the agonizing inferno of the creature’s mouth, even as he slowly disassembled it from within. At some point, he found that his right hand could no longer move enough to pull the trigger of his gun. So, in panicked desperation Mickie called it to his left and the weapon came to his unbranded hand. Could he always do that? Had he even tried before? It was getting difficult to think through the agony. All he could do was shoot, wait, then shoot again. How long had it been since the monster dragged him in? Half a minute? Ten years?
When the beast finally died, it did so with abruptly. One second the endless arms and legs were pulling him ever tighter, and the next they were pulling him to the ground with the dead monster. Mickie lay still for a moment, stunned, before yanking his arm from the corpse. It came free with a wet slop and the exhausted human stumbled away from his fallen opponent. He glanced at his arm to assess the damage and whimpered in horrified disgust. His jacket was gone just beyond the shoulder, the protective layer dissolved away. The white of bone shone between lean strips of red flesh. Tendons were pulled taught in the open air, all the meat dissolved from around them.
There was almost no arm left, and yet, on the back of his hand, Mickie made out a ridged bumpy mark discolouring the remaining meat. He wanted to scream, to cry, to beg the roaring crowd for help. Instead, he tried to empty it all out, to put up the barriers within himself and think with a clear mind. There was something wrong with his chest, breathing was getting difficult again and as Mickie felt at his ribs it did not take long to find out why. Bone pressed hard against his skin, angling directly inwards towards a lung.
As the announcer exclaimed about something and the crowd screamed in rage or adulation, Mickie pulled his rib from his punctured lung. He felt the bone slide from his organ, and the sudden influx of fluid that followed. All he could do was cough and spit, desperately hoping that the blood would stop flowing before he drowned in it.
‘The Bloody Bean has fallen! Our slothful sinner sure has himself a monster with in this one. Could it be the second coming of the Soul Lord?’
It was all Mickie could do to just hold everything at bay. Pain racked at his psyche, his body was a bloody ruin, all he could taste was blood and all he could hear was the roar beyond the pit. It weighed upon him like the world itself, and all Mickie could do was bear it. Simply wait until the masses lost interest in the spectacle of his ruined figure.
‘I think our little friend here is about to fall over, the old bean didn’t die without a fight. Let’s hope big Bel has something to pull him back together.’
A nearby patch of sand shook with a deep rumble before lifting into the air. An open cage rose into the arena, a familiar pair of chains bound to the floor within. Mickie did not expect to be relieved by the sight of his prison, yet he stumbled eagerly towards the opening. It was getting difficult to hold himself together, and the dim room would provide an escape from the innumerable eyes upon him. Moments after his feet met the cool floor, the cell rumbled to life and began to sink into the ground. Taking his exit as its cue to move on, the announcer’s voice followed Mickie in his descent.
‘Next is the final match. It’s gonna be big, its gonna be bloody, and its gonna be cold as stone and deadly as a snake.’
----------------------------------------
The trip back through the underbelly of the Colosseum was spent alternating between coughing out blood and gasping for air. More concerning than the lack of air however, was the lack of feeling from his melted arm. For a time, the limb had spiked with agony, the remnants of flesh screaming their loss to him. Now though, he felt absolutely nothing from useless mass of meat and bone. Mickie could only hope that his healing was up to the task of restoring the appendage.
Eventually the cell clunked back into its place deep within the spire’s peak. Mickie hardly noticed, focussed as he was on the recovery of his battered body. Just as he began to feel as if he could breath again, a delighted laugh rang through the dark.
‘Oh, dear me. What a fight.’
Emerald eyes glinted from beyond the bars of his cage, Belphegor beaming at him with a predator’s grin.
‘To have beaten the Bean in a death match. They’ll be talking about this one for years.’
The door to his cell clicked open and the ancient demon strolled in without a care in the world. Following close behind was a human woman, dressed in a suit like the fiend’s own.
‘I’m certain you will be of the utmost use to me, dear enigma.’
The woman following Belphegor was older than many of the other mortals he had met in Hell. Grey hair was pulled into a bun above a sharp face that Mickie felt he had seen before. She met his gaze, and for a moment, her eyes widened in surprise. Then Belphegor was squatting in front of Mickie, cutting the woman off from view. When his captor next spoke, its words were soft, almost gentle.
‘I wanted this first match to serve as a lesson for you. While you might presume to be of some value to me, do not think you are indispensable. I will find out what has occurred within the ninth, with or without your input.’
The old demon lord gave a happy grin.
‘So, that being said, do you have anything you might like to say to me, dearest enigma? Perhaps your name?’
Mickie remained quiet, glaring into the emerald eyes with as much loathing as he could muster. The mortal was keenly aware of his unchained arms, it would be the work of moments to call his gun and shoot the smug fiend. Yet Mickie was also aware of his own condition, still desperately trying to keep hold of consciousness through the pain. Belphegor gave him a condescending laugh and straightened back out.
‘I expected as much.’
As his tormentor turned, the older woman came back into view. She was staring at Mickie with an intensity that he found disconcerting. That aged face seemed so familiar, yet he could not put his finger on where he had seen her before.
‘Ah, how rude of me. Introductions are in order.’
Belphegor had taken note of the two mortal’s staring contest. The demon gave another chuckle and clapped his hands.
‘This, dear enigma, is my very own Cleopatra. A queen fallen from grace. I took her under my wing after she died, just as I have done with you.’
The woman bowed her head towards Belphegor in a show of respect. Mickie narrowed his eyes at the display. Just who was this person, and why did he feel like they knew one another?
‘My lady, this is the enigma of whom I am sure you have heard so much about. The only soul to leave the palace in weeks, and carrying the most sinister of marks to boot.’
When next he looked, the other mortal had her attention focussed solely on Belphegor.
‘Now that we are all caught up, it’s time we took a look at that arm. I’m honestly surprised there’s anything let after the Bean got hold of it.’
The silence of the two humans seemed to faze the old demon very little.
‘I find your regeneration to be the more impressive of your many traits. It reminds me of another ability I have seen before, enough so that I think a test is in order. Grab the urn would you.’
Directing the final few words of his statement towards the woman, Belphegor was swiftly obeyed. Soon a large clay jar of sorts was brought into the room and set down near Mickie. He looked at it with some trepidation, the thing was lined with the now familiar glowing runes.
‘Fear not, dear enigma. You have done me a service today, and I am simply repaying the favour.’
The old hell lord reached out a clawed hand and rested it atop the urn. There was a brief flare of red light before the runes went out and the lid of the container was removed. Immediately the scent of copper and brimstone filled the air, a heady mix of blood and fire. It made Mickie’s stomach churn with nausea and, for a reason he could not explain, made his mouth water. Whatever was in that container called to him, sang like an oasis in the desert, promising to quench a thirst he should not have. With an effort of will, the branded man tore his eyes from the urn and pushed the desire for its contents away. Belphegor however, appeared to have been waiting for his reaction, and seemed pleased with Mickie’s response.
‘Oh, ho, ho. It looks like I was right. Handle the bandaging would you, my dear.’
With the smell tickling the back off Mickie brain, it took him a moment to notice his fellow human pulling up her sleeves. She dipped her arms into the pot’s pungent contents without hesitation, drawing forth sodden strips of fabric.
‘I can see your hunger boy, and I understand it. That there is the blood of a beast old as time itself, the purest essence of both life and hell.’
The older slave approached Mickies damaged arm, hands dripping with as much blood as the cloth she held. Hunger hit him like a tsunami, cracking his calm centre and urging him to take, to consume. Mickie held it at bay, shaking like a leaf in a cyclone. With dread he watched as the first of the bandages were laid across his wasted arm. When they contacted his skin though, the growing pangs in his gut abruptly ceased. Sensation returned to the limb in a sudden and terrible itch, as if something were crawling in his skin. The woman finished applying the bandages and stepped away, her eyes still locked on Mickie’s shaking form.
‘Look at that, just as I thought.’
Beneath the bloody cloth, Mickie’s arm was regrowing at a visible rate. Fabric shifted and stretched as muscles reknit and skin reformed. The sensation was unlike anything he had experienced before, relief mixed with a mind twisting need to scratch at the healing flesh. It squeezed and slipped into his hollow insides, and without realising it, Mickie’s free hand drifted towards his arm. There was a blur of motion and the snapping of steel against steel before the mortal found himself chained once more.
‘We can’t have you disrupting the process. I never got to have a truly good look at it before.’
The bindings against the walls of the room had moved of their own accord, restraining Mickie to the floor once more.
‘Seeing as we are helping one another out, will you not give me your name?’
It spoke to the degree of Mickie’s irritation that he opened his mouth to snap a response at Belphegor. All that came out however was a torrent of spit and blood as he cleared his lungs. The return of easy breathing that followed helped focus him, and Mickie simply gave the old demon a glare in response. Belphegor seemed not to mind, chuckling at the ragged captive.
‘Do not worry, it will give me no power over you, as so many stories seem to indicate. Though it was said that the Soul Lord could do some strange things with a name, I am no suicidal upstart. I simply asked to satisfy my own curiosity.’
Mickie could feel his hand again as nerves reconnected and tendons strung taught. As the healing drew to a close, he noted that the blood on the bandages appeared to be drying. Already pieces were flaking away and falling to the metal floor.
‘You see, my dear enigma, we have no record of you within the bounds of Hell. This is strange, normally every mortal to arrive is documented before assignment. Further, you were down in the castle, not a place where they would stand for undocumented slaves.’
As the itching finally stopped within his limb, one of the previously soaked bandages cracked like dry chalk. It fell away to reveal a section of perfectly smooth skin, coloured a deep crimson by the blood remnants. The rest of the coverings soon followed, leaving Mickie with an intact arm once more.
‘Just as I thought. How very strange.’
Belphegor stokes its beard thoughtfully before abruptly straightening.
‘Well, now you are whole once more, I’d say another fight is on the table.’
A devilish grin split the old lord’s face.
‘Do remember what I told you though. I will find out what I want to know, sooner or later, so a wise man would make sure to still be of use when I do.’
With a wave to the older woman, Belphegor turned on it’s heels and headed for the open cell door. The old demon’s human servant did not follow immediately. She paused to give Mickie a look that was difficult to decipher, though he was certain that for the briefest of moments, there was fear in her eyes. Then the cage door clanged shut, leaving Mickie alone in the dark.
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The bloodied mortal’s silent confinement was not destined to remain as such for very long. A whirring from above drew his attention to the ceiling, where a small panel had opened. From the dark recess came a familiar appendage of plastic and steel, capped by a nozzle. Mickie recoiled at the sight of it, straining against his glowing chains. It couldn’t be, not here. He and the Conductor had killed it back in the palace, the old Kindle Kin had confirmed its death. Yet a tentacle so reminiscent of the Mechanist’s own slithered from the ceiling.
Mickie called forth his gun, desperately attempting to turn it towards the approaching mass of metal and rubber. The tentacle came to a stop a few feet from his face, swaying gently back and forth, as if searching for him. It could not see him. Hardly daring to even breath, Mickie watched the nozzle at the tip of the limb like a hawk. Was it another flamethrower? He recalled the Mechanist had used those in the past. A powerful spray of water abruptly burst forth from openiing, missing the wary mortal completely.
What followed were a confusing few minutes of the limb blindly spraying water about, occasionally catching Mickie with a burst of frigid water. While the cold of the liquid impacted him little, the force of it was a different matter. Many of his bones, his ribs in particular, were still healing, and the water punched his ragged body continuously. By the end of the uncoordinated shower, the sodden man had concluded that this most certainly was not the Mechanist. The limb dangling from the ceiling certainly looked like one from his old foe. However, the bag of bolts would have done far more than just give him a rough rinse off.
When the arm retracted into its hole above, Mickie found himself feeling strangely refreshed. Clean of the battle’s detritus, now all he needed was for his clothes to dry. Looking at the ragged remnants of his jacket sleeve, he wondered if there was a potential solution to both issues with his wardrobe. Mickie unsummoned his clothing with a thought, becoming naked on the floor of his cell. Next, he pictured his armour, dry and clean, expecting the garments to come easy this time now he knew what to call forth. Yet his call was met with resistance, as if something was holding back his clothes. Frowning, Mickie willed it to come, pulling the ethereal threads harder and harder. The invisible tug of war came to a sudden end with a rustle of cloth and a foreign kind of fatigue. Mickie was dressed in his jeans and jacket, with the sleeve once more covering his entire arm. It had taken something from him to do that, the expenditure of an energy he did not truly understand.
With little else to do but wait in silence, Mickie pondered the weary weight that now draped over him. It was internal, he could feel that, yet it was not truly part of his body. The closest thing to it that he could recall was the powers displayed by both Mammon and Belphegor. They had touched upon something within him that Mickie did not understand. Now apparently, so had he. It must have been the damage to his armour. Repairs, it seemed, did not come for free.
As time wore on the strange feeling receded, until Mickie was completely whole once more. He followed the process, feeling out the bounds of this ethereal cup. If he could figure out how to draw on this force, could he do what the ancient demons could? The thought excited and scared him in equal measure.
‘Hoh boy kid. This is quite the pickle.’
Mickie cracked his eyes open to find a tiny red demon pondering his chained form. Miz-Mag warily poked one of the runes coating his bonds, unsure if the symbol was dangerous.
‘You could say that.’
He hesitated briefly before replying, whatever monitoring the cell possessed would catch what he said. It would only be half a conversation though, might even make him look a bit crazy. If he avoided saying anything too compromising Mickie could afford to speak.
‘At least they’re not cutting you open.’
Miz-Mag glanced about the room, no doubt searching for signs of hidden surveillance.
‘Shame we stumbled into Belphegor like that. What’s he holding you for?’
Using short sentences, Mickie mumbled out an explanation of the colosseum in which they found themselves. As he spoke, the diminutive demon examined his chains in greater detail, attempting to find a weak point. Mickie finished his explanation just as Miz-Mag was poking at the welded floor joint.
‘Welp, we’ll just have to bust out here then. Can’t be worse than the Mechanist.’
The chained mortal had to agree. Escaping the raised cauldron would be a challenge, but one they could tackle with a hereto unprovided resource, time. Belphegor wanted to know what Mickie knew and make use of his talents for violence. That meant the old lord would be in no rush to send him to the abyss. It also meant that they could plan a proper escape, using the hidden resource that was his demonic partner. It took some effort, but Mickie managed to relate his thoughts through leading statements and mumbled sentences. The plan was simple, Miz-Mag would head out and scope their prison, mapping a pathway to escape. In the meantime, Mickie would play Belphegor’s game, stalling until they could make a break at freedom.
‘Alright kid. I’m gonna make a move. Try not to die while I’m out saving our asses.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
Miz-Mag slipped through the bars of his cage and disappeared into the dim halls, waving to him before ducking out of view.
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Hours passed in silence. The man and demon decided in advance that Miz-Mag would explore until he was forced to rest by their bond. It was idea Mickie agreed with, though the passage of time within his steel cage began to become grating. It wore on the branded mortal’s nerves, grinding irritably against his restless nature. Mickie attempted to focus inward, to touch on the otherworldly force he held within. He could feel it, hanging amorphous and untouchable, pulling him in with yet remaining forever out of reach.
When the roar of an engine and the turning of gears eventually came, it was almost a relief to Mickie. The cage rumbled to life and slid away from its spot in the hall, heading for his next bout in the arena. Time had long since stopped flowing as it should within the colosseum’s dark underbelly. It felt like days had passed since his last fight, though it could very well have been just a few hours. Miz-Mag was yet to reappear from its first sojourn into the depth of their prison. Not that his companion’s vanishing habit was a good indication of time, the little demon seemed to pop in and out for no reason at all.
As the cage rumbled towards the sandy battlefield, Mickie attempted to feel out their path. Up for thirteen seconds, ahead for twenty-three, left for fourteen, followed by a pause as the cell rotated. The next rise brought light into his cramped cage after only a brief grind upwards. Clear sand came into focus as his eyes adjusted to the bright battlefield, preceded by the roar of the crowd. Mickie’s chains clattered to the floor as they automatically unfastened, releasing him to his next bout.
Rather than wait for prison to tilt and dump him out, the mortal walked willingly onto the arena. His arrival was met with a chorus of boos and cheers. The crowd was energetic, though less so than they had been during his last fight.
‘Welcome, one and all, to this evening entertainment. To kick us off we have a newcomer returning to the sands. Belphegor’s pet is back and starved for more. Who are we to deny him?’
A roar of approval met the familiar voice of the announcer. Mickie did his best to ignore the sea of demons, instead looking for his opponent. His eyes fell upon a shifting pile of sand as it bulged. Another cell was rising into the arena.
‘This mortal has already proven himself capable against a sample of the worst our dastardly pits has to offer. So, for our first bout, we shall see just how much of a demon this man truly is.’
The crowd appeared to have gathered something from the projected voice, because they went berserk. Shouts and screams echoed of the steel walls, projecting upwards to bounce off the shrouded ceiling above. It was enough to make Mickie nervous. Whatever got these fiends riled up could not be good news for him. Across the arena the cage began to tilt to spill forth his opponent.
‘Shall we see how our new hotshot fares in a death match against his own kind?’
Mickie’s world tunnelled as they came into the light, grasping at the smooth steel of their cell. Humans. Dressed in rags, gaunt and gangly they tumbled onto the sands, clutching at shoddy weapons of sharpened steel. The screaming of the crowd became warped to his ear, near hysterical as he watched his fellow mortals scramble up on shaky legs.
Seven of them. Seven humans that were closer to corpses than living beings. He could not understand how there even were in such a state. It should be impossible to starve in a realm where you required no food. The group glanced about in twitching terror at the rows of wailing monsters.
‘Let the battle, begin!’
A horn reverberated over the crowd, signalling the start of the match. Yet neither Mickie or his emaciated brethren moved straight to violence. The confused mortals had noticed him and appeared to be trying to call out. Their words were lost to the crowd, though he could be near certain of what they were attempting to say. Questions about where they were, of what was happening. Of why the voice seemed to think they were going to fight.
Rather than grow frustrated by the delay, the audience lapped it up with relish. They cried jeers and taunts, delighting in his hesitation. Mickie knew exactly what this was, and why the crowd was so excited by a seemingly straightforward bout. He was to be an executioner. To be the monster that butchered the weak for the entertainment of Hell’s denizens. The demons were in a frenzy because they believed they were going to see him break. Maybe even see him get cut down, unable to draw a weapon against his own kind.
It was Belphegor. The ancient fiend had first tried force and was now attempting guilt. Seeing if the slaughter of fellow humans loosened Mickie’s tight lips. A bone handle fell into his grasp as he breathed slow. In, and out. In, and out. Expression fell from the branded man’s face as he put on a dreadfully familiar hollow mask. Belphegor had not been lying when it mentioned having no idea who he was. Everything went quiet within him, emptied until all that remained was the seven mortals, now stumbling towards him on the sand. These demons wanted to see him break, to watch the process as an evening’s entertainment. But Mickie had broken long ago, and he would show them now, what had been pieced together from the jagged remains.