3239 words (12 minute read)

Episode Twenty-Five: Poor Choice of Words (Revised)



I know this owl-face. I have seen Fausta’s race of demon before.

She is a daughter of the Legion, the devil-hierarchy that rules over the Pit of Seven Circles. The devil-army that wages war against heaven to destroy the god called Yahweh.

They indoctrinate their agents thoroughly. None of them betrays their cause.

None of them should be able to betray their cause. So how?

Why?

What possessed Fausta Orobas to turn her back on her Legion?

Fausta aims her silenced pistol at Mandrake’s skull. Hellfire drips from the runes carved onto its slide and barrel.

“My daughter doesn’t want your blood on her hands,” Fausta says, melodious, articulate words pouring from her owl beak like snatches of opera song. Her bloodstained wings beat at the air. “That’s the only reason I’m giving you this one chance to surrender.”

Mandrake breathes hoarsely, the tightly wound bandages around his face sagging from sweat. The bronze sword buried in his back quivers with his every movement, sending chill agony through his innards each time he breathes.

You know this because you stabbed him in the same spot he stabbed you—below the collarbone, to the right of the spine, between the lungs and stomach.

You’re not sure why you gave him the exact same flesh wound he gave you. Maybe you wanted to repay an act of mercy.

Maybe you just wanted to pay him back.

Fausta pulls back the hammer on her hell-forged pistol (purely for the intimidation factor, you guess).

“Surrender,” she repeats.

“Hmmph,” Mandarake Kayne replies. He tries to stand, fails, and settles for getting up to his knees. He raises his right arm and brandishes his primed incendiary grenade.

“Go ahead,” he snarls. “Blow my brains out.”

Fausta twitches. Her owl neck pivots as she glances toward her daughter, who’s peaking around the corner of the theater’s doorframe by your side.

“You should do it,” Mandrake Kayne says, waggling the grenade in his hand. “You should shoot me before I toss the grenade towards you daughter. Even if she’s half-demon, I doubt she’s completely immune to flame. “

Felix steps in front of Fortuna and spreads his nanomachine-coated arms. He trembles slightly but holds his ground.

“C’mon,” Kayne rasps, the emotional growl in his voice matching the eerie gleam in his eyes. “You want to kill me, so kill me! Do it!”

Oh dear. Kayne’s sounding like the Joker from The Dark Knight. That’s rarely a good sign.

Hear me, Diesel: act before it’s too late! Carve him to bit with your sword! Kill him before he decides to throw the grenade your way! At least then you’ll have a chance to run and survive the blast.

Who cares about a human-loving Legion traitor, anyways? Kill that hunter, Diesel; kill him before it’s too late!

#

Hear me, Mandrake Kayne, and summon me forth. Summon me before it’s too late!

Do you think this Hellion will let you walk free after threatening her life and daughter? Do you think the monsters infesting this city will leave you be as you walk off to lick your wounds?

Are you going to just lie here and let them win?

Call on me!

“No,” you whisper at the back of your throat.

Say my name, and gain everything you want!

“No,” you repeat more loudly.

Summon me and wipe the damn smirks off their faces!

#

Hear me, Diesel: look at Kayne’s face!

He’s frightened. The hunter is losing his composure! How long before he panics and lashes out at your companions?

If you hesitate any longer, you won’t have a chance to protect them!

Are you going to flee from your duty again? Are you going flinch and fail once more?

You order your legs to move. You half-walk, half-hobble toward Mandrake Kayne and go down to one knee, kneeling on the same level as him.

Hey, Diesel: that’s the way. Kill him now! Kill him, kill him––!

“You can hear him, can’t you?” you say to Kayne.

Kayne’s eyes widen.

“Yeah,” you say with a weary sigh. “That’s what I thought.”

...what are you doing, Diesel?

“It looks like my hat’s judged you to be a worthy guardian,” you tell Kayne. “Hell, you might be a better guardian than I am. Here you are, literally on your knees, and you still haven’t summoned that demon.” You nod in approval. “Your mind’s really strong.”

No. No! Stop talking, Diesel! Still your tongue before I rip it out!

#

Listen to me, Kayne: this pissant little sorcerer is talking down to you! You have the power to wipe him from existence, so use it! Use me!

“What do you know?” you say out loud.

Dieselnoi Worawoot gives you a sad, weary smile. “I know the demon in that hat is filling your head with a lots of noise,” he says. He points at the rumpled hat peeking out of your inner coat pocket. “I apologize for that. Mr. Porkpie can be a real ass sometimes.”

Fausta flaps her wings and descends back to the ground. “What are you doing, Diesel?” she asks.

Diesel holds up a hand. “Please,” he says softly to the Goetic Demon. “Give me a moment.”

Fausta tilts her owl head to the side. Just when you think she’s going to put a brimstone bullet through your skull, she lowers her pistol.

“What kind of demon is he?” you ask Diesel.

No. Don’t listen to him! Every question you ask give him power over you! You’re abasing yourself before a monster-loving Enchanter!

Diesel tucks his hands into his jeans pockets. “He’s an old demon. Old and powerful and full of hate. Every time he grants a wish, the seal on his prison weakens. If he ever gets free...”

Diesel clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “You’ve got excellent instincts, Kayne. I think you already know what that demon will do if he gets free.”

Listen to me, Kayne: Diesel’s trying to fill your head with doubt! Just one wish—a single wish—will grant you victory.

Why are you hesitating, coward?

#

“Why do you wear this hat around in public?” Kayne asks you. “Why haven’t you sealed it away in a vault or sent it to the bottom of the ocean?”

He raises a good point, Diesel.

Should I tell him why you stole your hat from the warded vaults of the Black Forest Sect? Should I tell him the foolish, emotional reason you betrayed your Clan to run off with a captive demon, a techno-necromancer and a vampire?

“You’ve seen how the hat can seal away supernatural creatures and artifacts,” you tell Kayne. “Besides that…”

You hesitate for a moment before continuing. “Besides that…” you say, “the demon makes for a good conscience.”

…What?

Kayne’s left eye twitches.

#

“What?” You blurt out.

You feel the sword shift in your innards, sending waves of agony pulsing through your body.

That pain is irrelevant, though. If these are to be the last moments of your life, you don’t want to die with so many questions churning in your mind.

How is this man still standing when the wound you gave him should have left him bedridden for a week?

How did this sorcerer—a sentimental sop who’s never suffered or struggled a day in his life—get the better of you?

What does he mean when he says he uses...

“...a demon as a conscience?” you say.

Dieselnoi Worawoot shrugs. “With that hat, doing the right thing is easy,” he explains. “I just figure out what the demon wants...and then I do the opposite.” He grins sheepishly. “You’d be surprised how well that works out.”

What?

What are you saying?

You can’t—

––I mean, he can’t be serious!

Dieselnoi Worawoot looks at the hat folded up in your coat pocket. He sneers slightly.

“Right now,” he says, “I bet that demon’s trying to rile you up.” He taps the side of his temple. “I can tell...”

#

“...because he’s egging me on as well,” you say.

You are Dieselnoi Worawoot. You are sweating up a storm.

You’re trying to talk down a monster hunter who’s considering branching out into the field of suicide bombing.

Additionally, you’re having a public conversation about hearing voices in each other’s heads.

“Um,” you hear Mr. Lynn whisper. “Are they all right...?”

“Shhh!” You hear Fortuna and Sarah hiss in unison.

“I don’t know what all the fuss is about...” Macintosh Crate grumbles under their breath.

Neither Fausta nor the felt dinosaur puppet offers any comments.

Focus, you tell yourself. You need to make your point.

Listen to me Diesel, and…

…and...

..and die. Just die. You, the leper of a monster hunter at your feet, and everyone in this dusty theater!

“The demon in that hat wants us to fight and kill each other,” you tell Mandrake Kayne. “He wants everyone in here to die.” You fold your arms across your chest. “What do you think?” you ask. “Should we indulge his fancies?”

You shut your mouth and wait for Kayne to answer.

The sweat-stained bandages have mostly fallen loose from Kayne’s face, revealing surprisingly average features. True, his square chin and angular cheekbones go well with his sharp gray eyes. In a better, kinder life, he’d be handsome.

The life he led, however gave him the cauliflower-shaped ears and crooked nose of a boxer. Even the lumpy scars on his cheek are less dashing and more grotesque.

And yet he looks young—younger than you thought he was.

You clench your teeth and draw in a shuddering breath. It’s taking all your mental effort to telekinetically still up the sword buried in Kayne’s back. A single slip in focus, and your jian will slip and tear open Kayne’s organs.

“I hate you,” Kayne says, scarred face twisting with wrath.

Welp, you think, it’s over now. You’re doomed.

In that moment of realization, you feel all the tension in your body slip away. In that moment of relaxation, calm, honest words bubble up from your mind and slip past your lips:

“I think I may hate you too,” you admit. “We look at each other and think there, but for the grace of God…”

By any sane standard of logic, that remark should have made the hunter drop his primed grenade in a final act of spite.

Instead, an odd, confusing spectrum of conflicting emotions flicker across Mandrake Kayne’s face and resolve into an expression of calm.

He sighs and looks down at the grenade in his hand. “I can’t seem to find the pin I pulled,” he says. “Did you see where I dropped it?”

You look around. You don’t see the grenade pin anywhere; it must have fallen under a seat or gotten lost within the shadows of this darkened theater.

Additionally, Mandrake’s grenade-clutching arm is starting to tremble. You don’t have time to comb the theater.

However...

...oh no.

No. No. No.

You cruel, maleficent piece of human filth. Don’t you dare—

“I’ve got an idea,” you say, reaching out for the hat in Kayne’s inner pocket. You pause.

Kayne gives you a weary nod. You pull out the porkpie hat—your porkpie hat—and hold it upside down by the brim.

“When you’re ready,” you tell Kayne, holding it out to him like a panhandler or street magician.

“Hmmph,” Kayne grunts, mouth quirking in a ever-so-brief smile.

He drops the grenade into the lining of your porkpie hat. You hear the safety lever of the grenade fall free.

You grip your hat with both hands and give it a shake. You feel the weight of the grenade suddenly vanish.

You look down and see nothing inside your hat but felt and leather.

Inside my prison, Morgaeous the Drake-Worm pokes his head out of his golden lamp. He opens his mouth to ask me what’s going on outside...

...just as a hissing grenade suddenly manifests inside our pocket dimension.

There is fire, light, and pressure—!

...

...Ugh.

Were you hopeful for a moment, Diesel? Did you think you’d gotten rid of me forever?

Sadly for you, the weapons of man cannot slay a demon of my stature so easily—

…they do sting, though.

Mandrake Kayne chuckles softly, a chuckle you can’t help but echo.

Off to the side, you see Fausta Orobas relax. Her angelic wings fold behind her back. The demonic pistol in her hands vanishes, dismissed back to the Underworld.

You hear a chorus of relieved sighs behind your back.

“You’re wiser than I thought,” Mandrake Kayne grudgingly admits. His voice hardens. “But you’re still foolish.” He glances past me, looking at Fausta, Sarah, and the other not-quite humans. “They’ll turn on you one day,” he tells me. “Predators can’t become friends with prey.”

You feel a spark of anger kindle in your heart, a tight, burning tension. “You sound just like my father,” you tell Kayne.

Kayne’s eyebrows rise up. “Hmmph,” he says. “Daddy issues. Why am I not surprised?”

Kayne’s eyes roll back in his head. The monster hunter falls forward. You order your enchanted legs to crouch and command your arms to grab Kayne by the shoulders.

The dude is ripped, you realize. You can feel the rock-hard musculature beneath his leather coat...whoa!

Just when you’re about to lose your balance and fall over, Fausta appears by your side, cradling your back with one of her wings and easing Kayne gently down onto the theater carpet.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Macintosh Crate groans, melting down onto the floor and hugging their folded knees. “If my theater burned up...”

Their voice trails off. Theo the dinosaur puppet pats Macintosh on the cheeks.

Sarah crouches down next to Mac. “It’ll be okay, chum,” she says softly. Her face brightens. “Hey! Maybe we can organize a film festival here! We can screen some activist documentaries, pop some caramel popcorn, launch a fundraiser to hire some repairmen...”

You sit down on the floor and let out a long sigh. “Jesus,” you whisper. “Is it over? Are we done?”

You look down at the hat in your hand. “Are we done?” you ask me.

No, Diesel. What you call a triumph is just one more step along the path to your end. The day shall come when my prison weakens and bursts, and that sweet time of liberation shall mark a new epoch of power…!

“It’s over,” you say with relief. You raise your hat and slide it onto your head at a jaunty angle.

…Bah.

Fausta leans over the unconscious Mandrake Kayne and tilts his head to the side so he can breathe. She reaches out and grasps the hilt of your sword, protruding from Kayne’s back like a flagpole.

Owl face or no, you can read the thought behind Fausta’s expression.

It would be so easy to pull out your sword and let Kayne bleed out through his open wound. The simplest action, and he would never bother her daughter ever again....

The temptation appeals to you despite yourself. All you’d have to do is release your mental hold over the blade and let nature take its course.

Fortuna walks up to Fausta, brushing her fingers against her mother’s white-feathered wings. She lays her other hand on her mom’s hand, the one that’s holding your sword.

“It’s okay, Mom,” Fortuna says. “I won’t let him hurt you ever again.”

Fausta’s angel wings tremble momentarily before relaxing. Owl demons can’t smile like humans do. Still, you think the twitching ear-tufts on Fausta’s head carry a similar meaning.

A low-pitched, drawling voice echoes through the theater, a voice bellowing right beneath your feet.

BOR-RING!”

Cookie the Bull Dog spirit rushes into the theater, slobber flying from his lips as he barks up a storm.

“Whoah!” Felix shouts.

“Oh no,” Macintosh groans, raising their head.

“Who is that…?” Sarah says.

The theater steps by your feet splinter and shatter as long, sinuous tree-roots punch holes through the red carpet and wooden planks beneath.

You try to scramble away, mentally commanding your body to crab walk backwards on your hands and feet.

But like in the fable of the centipede, walking on all fours proves to be too difficult a task to do with your conscious mind.

You stumble. You fall on your back. You’re briefly immobilized by agony as your knife wound thumps against one of the long theater steps.

Your hat flies off your head. A gray, gnarled, warty hand snatches that hat out of the air.

“Yo, yo, yo!” Grobach the Ogre declares as he rises out of the floor, standing on a platform made from prehensile, wriggling tree branches. “What hath we here?”

His blacked, iron-burned lips parting into a wide grin: “Doth mine ears deceive me?” He asks. “Does this piece of headgear hold a wish-granting demon in durance vile?”

“Philip!” Felix blurts out, face flushed with panic. He pushes past Sarah and runs into the theater. “Philip, are you all right?”

Grobach’s gray-skinned face contorts into a visage of fury. “My name,” he spits, long tongue lolling out from between his yellow tusks, “is not Philip.”

He places your porkpie hat on his head. You feel the surge of Wyld magic pouring off his body, an ancient, chaotic Fae sorcery that reeks of thunderstorms and mildew, campfire smoke and spring pollen, frost and moist soil.

I reach out toward that magic eagerly, like a thirsty man fresh from the desert. I seize that power and fuse it with my own will. I use this magic to fuel my struggle against the Hat that surrounds and binds me.

Temporary patch though it may be, I hack into the spells holding me prisoner and trick them into giving Grobach administrator access.

“Stop!” Fausta croaks, raising her hand and re-summoning her hell-forged pistol.

No! Don’t stop, Grobach!

Call my true name and speak thine wish!

Krotaraja,” Grobach declares, voice resonating through the room. “Kill everybody in this room.”

Next Chapter: Episode Twenty-Six: Laplace and Maxwell (Revised)