She was stalling. Why would she be stalling about the question about magic? Demons shouldn't be able to lie about the deal they are making, can they? Matthew notices her nervousness about fully answering the question, refusing to meet his eyes for the moment, focused on the bookshelf behind him where the television would come out.
“Straightforward? You said unlimited repertoire, not much straightforward than that,” Attempting to gouge more information out of her, he tilts his head down a bit with a right tilt. People usually respond better when under the impression that they have to answer, something to do with authority Matthew supposes.
Ignorant to his attempts, she still gives in to answering. Unfortunately not the kind he wanted, especially with such a reluctant and flippant tone, “I also said all at your disposal, neither of us specified which kind of disposal. A bottomless pit, pretty much.”
Disposal? Word play? Making a deal for a magic fucking trashcan? Matthew's thoughts are restless, he wasted time looking through demonic ramblings all for naught. Constant letdowns, people taking advantage of timing, the lack of sleep surely has driven him mad enough to even so much as to have thought it was a good idea in the first place. And now, of all things, he’s stuck with a demon.
Infernal in every way, looks and attitude. A disregard for all else except her own wants. She’s probably only here for her own amusement, Matthew ruminates. The fact that she still sits there without a care in the world maddens him, agreeing to selling his soul to this infernal woman who only cares for her own pleasure makes his blood boil.
He sold his soul in a sleep deprived frenzy, he admits, but for it all to simply bring this product, “An unlimited trash can?” Matthews mind feels as though its swimming in bubbling lava, blood rushing past his ears.
His mind continues to feel like a tardigrade in a hydrothermal vent. The woman, likely from the deepest pits of hell, continues to sit with intemperate ignorance to her own faults. Is this what hatred feels like, Matthew ponders for a moment, for someone who tried to kill him. Magmas smoke clouding his vision, before everything is hit with a splash of cold. The skin tightening at the sudden decrease in temperature away from the rageful fissure.
Heat, rather than being focused around his head, temples and nape, settles on his neck. The front of it, tightening to an almost painful degree. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, sandpaper making its way down his esophagus.
His hands are shaking. Head bowed to see them. Cold sweat seemingly everywhere. Hunched over form in attempt to alleviate. His eyes bounce around, noticing how dirty the table is. When was the last time he cleaned it? It’s warmer than his skin. The glass has faint stains of water from the ill-dried noodles. The same with droplets of fucked up sauce. The brown rug luckily hides any stains. Horrifically matted on the other side of the table. But it's not her fault. Not her fault. How is any of this not her fault? But he called her. Made the deal. Summoned her. She choked him out. He lost his cool. He hasn’t had any sleep in the past five days. His sneakers are dirty.
The Crown Vintage Edsul’s brown coloring is ruined by day-old coffee stains. He doubts Sandie would have ever minded how beat up they have gotten. Would he? The carpet is blurrier than before, he notices. Everything in large fuzzy colors. The metal legs are indistinguishable from the glass. His eyes feel far too warm, an aching heat worse than his throat. The sleeves of his shirt feel wrong on his skin, the rolled up fabric irritating.
Matthew wipes his face, dragging his hands down and clearing his eyes. Smearing the saltwater on his cheeks. The ache in his throat, the scratchiness begins to feel overwhelming. A cough ripples through him, barely soothing the irritation. It dispels the cold feeling running through him, blood no longer racing past his ears. Another forced cough steadies his mind just slightly.
“Pretty much, technically. But, unlike most trash cans, you can pull things back out of it. And this bag of holding is connected to the great wonders of the world! Sweetens the deal, doesn’t it?” She raises her hands to her sides and shakes them in faux showmanship, her smirk digging into his skin from across the table.
He ignores her in an attempt to forget his racing mind, “So, I can still summon anything out of it?” His eyes try to focus in on hers, still a bit disoriented and blurry.
The feeling of unease from before slowly slides off his shoulders, like a large jacket made of heavy water. Not yet completely gone. The orange coloring, beneath a quick cut of black blobby hair above it, seems to go from side to side, wavering like a flame.
“Technically, but not really anything,” She answers with barely any inflection as she seems to lean back, a relaxed posture he assumes. His eyes seem to clear a lot more, everything coming in sharper.
As his eyesight returns, so does his composure, “And that means?” His throat, regardless of its scratchiness, doesn’t crack or waver. He counts himself lucky to not hiccup in front of her.
“I can’t exactly give you unrestricted access to an infinite repertoire, my boss would have my head if I did that,” The previously flickering flames meet his eyes at a standstill. They still feel like fire. Regardless of the proverbial heat, he wants to get back to the talk.
He wants answers and clarification. Maybe he can make something out of the damned magic trash can, “But still, I can summon just about anything?” He needs these answers, he knows the deal was a mistake but he needs something to soften the blow, some kind of reassurance that something is salvageable.
Her eyes seem to shine again with burning orange, looking like an animal's eyes. Predatory almost, tongue clicking at him in a form of mirth, “Unfortunate news, buddy boy. We both have to be in agreement as to what you want. I can take whatever I want out, you need my permission.”
The utilization clause. Of course. He thinks he shouldn’t be surprised as he cradles his head in his hands. His headache returns as his hair falls down around him. He needs a haircut, but if he asks for scissors she might just stab him again. Any agreement with her is likely out the window, and bowing to her whims seems the only way to appease her. Would he really have to do that?
Interrupting his spiraling thoughts, “Anything else you want to ask?”
She’s answering his questions though, he realizes. Regardless if some kind of providence has forsaken him, he’s made his bed and he has to lay in it. Resigning himself, setting it up like a classic interview, “How about how demons work? Are all of them as much of a liar as you?” He wants to see what she will tell him and how much, and how far he can get away with insults. The table should be enough distance and time for him to react if anything happens.
“Excuse you,” She laughs with wide animalistic orange eyes boring into him, “I didn’t lie for shit! I used semantics, asswipe. Whole different ball game.”
Looking to the side to swallow the lump in his throat, the scratchiness allays and he shakes away his worries. The next question in his lineup, “Fine, how about the eye thing. That one guy had the same eyes as you, but blue and with black sclera,” The jaywalker had black sclera that reflected all the lights in the area. Yellow and white headlights made starbursts in his eyes. The standstill traffic might have been safe enough, but barreling cars likely meant nothing to someone who probably can’t die.
“He’s a Hellborn, they get the cool black sclera that contrasts against the animal eyes. I was recruited, so I don’t get those perks.”
Hellborn. Inability to die. That means an afterlife, Matthew finally comes to the realization. His mind has been horrifically stalled from his insomnia, he can barely believe that it's the thing that let him get his work in before deadlines. Having an afterlife calls in so many questions of his morality, none of which he wants to face right now, “If demons exist, so do angels? Does that confirm the existence of God?”
A crack slams through the room. Lightning illuminates the room and shocks him out of his thoughts. Thunder rumbles throughout the room and the streets of the city. The lamps don’t flicker but the increase in light had shown how messy the apartment is. She seems completely relaxed however, rolling her eyes and muttering something about dramatics, realigning herself on the sofa and getting even more comfortable into the large plush white back pillows.
“Pretty much, yeah. Don’t let it get you, you’re going to hell anyway so it’s a little late to start praying,” She picks at her nails, likely making his living room even more dirty.
Lightning and all that surprising him? Christ, the lack of sleep is really messing with him, he thinks as he rubs his eyes. Keep to the questioning, he reminds himself.
“Then what do angels look like,” If this is what a demon looks like, are angels all that different? Sandie said they were supposed to be flaming balls of fire or the like, something about biblical accuracy. Matthew remembers the rants and how long winded they could become.
She raises an eyebrow, is she questioning why he’s asking? “Pure white sclera for eyes, no irises,” she waves her hand around and continues with newfound sarcasm, “Divine in essence and ethereal in presence!”
“All in all, there’s just a lack of difference in eyes for angels, wings are what you have to look out for to determine rank,” She finishes with. So heaven works on a ranking system, Matthew concludes.
Which means, “And God?”
“Yep, big man in the sky that’ll curse me with bad luck if I speak against him,” She says, back to picking at her nails.
With an audible sound of surprise, he thinks that bad luck from God is something he hadn’t heard directly said before. Cursing God out for bad things happening? Sure. But actual bad luck being attributed is certainly new.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
If there’s anything that’s bad, “So demons get black sclera, angels white?” If so, why doesn’t she have the same?
“Fallen angels get black sclera, angels white. Demons get animalistic eyes thrown in the mix,” She leans her head back and somehow sinks even deeper into the couch with her eyes closed.
She likely isn’t going to answer why directly, he’ll have to be roundabout with it. Not wanting to test his luck with her patience, regardless of her lanquidity, he turns the question of physical traits of the divine over in his head.
Angels signified by white, fallen angels by black. Likely a form of physical corruption as a signifier or distinction between what they used to be. Which means the most famous one of all, “You said fallen angels have black sclera, right?”
“Yep.” Quick to answer without any resistance.
“And so, that means Lucifer, right? He rules hell?” Isn’t that his whole shtick? King of hell?
She shows physical discomfort as she turns her head to the side, grimacing at his words. Did he get it wrong?
“I mean, technically? More so a Hades and Thanatos situation there. He’s the ‘ruler’ of hell, but more like a figurehead. It's the Kings that have most of the power.” So he’s the king of hell, not the deification of it then. Good to note, but he’s not the one with the most power? Does she mean political?
“Kings?” Aren’t monarchies usually just figureheads? The papers said that ‘Kings’ apparently had legions following under them. Are they more like warrior kings, or generals leading armies?
“You know, like fallen angels?” She waves her hand around, is there something that he missed here? Fallen angels fell from heaven, but Lucifer was the first to do it. Is there supposed to be some kind of title given because of it?
He shakes his head, he doesn’t have much of a background learning about religious lore. Her hand drops to the couch, disappointed, “The ones that followed Lucifer out of heaven, becoming Kings and what not.”
So fallen angels are Kings, and she said something about a boss, “Is Lucifer your boss?”
A surprised laugh leaves her, “Hah! If I served under him I never would have had to come and make this deal!”
So, he’s obviously wrong, “So you’re not-?”
“I’m employed by Paimon, not much else other than getting invited to parties,” She answers for him, cutting him off. A weird smile makes it on her face as she messes with her hair. He doubts it's a nervous tick, but he can’t be too sure.
And who is, “Paimon?” It was on one of the papers stapled to the directions he followed, still unable to believe he seriously did so. It wasn’t the only name, however. All the names were odd in spelling, all of them must be incredibly old. Age and experience usually equal high ranking, which no doubt this Paimon guy must be if they can keep control of her.
“Yep, he’s the guy who would kill me if I gave you too much power,” She says with a finger gun and a wink. Only to shirk the burden of what she said with a hedonistic tone, “Or just completely end our deal.”
“End our deal?” His eyes immediately try to make contact with hers, the thought of leaving the entire thing back in the dust of the diner sounding all too pleasing.
“Well, it would definitely end my deal,” She says, “but ours might just jump up the ladder a bit to someone else.”
Jump up the ladder? Too much power? She gave him a limitless trash bag, and it could end the deal just like that?
“If you give me too much power it could end our deal? No going to hell?” He could escape eternal damnation, the thought might just land him a good night's sleep, and he’d no longer be damned to dealing with this infernal woman’s hedonistic disposition.
Sardonically laughing, surprised at how quick he was, “Oh no, you are definitely going to hell! Selling your soul is a one way trip downstairs, babe. And I just said it would jump up the ladder, so if anything the contract would just be rewritten with more restrictions on what you can do.”
Again, she’s calling him babe. Should have known there was a catch here, he reminds himself of the fact that she is still a demon. Her entire job is to drag his soul to hell, but maybe if he could get someone a little more lenient, or with more power, “It could jump up the ladder? To who? Paimon?”
Still, she finds amusement in his questions, “As if. It would likely go to a lesser demon under him, given that you used his seal to forge a contract,” She’s picking at her nails again.
His seal. The ramblings were right, then. They hold, well they held, power that is directly tied to infernal machinations. Through all the muck and disarray is the writing, the ramblings wouldn’t exactly be wrong in their estimations of horrors let loose upon the world.
Frederick, fucking Frederick of all people, got his hands on all this and pawned it off to him as trash? Where the hell did he even get all of it? And a dead bird? The illegibility of it must have drove him away, as most things do. The entitled douche. Fucker even gave it to him on his way out after getting fired.
“My turn. Where’d you get the blood bag?” She leans forward and meets his eyes, dead on and pulling him out of his head.
Fuck. He almost forgot about that, “I was using it in my own work.” There’s no use lying about this to her, it's part of his ‘revenge plot’ anyways, as she would put it.
“Oh? The thing that got you fired? Do tell,” She leans back a bit, giving him the needed space to breathe.
“It’s…about how drugs found in sick blood may be tied to wealthy benefactors, and consequently them being the distributors,” He’s still not sure who the supplier is, but it has to be someone with enough power to be able to control the faux aristocrats of the city. One thing the city has in common with hell is the hierarchy of false kings and loyal legions.
“And yet you had pure O negative blood? You gave a real surprise down there, you know that? Been awhile since anyone caught Paimon off guard so quickly,” How long has she been a demon to be so relaxed when talking of her own boss? And he caught him off guard?
“I got him off guard?” With what? The right blood type? The pages said nothing about specific blood, only about specific sigils. And something about directions, but the muck was almost impossible to make anything out.
She tilts her head with a know-it-all smirk, “That’s not what we're talking about, we’re talking about your work.” She’s not letting him change the subject, keeping it to what he’s telling her rather than the other way round.
“If I could find a distributor, I could get a sample I could use to compare how it interacts with blood. Find out if its similar to the disease being discovered throughout the city,” The disease has been fairly new and has risen with the drug related deaths, there needs to be some kind of relation.
“Well there’s your thesis,” She hits the mark on the bullseye as to what he made of his own work. At this revelation, she relaxes back into the couch, bouncing.
She’s supposed to be his personal demon, right? So she should at least be of some kind of help to his deal and his needs. Which means, what is it that her stupid magic is supposed to help him with?
“And how exactly is this deal beneficial to me?”
Her eyes tighten, “Excuse you?”
Testing the limits of what he can get away with, he goes with a subtle taunt. Maybe not the brightest idea, but what else does he have? Besides, he wants to know how this is even supposed to work, “The magic trash compactor? How is this supposed to help with my supposed ‘revenge plot?’”
She reeks of disapproval and dismission, “I told you to get creative, yet you seem to completely lack any form of imagination. Hell, you want an example? Here,” She holds out her hand and a spark fires above the table.
Light, if you would call it that, akin to the edge of a bubble with its multicolored and iridescent flows, shifts and shapes itself in the air. Twisting and turning like smoke, slowly changing its matter and becoming a watery liquid, floating without gravity. Slowly before him it starts to form into a decently sized crystal ball before one side of it elongates, slowly taking on a copper or bronze like color. The other side starts to flatten, keeping its crystalline transparency as it becomes a disk-like shape.
A magnifying glass made of bronze drops and clatters onto the table, the glass top cracking. The table now has a large crack running down it, fitting in perfectly with his messy home. The magic summon is completely fine, as it’s solid bronze.
“Now you have something to look at how stupid you are, to magnify and show your flaws. Might do you some good to recognize and work on them,” She thinks she’s hilarious doesn’t she? “Your entire self-righteous attitude,” Seriously? “And need to be right is surprisingly annoying compared to the whole of hell, not to mention your misplaced manners. To make it even worse, you haven’t even asked me my name yet this entire time,”...Unfortunately he has to agree with her.
Matthew hasn't asked her name. She’s got his name from the diner, the whole deal shabacle, and yet he hadn’t gotten hers. She choked him out, and he didn’t even know her name. Matthew supposes he does have to work on his manners.
“My apologies, what is your name?” He’ll relinquish some of his pride here, he has to admit that he is in the wrong on this point.
“Try again,” She says, looking at her sharp black nails.
Oh you’ve got to be kidding me, Matthew thinks, “May I know your name?” Surely she’s not this petty.
“Nope.”
Fine! You know what, he thinks, she wants it and she gets it! The hedonist wants manners, manners she’ll get, “Hello, my name is Matthew Alballon. What is yours?”
She reaches across the table, a faux attempt at pleasantries as she says her name, “My name is Ninum, it’ll be a pleasure to work with you Matthew.” False niceties is the name of her game, isn’t it?
Bitch.
“So! We will be having a great day tomorrow, won’t we?” Why is she getting up? She’s stood up and walks over to the dining table and past it, picking up one of the old quilted blankets. The majority of it is green. Luckily it's one of the quilts he hates.
“What do you mean?” Great day tomorrow? I still have to deal with her?
“Well, I’ve never been to this city before, we might as well explore, right?”
Oh no, oh no no no, “We aren’t going anywhere tomorrow, I need sleep. And I need to do research as I’ve already ‘damned my soul’ to do so already.” I need information I can use-
“Ah ah. Yes, you need your sleep, we can argue in the morning. Kay?” Is she shushing me, Matthew questions as she throws the blanket on the couch and comes closer to him,
As she gets closer, invading his personal space, he puts his hands up, about to tell her to stop as she grabs his hand and pulls him up. She’s pushing him towards the black metal spiral staircase in front of the kitchen, near the bathroom door.
“We’ll have fun tomorrow, okay? Just rest easy, I’ll take the couch, and we’ll figure it out in the morning!” She’s still pushing Matthew to the stairs with an odd amount of joy, being able to push him up one step before turning back around and skipping to the couch, “Have a good night!”
Was he just dismissed? Matthew isn’t quite sure what to make of the situation. Rather than questioning it, the weight of the day has taken its toll on him, Matthew isn’t quite sure he could stay awake any longer. Especially if it's anywhere near her.
The sound of heels dropping on the carpet is the only thing accompanying the sounds of his dulled sock footsteps as he goes up the staircase. His mind is surprisingly silent, the amount of information isn’t the kind he wants to think about right now, his body becoming more lethargic the higher he goes.
Finally, he makes it to the top of the staircase. His white linen bed is the same as ever, an attempt was made to make it at least, and he flops down on it. Kicking off his shoes, pulling off his belt while laying face down, he throws it to the side, and shimmies his way across the bed towards the right nightstand.
He immediately knocks out before his eyes even land on his pack of Marlboro reds, or the clock reading 5:00 am in bright green numbers.