The grand hall was heavy with the silence of its marble occupants. Lined along the walls, they stood in myriad poses, pride, fear, and helplessness being most prominent. The statues wore a variety of clothing and armour, dusty from the idle flow of time yet still scarred from battle. One end of the hall housed a monstrous door, banded in dark iron and barricaded by a heavy bar. Beside that oversized threshold a new addition to the collection of white stone stood sentinel. It differed from its ilk in that the clothes upon this warrior’s back were not made of real leather or cloth, but rather made from the same stone as its body. Held in a hand ridged with the marks of a strange brand was a beautifully carved gun. Marble shaped into a rotating barrel with three snarling heads at its end, grills on the body revealing the lumps of unknowable machinery within the weapon.
For a time, this warrior had drawn the crowds of the dark city, all wanting to get up close and personal with the mortal who very nearly killed their champion. Eventually interest waned and the hall return to its usual quiet, leaving the Gunman to the silence amongst its stone kin. An abrupt flash of red saw a tiny little being come into existence beside the warrior’s bare foot. The demon glanced about in drowsy resignation before taking a seat on its companion’s big toe.
‘Welp, it was good while it lasted kid.’
Miz-Mag kicked its little legs into the air. For a time, the fiend had hoped Mickie might awake of his own abilities. After all, the kid’s wounds had still healed even though his body was made of stone. A couple of weeks after the last scratch had disappeared however, Miz-Mag was finally forced to admit that its companion was most likely not coming back without help. That was, if there was even a way to turn the mortal back to flesh and blood. The tiny fiend had finally finished mapping out the upper levels of the spire during its last waking hours, and was beginning to feel as it had in the depths of the palace. Trapped once again, though now by its own deal rather than the Palace Lord. No matter how far Miz-Mag travelled, it would eventually be drawn back to Mickie’s side.
The sharp click of boots on stone broke the silence and the demon’s dour thoughts. The tiny demon glanced up to find a human approaching, a familiar older woman with sharp features and grey hair. She came to a stop before the it’s stony companion, standing a hesitant few feet from the Gunman’s frozen form. Curious, Miz-Mag clambered up to Mickie’s shoulder, trying to puzzle out what had brought this mortal into the grand hall. While the fiend had not been around its partner constantly, it recalled a number of visiting faces, and this woman was not among them.
There was emotion on her weathered face, a softening of the eyes and tensity to the jaw that were difficult to categorise. Miz-Mag found mortals a confusing lot at the best of times, and all it was used to from the slaves in the palace was a downcast refrain of weary fear. When the woman abruptly stepped forward the little demon nearly leapt from its perch in surprise. She came within a couple feet of Mickie and reached out a hand, fingers touching his cheek where the gorgon had shredded flesh with its claws. The marble was smooth now, healed by the bond between demon and man. The older woman turned her attention to the ridged brand, tracing the outline of the animals and peering close at the symbols within.
‘Strange to see you so captivated by another mortal.’
Miz-Mag and the human observer both jumped at the cool voice. It had the demon glancing about the shadows until he uncovered a figure, leaning against the back of another statue. The abilities of Illiath were strange to the tiny fiend’s powerful eyesight. More than just concealing itself in shadow, the sneaky hell spawn was draped in it. Nestled between the layers of darkness like paper in an envelope.
‘I could say the same to you, Illiath.’
It was the first time Miz-Mag had heard the woman speak, though her voice was just as he would have guessed. Hard as steel, cool as ice, the kind of tone one acquires from a lifetime walking the razors edge of power. The layers of shadow fell away from Lillith’s descendant, the demon stepping out from behind the statue.
‘Watch your tone, Anima. You would do well not to speak to me as an equal.’
The woman, apparently named Anima, did not look at all threatened.
‘You cannot afford to harm me. We both know it.’
She glanced back at Mickie.
‘It is a shame this one could not prove more useful to the lord. In fact, I find myself wondering what inspired his futile attempt at escape.’
The words came out with a musing ring, but Anima’s eyes were locked upon Illiath’s.
‘I would not know; you mortals are such unpredictable creatures.’
Miz-Mag felt that was a bit rich, coming from a fellow spawn of this chaotic realm.
‘That we are I suppose. We were just lucky you were around to cut the Gunman’s run of luck short.’
‘Indeed.’
Run of luck? Oblivious to the hostility between the pair, Miz-Mag kicked its companion’s stony neck in annoyance, hurting its clawed foot. It let out a stream of curses the others could not hear.
‘Stinkin’ oversized bug-warts. Run of luck! More like weeks of hard work and meticulous planning.’
The tiny fiend glared at Illiath, recalling how the demon’s setup had been what caused them to act in haste. They might have succeeded too, if the red-eyed shadow had not made an appearance near the exit. Miz-Mag maintained a rule of social distant from those it considered dangerous, but this sneaky demon was testing its resolve. Maybe just an eye? Or perhaps a finger. Yes, that would show them.
‘Run of luck my throbbing…’
‘So, shall we get underway?’
Illiath abruptly cut off Miz-Mag’s muttering’s, breaking off the silent staring contest with Anima. The human gave a slow nod, still glaring daggers.
‘Yes. I have a flyer waiting, please follow me.’
It looked as though the duo were about to leave. Miz-Mag figured that it might be worth its while to peek at what they were up to. It leapt the small gap to Anima as the woman turned to go, grabbing hold of the back of her collar. Clambering to take a seat upon her rigid shoulder, the unseen fiend settled in for the ride.
They wound their way through the now familiar corridors of the upper spire, eventually reaching an door that Miz-Mag had yet to find a way through. Anima swiped a pass against the reader and pushed into a small hangar. Unlike the industrial style dock that delivered the demon and its human to the arena, this space was more comfortable in design. Plain, clean, and housing a single flying device with four seats set amongst a nest of rotor blades and pipework. The woman and her tail did not speak as they clambered into the vehicle, Anima taking the controls while Illiath buckled into the back.
Wary of the wind as they slowly rose into the air, Miz-Mag clambered down on a spare seat and cautiously peaked over the flyer’s side. They coasted out of the small hangar and into the dark skies of the black city. Miz-Mag’s exploration had provided it with ample opportunity to take in the tiered skyline, though it welcome the new perspective that flying provided. They followed one of the cardinal roads, shooting past trundling transports before veering off towards a nest of industry on the fourth ridge.
Metal warehouses hunched low over furnaces and factories, providing sporadic glimpses of fire and metal through smoke clogged openings. This place was a different scene than the bloody glamour of the arena, though no less violent to those who toiled. Miz-Mag glimpsed humans in ragged garments, working monstrous machines and hauling heavy loads. Fiery demons with stone skin oversaw the work, keeping the slaves in line with the threat of their presence.
Their transport set down atop a blocky concrete building, the only one of its kind amidst the expansive industrial zone. As the roar of the rushing air faded the sounds of this sector took their place. The grinding of metal, shouting of foreman and roar of machinery. It reminded Miz-Mag of the workshops it and Mickie had ran through in the Mechanist’s liar.
Anima and Illiath disembarked the flyer, their undetectable companion retaking its previous perch. The flat rooftop had a protruding stairwell that provided access to the building’s interior, which the silent band moved through. They wound through a tastefully decorated hall of soft wooden panelling and painted scenes of the city. The décor reminded Miz-Mag of the palace’s upper levels, not as gaudy but still unnerving. Anima led them to a set of hazy glass doors and knocked with two precise knuckle wraps.
The doors swung open on motorised hinges, revealing Belphegor sitting comfortably behind of monstrous desk of carved white stone. Behind the ancient demon was floor to ceiling windows, providing a vista of the industrial district and city beyond. As their group entered a shadow drew Miz-Mag’s eyes to the roof, where the skeleton of some massive monster hung. Long tailed with four clawed feet, the beast was positioned with outstretch wings, forever floating above the old demon lord’s head. An oversized human head capped the creature, jaw hanging opening in an endless scream.
‘Welcome, dear Illiath, it is good to see you.’
Belphegor waved its guest to a plush chair across the desk, and the red eyed demon took the seat. Anima moved to the side of the door and stood at attention as the two fiends conversed.
‘My lord.’
Illiath removed the wrappings from her face, dark hair spilling forth and horns glinting in the light above.
‘Ah, so cold, yet so beautiful. How much you remind me of Lillith.’
The younger demon straightened and puffed up its chest a little as the complemented landed. Miz-Mag noticed Anima giving a slight eye roll.
‘You wished to see me lord?’
There was an eagerness to the question that had been absent from Illiath up until now.
‘I did. I wanted to thank you for services rendered up until this point and discuss the future.’
The dark-haired demon gave a tiny shudder of anticipation.
‘It has been my pleasure lord, and I would be happy to undertake any further tasks you might have for me.’
The sycophantic pitch to the demon’s reply made Miz-Mag’s stomach turn. This deadly killer was acting little better than a scrawny imp, where was its fiendish pride?
‘Very good. That was a masterful play you made against the bugs and their Hive, angering them while delivering such an impressive prize to me.
‘It was not particularly difficult. The bugs are stupid, and the mortal could never have hoped to match me.’
‘Still, a debt is owed, and I believe I know just the thing.’
Excitement built in the air as Illiath leant forward on its seat. Belphegor gave its shark toothed grin.
‘Do you know why I asked you here?’
Illiath gave a small shake of its head.
‘Well, I believe I am reaching the point where my latest venture is becoming self sufficient. We are almost ready begin exporting. This means my active contribution to the ongoing work will be significantly reduced, and a governor placed on this very chair.’
Even Anima seemed interested, tilting ever so slightly towards the conversation.
‘I just have one final problem. One that I think you are best positioned to help me solve.’
‘Of course, lord.’
Belphegor reached under the desk and retrieved a cloth bundle, placing it gently atop the pale stone. The old demon peeled back layers of fabric to reveal a deadly looking dagger. It was a simple item, leather grip with a blade the colour of old rose petals. Runes throbbed along the flat, brutal symbols that Miz-Mag was getting tired of not understanding.
‘Is that?’
Illiath was wide eyed, looking between Belphegor and the small weapon. The old lord grinned and gave a lazy nod.
‘Yes, my dear, soul killer runes still active. Got it from a gaggle trying to slip up into the spire.’
‘The spire? Why?’
‘To take what was mine of course.’
It was not a true answer, but Illiath was far too excited and impressed to press. The red-eyed fiend reached for the weapon, looking to Belphegor for permission.
‘Go ahead. Do use the cloth though, I need it free of contaminants.’
Illiath pinched the handle through a rag and raised the weapon to eye level, examining it in detail.
‘I thought the power was only useable by the urchin. Unless…’
Belphegor’s wicked smile served as a response for Illiath, though not one that Miz-Mag could parse.
‘Now as for what I want from you.’
The dagger was returned to its spot on the desk as Illiath gave the old lord her full attention.
‘You are going to take this blade, and plant it somewhere for me, without being spotted.’
‘Plant it where?’
Belphegor leant onto the desk, resting its chin on its interlocked fingers.
‘In the body of the Hive queen.’
Silence gripped the room. Though Miz-Mag could not gather the significance of the request, the little fiend knew it must have been quite the ask. Illiath was sitting stock still, eyes darting between the knife and Belphegor.
‘That won’t be easy. Even for me.’
‘I know. That is why, if you succeed, the governorship of this district will be yours.’
Moments passed in tense silence, the room waiting for the red-eyed demon’s answer. Illiath sat with a deep frown, glaring at the dagger as if it would provide her with the answers. Miz-Mag found the whole spectacle mildly amusing. If it could lift the dagger, the little demon could probably do the job for them without so much fuss. Eventually Illiath broke its silence, a smile creasing the cruel beauty of its face.
‘Very well. The Hive queen will fall. Did you have a timeline.’
‘Soon as you can, would be best. Long as the old bug dies from the dagger, and you aren’t spotted.’
Belphegor wrapped the blade and slid the bundle of across the table.
‘Did you need a lift back to the spire?’
Illiath shook its horned head.
‘No, I’ll show myself out. There is planning to be done.’
‘As you wish. Good hunting, crescent born.’
Shadows draped across the young demon as it headed for the door, blending its body into the surrounds. Anima did not seem to have too much trouble tracking the veiled figure, opening and closing the door for Lillith’s heir. Miz-Mag watched the larger fiend leave without much interest, its thoughts instead on the urchins. This was the second time the strange city dwellers had come up. Not only that but a group of urchins had infiltrated the spire, or at least tried to.
‘Thoughts, my dear?’
Now that the backroom deal had been struck, the old demon had its clawed feet kicked up on the desk. Anima turned her thoughtful eyes from the door and towards her master.
‘Hard to say, they’ll give it a go though. Ambition is not lacking in that one.’
Belphegor gave the table an affectionate pat and waved a hand at the vacated chair. The woman walked over to take a seat, passing beneath the screaming human skull of the monster as she did. Its head was easily four times larger than the Miz-Mag’s entire body.
‘But of course, ambition is useful as long as it is well directed.’
Anima gave a soft sigh as she settled into the chair.
‘You must be wary of that one though, I am next to certain Illiath orchestrated the Gunman’s breakout. While reviewing the footage I noticed suspicious periods of excessive calm, no random movement or noise. It aligns to noted records of their abilities.’
Belphegor barked a small laugh.
‘The nerve. We will need to keep an eye out in future, it appears I underestimated how much of Lillith was in the twerp.’
‘And retaliation?’
‘Let Illiath know that we know, but don’t go public with it. Besides, that little enigma got far further than he should have, he definitely had a plan going in. Did the camera feeds turn up anything?’
Anima produced a tablet and began tapping along its surface.
‘You know how it is with the Gunman and electronic video, though I did notice something strange during the escape.’
Anima located and video and began to play it, she maxed out the volume and swung the device around to face the old lord. Miz-Mag craned its matchstick neck to catch the show. While Mickie had blasted his way into the control room, his companion had taken some liberties with the surveillance footage. Random chunks were deleted alongside important snippets of discussion disguised as Mickie’s lonesome ramblings. Yet try as it might the little demon could not locate any feeds for the control room itself.
At the time it had concluded that there was no surveillance in the room, though the video on the tablet now proved Miz-Mag wrong. Under the glowing light of numerous screens sat the guard, bored and with drooping eyelids. The splash of blood and sudden screams from the demon were abrupt and brought a crease to Belphegor’s brow. Miz-Mag’s golden eyes traced the empty space in the video, where it had landed and started on the controls to Mickie’s cell, before switching to clear the various video feeds. Soon after, the door to the room exploded inward, and another unseen actor stepped onto the stage. Belphegor’s eyes narrowed, flicking up to Anima, who gave the old lord a confirming nod.
‘Pop’em open.’
Mickie’s voice, grainy and distorted, came through the tablet’s speaker, and Miz-Mag winced as the controls to the prison began to shift and cycle seemingly of their own accord. Anima paused the video and gave her master an expectant look. Belphegor was stroking its goatee pensively, lost in thought for a handful of seconds.
‘The reports of the mortal talking to himself, do we have any recordings?’
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Anima straightened in her chair.
‘After reviewing this footage, I attempted to track them down. However, someone cleared large swaths of the Gunman’s feed, moments outside of Illiath’s little visits.’
‘Perhaps during that very escape?’
‘That would be my guess.’
The emerald eyed lord leant back into his chair, looking at the hanging skeleton as if the bones somehow held the answers it sought.
‘Ah, how I hunger for answers! It is a shame he proved to be more trouble than he was worth.’
‘Even though he was induced to escape?’
Belphegor gave his slave an inquiring look.
‘Well, it’s clear that without Illiath the Gunman would not have made that attempt at escape when he did. To be sure he would have tried eventually, but not for some time. It could be that a different tactic may work where the pits failed, honey instead of vinegar?’
‘You mean we undo the gorgon’s gaze?’
Miz-Mag gave a little gasp of excitement. So, its partner could be healed.
‘Yes, it is costly, I know, but still within your means.’
Belphegor gave the proposal some thought, but eventually gave a slow shake of its head.
‘No, as much as I would love to solve that puzzle, the risk of letting something marked by the Soul Lord escape is too great. I do not fault you my dear, it was before your time. But that abyss born upstart was a nightmare to all things planned and ordered. You saw how much chaos the Gunman caused, I cannot risk my plans to satiate mere curiosity.’
Even someone as inept at reading humans as Miz-Mag could see Anima’s desire to protest. Seeing that her master’s mind was made up however, the woman bit back her arguments and simply nodded an acknowledgement.
‘Good, now as for the Hive. Once our little Lillith in the making clears…’
Miz-Mag zoned out the conversation, fixated instead upon the fact that it was possible to cure Mickie. It was frustrating that the two schemers had discussed the possibility and not the means, but that was not something it could change. Better to take the information and roll with it, track down the solution elsewhere. The little spy fixed eager eyes upon Anima’s tablet, still resting atop the desk. Perhaps the woman had done her research.
No, the demon tore its eyes away. It was too risky. These two already suspected something after the video of the control room, and Miz-Mag did not want to give them any more hints. So, the demon waited with a measure of impotent impatience as the room’s occupants laid out further plans. If it had at all been interested in the city politics, Miz-Mag might have been entranced by the value of the information. However, all it wanted was get started on fixing Mickie and leaving this city behind for good. Eventually the conversation concluded, and Anima stood from her seat.
‘By the blood, finally.’
The draw of Miz-Mag’s bond with Mickie was random at best, and the little fiend wanted to get some exploration done before it was dragged all the way back to the spire. Unsure of where to begin, it had decided to go along with Anima, maybe try and get ahold of her tablet. They returned to the flyer and set off across the city, not rising towards the spire’s top but flying low towards the wonky towers beneath it.
Miz-Mag’s unknowing escort set them down upon a nondescript building, easing them into the corner of a broad balcony rather than a rooftop. Swiping an access pass the duo entered the office and followed a hall. To either side of the walkway mortals and demons alike were glued to large desks in open plan seating. They tapped away at keyboards as data streamed along six screens hanging from the ceiling. It was like a hybrid mix of the drudgery in Administration and the overstimulation of the displays in the prison control room.
Glass panels separated them from the busy workers, but even so the noise was tremendous. Shouts, curses, and calls of every emotion. Some at other staff and some at nothing at all. The overall effect was like a beehive, if all the bees were juiced to the antenna on caffeine and given the ability to speak.
Anima made her way through the building with a surety that leant itself to familiarity. Taking a few turns she reached a small room of hazy glass walls. The mortal did not bother knocking, hardly slowing to shove open the swinging doors and enter the private office. Inside a pale and spindly demon started in surprise, seeing Anima and muttering a few words into an earpiece before hanging up. The creature was all taught skin and long bone, fingers with too many joints flexed on a keyboard while milky bulbous eyes narrowed at the intrusive guest.
‘Anima, always a pleasure to have some of your station stop by.’
The voice was sibilant and sarcastic, conveying a displeasure at the human’s presence.
‘Manguell, still eating babies?’
There was clearly no love lost between the pair.
‘No, I don’t feel the need, not when your visits leave me so, satiated.’
Hatred and desire mingle in the creepy demon’s words, spat like venom at Anima.
‘Well, we shall see if you have earned your fill. Do you find what I requested?’
Manguell stretch an arm to one side, sliding open a desk draw and rifling through the contents, all while glaring at its guest. Miz-Mag tilted its head, curious as to what this exchange entailed. Yet its interest was curbed by a growing tension, like something was grasping at its insides, pulling it back to Mickie.
‘Not now. I want to see what that’s about!’
The bond was pulling at the fiend, calling it to the restful limbo, the place where Miz-Mag was both awake and asleep.
‘Delivery is already made. Pulled straight from fifth, no record in the system.’
Removing an envelope from the drawer, Manguell placed it before Anima. The woman swiped the thin sleeve and glanced at its contents. Miz-Mag tried to get a look but only saw a table with some numbers before the folder was tucked away.
‘Good. I’ll send someone soon for pickup, have staff waiting.’
Manguell looked like it had just swallowed a razorblade.
‘You want me to keep someone stationed there? Constantly?’
Anima gave the demon a cold smile. Miz-Mag winced as the grip on its insides tightened, the call to return becoming difficult to resist. It still needed to get a hold of the mortal’s tablet.
‘It will not be long, like I said, someone will be by soon.’
Manguell might not like what it is being served, yet the spindly fiend chewed and swallowed it all the same.
‘Very, well. My payment?’
The woman reached into her pocket to remove a small clay jar, ringed by runes. It seemed like nothing special to Miz-Mag, but Manguell’s eyes latched onto it like a man seeing water in the desert. Anima gave the little container a shake, sloshing its contents before tossing it across the desk. The jar disappeared in a blur of unnerving movement.
‘Remember what I said. Have someone waiting.’
Anima did not wait for a response before turning to leave. The office beyond was the same busy mess as before, and Miz-Mag used the clamour to shift inside its unwitting carrier’s jacket. Worming into a large pocket holding both the tablet and folder the fiend poked about until it woke the screen. Eager, Miz-Mag swiped to gain access, only to curse as a password input screen popped up. So much for that.
Eyes aching, stomach churning, the demon resisted the call and turned its attention to the folder. The call had shifted to a powerful drag now, and Miz-Mag could not hold on any longer. It tried to open the envelope, to peek inside, but was overcome by a sensation like falling into a waterfall, and Miz-Mag was whisked away by the torrent.
----------------------------------------
The next time Miz-Mag awoke it did not have any company. The grand hall was silent as the grave, and the fiend did not feel the need to hang around with Mickie’s stony form. Having received a good lead, the demon instead made its way to a small administrative block it had uncovered during its periods of exploration.
A small room, it fit the criteria of having both a device the demon could use, and being vacant for convenient stretches of time. Unlike many doors in the spire, the access to this room was not flush with the floor. Instead, it had been poorly hung from the frame, leaving a gap through which Miz-Mag could squeeze to gain access. The interior was a grimy space occupied by a few desks and an ugly demon. The oversized fleshy ball of a creature was snoring loudly on a chair far too small for its ponderous frame.
‘Perfect.’
Clambering on to the snoozing worker’s desk Miz-Mag paused the video it had been watching and opened up a browser. A pair of headphones nearby ceased their dull murmur, the change not sharp enough to wake their owner. First on the research docket was a cure for the stony state of its companion. Searching the city’s browser for reported cures turned up very little of value. The arena’s champion was apparently a bit of a celebrity, and while there were reports on the gorgon’s fights and victims, there was only speculation on a cure.
Switching tact, the fiend tap danced in a search for urchins, and was immediately inundated with information. News articles, security services, even an advertisement for ‘urchin repelling cream’, whatever that meant. Apparently, the urchins were an ongoing nuisance that spread through all corners of the city. Secretive and sly human slave escapees that stole, mugged, and straight up murdered the general populace. In other words, the kind of criminal syndicate who might know how to cure its companion.
It was a bit of a leap in logic, but Miz-Mag was growing irritated with the computer’s ongoing inability to give him a decent lead. Besides, it was not like Mickie was going to go anywhere in the meantime. Clearing its search history, the fiend opened the snoring demon’s video and clicked play before leaping from the desk. Now it just needed a convenient way out of the spire.
Sometime later Miz-Mag found itself standing at the opening of a large hangar, looking warily out at the drop to the city below. While not inducing the same sense of vertigo as glance into the abyss below the palace, it was still an impressive fall. Miz-Mag had always been able to jump from heights orders of magnitude greater than itself. Being small came with the benefit of being light, that combined with its demonic physique meant it could handle the proportionately large falls. This drop though, was not one it wanted to risk without a little help.
Beside the demon was a bundle of fabric, a balled-up prisoner’s shirt it had uncovered while investigating an old storage room. The hangar was silent and empty beyond some parked flying devices, which meant no one would notice the incongruous clothing. Gathering what little courage it could, Miz-Mag began to flatten the shirt out. It was bolstered by the thought that this was the kind of plan that Mickie would come up with, and somehow, they usually turned out okay. Even if things went horribly wrong it could always vanish before hitting the ground.
Parachute ready, the diminutive demon got into position. Clawed feet curled into the fabric at one end while slightly shaking hands gripped the other. Ready for take-off. Miz-Mag waddled up to the edge, a light breeze buffeting it and making the shirt flap. A long moment passed. Then another.
‘Maybe I should just find an elevator.’
Deciding that speed was perhaps not so vital, the little dare devil turned from the edge. Just as it did however, the gentle breeze picked up in a sudden gust of warm air. The wind filled the makeshift parachute and pulled Miz-Mag off balance. There was a terrifying moment in which the hangar tilted as the fabric yanked the demon back. Then its stomach hit is throat as air began to rush past and Miz-Mag fell from the spire.
Facing the wrong direction, the shirt tangled with its body. The fiend wrestled with the fabric as it tumbled, unable to even see the approaching ground. Rolling and shoving, the roaring air suddenly caught its parachute and yanked Miz-Mag around as it ballooned behind the demon. The force was sudden and hard enough that it yanked the shirt from one of his hands.
Suddenly able to see the approaching ground, it was with terror that the fiend grasped behind itself for the flapping fabric. Screaming, Miz-Mag’s sharp fingers got a hold just as it was contemplating vanishing, arresting its fall with a stomach-churning lurch. It was just I time too, as the thrill-seeking fiend drifted between two towers and towards a broad street. Alighting on the road, Miz-Mag half coughed, half laughed its way to the sidewalk, knees wobbly from the stress and the landing.
‘D-damned kid better appreciate this.’
Miz-Mag had expected to follow the path Mickie had made during their first flight through the city, but failed to locate any familiar side streets. Figuring if they had stumbled upon an entrance once, it was surely possible to do so again, the demon set off into the maze of alleys.
As it turned out, secret entrances into the underbelly of a demonic city were not all that easy to find. After a frustration few hours wandering through the twisted maze of towers the familiar pull of its bond with Mickie began to draw the demon back to the spire. Without making any progress towards finding an urchin den, Miz-Mag was pulled into the dark.
The next waking attempt was spent trying to catch an elevator down to the base of the spire. Without a pass Miz-Mag was forced to wait by the doors of the lift until someone used them. Except for some reason the spire’s blighted staff rarely did. The few times Miz-Mag managed to sneak aboard, their only destination was another level of the spire. Frustrated, the demon realised it probably had to do with the strange shift changes. The periods when demons and mortals alike left their stations to flood the halls and head home, or whatever they had that served the purpose. Unless Miz-Mag chanced upon one of these busy rushes, it would be difficult to catch someone leaving the building.
Having its elevator planned foiled, the unseen fiend returned to its tried and terrible parachute strategy. Prepared this time around, the fall was much more tolerable, Miz-Mag even managing to control its decent and land in another part of the city. Buoyed by its success, the demon set to searching with gusto, but not much success. It was hours later, when Miz-Mag finally struck it lucky for the first time.
A sudden shift change saw the demon clambering up the side of a building to avoid being crushed by the sea of workers. As the flow abated, something caught its golden eye. A small, hunched figure flittered expertly through the easing bustle, brushing against harried staff. Curious, Miz-Mag followed the little oddity, attempting to catch a glimpse of a face beneath the voluminous cloak it wore. The figure wound around a corner and came to a stop in the shadow of some pipework. Standing on the ledge above, Miz-Mag laughed in delight before jumping feet first towards its quarry.
Usually, the denizens of hell did not feel the little demon when it contacted them. It took concerted effort on Miz-Mag’s part to have something notice its presence. Whatever this creature was however, it appeared to be the exception to the rule. The fiend had barely grabbed hold of the cloak before its quarry shot off like a rocket. It must have mistaken the contact as the grasping hands of some silent authority, because Miz-Mag caught the glimpse of eyes as it checked for pursuers.
Eventually they came to a stop, long after the alleys had returned to their usual silence. Miz-Mag took the chance to haul itself onto the suspicious sneak’s shoulder, watching in curiosity as it double back. They took a number of turns in quick succession before coming to a stop in the middle of a nondescript alley. Miz-Mag’s ride moved to a bulky machine and pulled a panel from it with deft fingers. A small crawl space was revealed as the covering came free, leading to a drop into darkness.
‘Welp, glad I found you, no way I would have spotted this on my lonesome.’
Miz-Mag gave his little friend a happy pat on the shoulder, only for the urchin to stiffen at the touch.
‘Sensitive little bugger, aren’t you?’
After a surreptitious glance about the cloaked sneak slid into the machine shell and pulled the panel closed behind them. Only after sliding into the crawl space and making a confusing number of turns in the dark did they pause for a break. There was a scuffle and light bloomed out from a circular orb, illuminating a grimy room that looked as if it had been carved from rock. The urchin shuffled to their narrow entrance and shoved a large chunk of stone into the hole. It was only then that Miz-Mag’s sneaky friend let out a gentle sigh and relaxed.
Small hands reached up to the hood and pulled it back to reveal a tangle of red hair and a face that was far too rounded for a normal human. Miz-Mag tilted its head in confusion, it was a mortal, that was for sure, but unlike any the fiend had encountered before. Smaller and softer, but with eyes that held a heaviness only decades in the nine circles could impart. The demon started as it realised this was a human child, at least in body if not spirit. It had heard of them in its time at the palace, younger and squishier than the crusty old ones. Miz-Mag had figured up until this point that was what Mickie was, the kid had looked younger than the others in the palace.
‘Milo? That you?’
The voice came from the other side of the room, echoing out of a broader passage than the one through which they entered.
‘Yeah Vic, it’s me.’
Another small human poked its head out of the tunnel, this one with darker skin and longer hair, but the same soft features.
‘I thought you weren’t due back for another couple hours?’
‘I wasn’t. Ran into something weird up top.’
Miz-Mag’s urchin, Milo, moved over to its buddy with the light in hand, and they set off down the passage.
‘Weird in what way?’
‘Kind of a feeling, I guess? Like I was being watched. I ducked out of sight but then it felt as if something tried to grab me, so I bolted.’
Vic gave its friend a worried look.
‘So…’
‘So?’
The small human huffed.
‘So, what was it? You’ve got good instinct for these thing Milo, if you think there was something then there probably was.’
Milo shrugged, bucking Miz-Mag slightly on its shoulder perch.
‘Didn’t see a thing. Was weird, and spooked me enough that I decided to head home. It’s odd though.’
The red-haired mortal paused dramatically, receiving an irritated look from its companion.
‘Even now I still feel like I’m being watched.’
Vic’s eyes went wide, until the urchin saw the grin on its friend’s face, then the kid’s nose scrunched in annoyance. Miz-Mag cackled alongside Milo.
‘Don’t worry Vic, it’s probably nothing.’
‘Hoh boy, if only you kids knew.’
They followed a path through a web of tunnels, the material of their surrounds changing from carved rock, to steel, to hollowed concrete. The two children seemed to know exactly where they were headed, and Miz-Mag was only too happy to tag along. Eventually another young voice rang out from the dark.
‘Halt. State your name and purpose.’
Vic stepped forward.
‘Scout Master Victoria and Ghost Milo. Return code alpha-one-four-nine-epsilon, returning for an early report.’
There was a period of silence at the end of the passage before a light sputtered to life, revealing yet another human child.
‘Vic! Milo! Come on up. Sestus is in, you can make your report directly to it.’
‘Sestus? Really?’
The two urchin’s seemed excited and a little anxious by the news as they hurried down the passage.
‘Yep. Boss was doing the rounds and checking in at each of the lower city hubs, it’ll be happy to see you.’
They bustled into a complex of large rooms. All about there were human children hurrying to complete countless tasks, like ants in a nest. As they called greetings to the demon’s group, it mused over the appearance of these miniature mortals. Miz-Mag knew, of course, that humans had gender differences in the same way some demons did. It had even learnt to distinguish between the two during its century locked away in the palace. However, these children were closer to the androgyny that Miz-Mag, and so much of hell, possessed. It made the fiend feel strangely at home, amongst these strange and small mortals.
Eventually their group came to a closed door, their guide stepping forward to knock and recite a passphrase. The barrier slid open to reveal a room far quieter than the rest of the base, softly lit by ceiling lights. A large table was positioned at the centre of the space, drowned in stacks of paper held down by the occasion electronic tablet. A figure no larger than the children stood with its back to them, sleek golden skin tight about a frame of corded muscle. The demon had three forked tails that twisted and lashed as it read from an untidy collection of pages. Hands that were uncharacteristically gentle set the stack back amongst its brethren as the door slid shut behind them.
‘Vic, Milo, welcome back. It’s a bit early for you, so I’m guessing something happened?’
The golden fiend turned towards them, and Miz-Mag began to feel that something was terribly wrong. It was as if the world itself had turned its eye upon the little demon, piercing the veil that shrouded it. It could have fled, could have vanished back to Mickie’s side, but at that moment Miz-Mag was a mouse before a lion, frozen and quivering.
‘Oh, and you’ve brought a guest. Who might you be, little one?’
Rows of razor teeth in a disturbingly broad mouth, a slitted serpent’s nose, and crystalline eyes, backlit by an amorphous dark flame. As the Palace Lord once had during its first escape attempt, this demon now saw the unseeable red fiend. Miz-Mag gulped nervously; perhaps coming here had been a bad idea.
----------------------------------------
Mickie was locked in the veil between dreams and consciousness, tumbling along in a confusing mess of sensation without context. One moment he would be at the estate in his youth, fingers trailing grapevines as he discussed nonsense with his mother. Then the vegetation would disappear, leaving a swathe of wavy grass and a vaguely familiar woman. She looked at him with fervent adoration, belly swollen with the curve of a child.
Then the world would dissipate, and he would tumble into himself, falling deep until he came before a gently glowing mass of power. The space beyond was bound, locked in a cage of slithering stone. It was, Mickie had come to realise, his soul. The prison into which he had been cast when he made the mistake of looking into the gorgon’s eyes. As he did every time he found himself within this place, Mickie reached out to the power, attempting to call on it, to shift the shackles that bound him. The orb rippled and shifted with his desires, but always refused to take a useful form.
In the end, the dreams would call him back and he wall fall through fog. The scenes were familiar, yet always became twisted. He would be standing before Mammon, the giant chained and silent, then the old demon would be screaming in fury as someone laughed in glee. The monstrous form of the Palace Lord would hang from the Mechanist’s tentacles, before shifting to a strange room, lifeless and whole, except for the crystal orb in Mickie’s hand.
If time had been difficult to perceive in the depths of the arena, it was all but impossible within the prison of his soul. Logical thought was difficult, action instead driven by instinct and emotion; the desire to escape, the anger at the writhing stone that bound him, the fear of being caged here for eternity. Eventually a new dream disrupted the endless cycle, one distinct for the clarity of its conveyance.
Mickie walked upon the icy expanse of the white wastes, along the surface of a frozen lake. All about him were the still forms of bodies, locked in the ice. Occasionally a head would peek above the surface, mouths moaning in dreary agony. Together the voices created a haunted choir, a ceaseless refrain of suffering and torment. Beside him stood a tall figure, pale skinned with eyes like the abyss. Dark hair swam softly behind his eerie companion as they approaching a hulking form locked at the lake’s centre.
Pillars of steel supported monstrous chains, frozen under the surface. Hooked spikes dug into the massive prisoner’s flesh, tethering it to its icy cage. Human in appearance, a handsome man with dark hair and roman features. Black feathered wings were locked in the ice, partway outstretched behind the demon’s body, as if it were even now trying to take flight.
‘Big L, why it is good to see you.’
Mickie said, voice strange and tickled with amusement.
‘Magareem, you’re as snarky as ever, and I see you brought a friend.’
The bound giant’s voice was like a smooth whisky, strong and smoky.
‘Oh, more than a friend, might I introduce Mizaraphel, the most graceful angel to have ever touched our sunken circles.’
‘You are fallen?’
The prisoner’s eyes narrowed as it took in the ethereal figure standing beside Mickie.
‘Fallen.’
His companion spoke the word with distaste, voice soft yet sharp as a razor.
‘I am not fallen.’
A deep chuckle shook the ice.
‘Of course you aren’t.’
‘I was cast down, I was betrayed.’
Anger coloured Mizaraphel’s retort.
‘Come on Lucy, stop trying to drag my holy friend down into your muck. Aren’t you curious as to why we’ve come for a visit?’
The ancient ruler of hell turned its eyes to Mickie.
‘What, you aren’t here just to mock me?’
A voice that was and wasn’t his own gave a sinister chuckle.
‘Oh no, my lord. We’re here to find out what lies beneath the ice.’
Mickie was abruptly pulled from the vivid dreamscape, dragged through a kaleidoscopic mess of images and sounds. The frozen giant roared in rage as the lake cracked and fractured, Mickie was pulled away by Mizaraphel, floating high as the ice fell. Then the abyss. Absolute void split with lines so bright they made his soul tremble. Unfathomable and unknowable.
He fell into his soul space, relieved to be free of the dream and the impossible darkness below the palace. It took time for the disorientation to clear and for Mickie to realise something was different. Beyond the vague disconnect of his current existence there was something new, yet familiar. Pain, felt in a place where he had no nerves to tweak, no receptors to fire.
Not only that, but the stone serpents binding the cocoon of his soul were no longer alone. Something had joined them, something red and sinister. It did not bind him, as the gorgon had, but felt at the boundary of his soul, taping at the glass like a curious child. A spine jutted out of the red to slam against his outer shell, sending a spike of agony through him.
Then the real torment got underway. An orchestra of blades against the chalkboard of his core, pain out of body, beyond physical. The red mass scratched and tore at the outside of his soul, unable to get in, yet desperately trying to. Mickie was so lost in the haze of pain that he failed to notice when the stone binding him was caught up in the scourge. When physical sensation began to return, he did not realise until a voice began screaming in his ear.
‘Kid! Kid! You gotta take it off! Kid!’
Cool air against his skin, scratching against his scalp, the taste of chalk on his tongue. Mickie fell to his knees, taking a gasping breath as his eyes fluttered open. He was in a familiar hall, surrounded by the countless other victims of the gorgon’s gaze. Yet he was also in his soul, surrounded by pulsating red fury as agony ravaged him in a place that should feel no pain.
‘Take it off! Come on, you stinkin’ idiot.’
Something was stinging his eyes, he reached a hand up and it came back red. His head itched as he glanced about in a fugue, there was something scratching his hair, cutting the skin beneath. Mickie reached up and felt thorns spike his fingers. Grasping the object, he pulled it from his scalp and tossed it to the floor. Abruptly, the red mass striking his soul puffed away, leaving him shaken, but free of pain. Slowly, Mickie turned to meet the wide eyes of a tiny demon.
‘Holy shit.’
Miz-Mag said, and let loose an uproarious cackle.