Chapter V - Brimstone

[TennyoCeres84]

"I can't say for sure, Mr. Wormsworth, but there may be a few within Heaven's numbers who might be able to put the distrust aside and allow you and your coworkers to do your duties," Meris surmised, recalling how easily Abdiel had helped Melmoth.

"They certainly know that everybody has much to lose if Hell gains too much of a favorable hand, so teamwork might be a seemingly unlikely but also quite necessary method to increase our odds of winning," the queen opined.

*~*~*

During the process, Aspasia selected a rather simple looking hunter green herringbone pattern to block out offending imagery and spare her mind from any onslaught. Upon hearing the default sound, she settled with selecting that one, as it didn't particularly matter as to what noise she heard to replace Black Speech.

She then looked Loren's way and sighed. "I'm fine. I selected my preferences with ease," she noted with an approving nod.

[IamLEAM1983]

"At the rate things are going," confessed Herbert, "I'd call it surviving. My former peers and myself had a nicely laid-out plan for the Vice to follow, one that would have presented assimilation as an inevitability - albeit one that could be customized on the regional level. A happy mortal is a complacent mortal, and I had worked to ensure that the trappings of everyday life would not be torn asunder. We would have progressed to a stable state hand-in-hand, defeated the Others and then further suppressed democracy over a period of several millennia - long enough for the immortals to grow just as oblivious as their mortal kinsmen and for an Infernal monarchy to gradually develop on Earth. The Goat would have had his prize, and you would have reacted as a frog does in gradually warming waters. Your enslavement would have been more than sufficiently comfortable - enough so that damnation would have eventually become the new mortal norm."

Wormsworth grimaced. "The Goat expressed a pointed dislike of my plans, failing to see the efficiency of cultivated mortal contentment. In my previous line of work, souls were gained inch by inch and yard by yard - patiently, humanely and efficiently. He rather archly told me that he expected Earth to be his within weeks."

He looked sideways at nothing in particular, his tone suggesting weariness and disgust. "Weeks. Right as I sipped one last wondrous glass of pilfered Scotch from the Spire's cellars, I knew I stood on a sinking ship, piloted by a madman. I stared at him, finished my glass, and complimented him for his genius. My chauffeur took me home, and I stopped halfway there to throw up. My nature makes it difficult for me to concretely express fear, but I knew it intimately in that moment. Bone-white terror - and indignation."

Three crossed his arms on his chest. "So you know you're full of shit. You probably also know you'll have problems fitting in.
- Not more so than Paimon, I should suspect," replied Herbert. "But yes, I am full of it. It's a strange burden, much akin to an incubus' lust," he said, his tone turning thoughtful. "I feel the tug of empathy, the warmth of burgeoning good rapports..."

He then rose a hand and fixed his tie, looking rather self-satisfied in the moment, the tiniest of pleased shivers travelling up along his core. "And then, it surges, much like Magnus' old lust. My pride, as much a bulwark as a prison. It is a wonderful thing, truth be told - but it isolates me, segregates my kind, as it does Paimon's. That kind of self-love, mister Drake, leaves little room for colleagues or comrades in arms. I can keep others in my thoughts, but it is a cold, precise process."

Bucky nodded. "So you're kinda like Tom, then. Y'want out, right?"

Wormsworth looked understandably conflicted. "My stunted empathy says yes. My ego says no. It is a dance I've grown rather accustomed to: spend a few hours in a luncheon with Metatron, then you'll spend close to a full day being almost unable to tolerate your own handwriting or the way your tie's knot sits. I suspect I'll give directions to a lost tourist, some day, and then take to one of the local haberdashers like a cocaine addict to a hidden stash. I fully understand what having a healthy amount of self-respect involves - I simply can't limit myself to it."

He then smiled, smarm and self-aggrandizement almost oozing out. "After all, why bother? I alone kept Cacus and Bune afloat."

A self-conscious and irritated look followed. "Ugh- my apologies. It feels much like having digestion problems, only instead of compulsive burps, vain nonsense pops out..."

Three smirked. "I don't know if I should roll my eyes, wince out of empathy or just laugh.
- Try all three," shrugged Wormsworth. "The one benefit of having an ironclad ego is that I'm impervious to insults."

* * *

"Good," tersely replied Loren, as he used his powers to right Aspasia's chair and shut off the overhead lights. "There's going to be some slight redness to your right eye for a few hours, but I can ensure Arkham or his associates don't notice. I would offer a ride in my shuttle for Providence, but it wouldn't do to see a fisherman driving a luxury Karthian shuttle. We'll use your own transportation."

Coach smirked. "You sure the Mentalist Supreme won't object to a Chevy Impala?
- I've endured worse," snorted the physician.

From the clinic and outwards, it felt as though nobody could so much as see the trio, while being unable to bump into them. Martin's will turned the path to the Impala into a nearly straight line, and he took a seat in the rear, arms crossed on his chest. He looked like the bulbous, alien version of every fussy kid who didn't want to go on a road trip.
- Can't you ever switch it off, like the other Grayskins?" asked Coach, tapping his own skull in the rear-view mirror. Loren looked outside as though the trailing urban view had personally offended him. "I was born a Satrap," he said. "Satrapies are some of the strongest families and mental networks in Telor. I stood atop the Lor'El Convergence and grew to harness the power of my siblings, parents, aunts and uncles - all the way down to my great-great-grandparents. The power of over two dozen Karthian minds, themselves linked to dozens more. The Archon was the spawn of a lone couple - destined to succumb to the Crimson Spirit, I'd say. The Convergence and the Source gave me power - but no authority.
- And you can't shut off that kind of power," deduced Silas. "Sort of like me and my draining people. I can bring it down to a trickle, but I can't stop it myself from giving our fry cooks mild headaches or fatigue symptoms, on occasion."

Loren nodded. "I feel every mind that we drive past. I've never known what it is to be alone in one's own head."

He then came his closest to looking amenable, as a spark of empathy softened his features. "Solitude," he said. "The nepenthe my people can never have."

[TennyoCeres84]

"Consider it to be a boon in your favor, sir," Meris countered good-naturedly. "After all, if the Goat had something of that trait, we might not be in this situation. You at least have some wherewithal to balance out these characteristics. Who knows? With further time among the mortals, this could improve."

***

Aspasia frowned empathetically. "The only possibly related experience I have is my days with Rendell; the constant barrage of propaganda and conceitedness seemed like an audio I would never be able to turn off. However, for all the ruckus you hear, I hope you are able to find some sort of peace to drown it out. If you can't block it out, perhaps a changing of channels, so to speak, could alleviate it somewhat. The more you are around friends, perhaps the focus will change."

She then smirked and commented lighten the conversation, "Or at least, switch away from the soap opera and adult channels that I am sure run through people's minds. "

[IamLEAM1983]

Loren managed a smirk and a roll of his eyes. "Egads, woman," he said. "You have no idea. At least, you two are driven. It gives some sort of structure to your thoughts, enough for me to dismiss them as orderly - or at least, non-offensive."

Coach turned a corner and began the climb up to Point Judith Road, across the Hillard. They'd be in Providence in a little over twenty minutes. "What are other people's minds like?"

Loren shrugged. "Asinine flashes, psychological and emotional flotsam occasionally giving way to something of a more aggressive persuasion. Narcissists are difficult to tolerate, in my experience; their own little echo chamber amplifies their thoughts. I never go out of my way to peer past anyone's bubble - privacy concerns and what have you - but self-absorbed individuals resonate as though they were an endlessly struck bell. Me, me, me, me, me. Empathetic people are like rustling leaves: their thoughts whistle and whisper past you, like the quaintly emotional cousins to my kind's ordered thoughts towards preserving the Hierarchy. They envelop you, somehow, and pull you out of that dark little corner so many of us native Karthians retreat to, every now and again."

He paused. "Serene people are comparable to a fine dessert to me. All of one's mental acuity, focused on the now or at least on one specific goal or thought. No guilt, no underlying baggage - or at least none to be perceived in the moment - just pure, soft focus. I have a few yoga practitioners in my clientèle, and I always welcome their visits. They're a breath of fresh air. Most people are neither one or the other, or a mix of everything. A little narcissism, a dash of empathy, sparks of contentment - all of it riding atop the storm of their base desires."

* * *

"I should hope so," replied the attorney, "so long as your motley crew does not contain bliss ninnies or relentlessly optimistic types."

Anjali peered up at Herbert. "I don't think you'll like me much, then. I like to think there's still hope.
- That does you credit, my dear," he replied, looking at her in a way that felt both matter-of-fact and slightly bored. "So long as you don't prattle on about Mankind's successes or the indefatigable strength of a positive attitude. I need a good sulk with my morning cup of pitch. No hugs, either."

Vernon scoffed. "I thought I was the grumpy one, under my Mantle's influence...
- I've gotten used to your idea of contentment," admitted Herbert, "but joy is still disquieting to me. Blame it on my nature, but any sort of beaming hope feels... irresponsible to me. Cautious optimism feels more apt."

In the meantime, Leonard had perused the resumé's three pages, and grunted slightly. "You'll have to forgive my partial understanding, mister Wormsworth, but I see here that you've worked as part of the first staff of Damned that had to apportion the last few Fallen to their proper punishments..."

Herbert beamed slightly, seemingly happy to extol his own work's virtues. "I was born of the Pit in the early days, but raised up by Pride. I scarcely remember my feral days - in any case, I served as part of a group of prosecutors, tasked with the charge of determining who was prideful and who was not. I picked the harmlessly fatuous apart from the self-aggrandizing, the vain from the merely oblivious. Those with enough baggage, I interviewed and later prosecuted; charged with the sin of Pride. Those we found use for were cursed to see their pride swell to inhuman levels, to join our ranks. Paimon's lot, in particular, stem from that bunch. Others saw their pride sapped, to join the ranks of the wretched creatures who would live in squalor at our feet. It, admittedly, was in those years that my curse took hold. We were paid in pride; made to keep a part of our prosecuted victims' own self-esteem."

His light smile had withered away and returned to his previously drooping eyes and flatly objective tone. "I survived, some did not. The first few of my brothers and sisters went mad, not unlike fabled Narcissus. I do have a fittingly demonic amount of self-appreciation, but I at least remained functional.
- But you do appear to have some sense of empathy," continued Leonard. "How does that balance out?"

Wormsworth lightly sighed. "In those days that still saw me believe the Goat was worthy of grace, Pride captured rank-and-file members of the Host from Limbo's front lines, and dragged them to the Pit. There, they would be tortured; their Light brought down to naught but a spark. I and several others were exposed to that spark. Over time, torture gave way to mere imprisonment. Over time, I built up a resistance against the Light - and an attorney's essential understanding of suffering, from the victim's point of view. From mock trials designed to have me practice my theoretical ability in defending our racial enemies, it wasn't too much of a stretch to realize that however different angels and mortals were from us, they still shared many things."

He rolled a wrist. "I'm still driven to think I'm superior to you in some sense - I  can freely traverse between planes, fly despite your laws of physics' insistence to the contrary, and display resilience above the grade expected of those of my physical type. A plaintiff in need of restraint in a courtroom wouldn't faze me. I have thousands of years of experience and developed tastes the Goat himself seems to lack. That said, that hard nugget of arrogance should be seen as inconsequential in regards to my work. If Magnus manages to be congenial despite his own vanity as a Warlock, then so can I, despite my burden of Pride."

[TennyoCeres84]

Loren's explanation of various people's psyches reminded her of another fellow. Aspasia looked back at Karthian and observed, "What you described reminds me some of Jack Greene. The little I've been around him, he always picked up on those will just natter on and are only interested in themselves. They're lucky if they escape without buckshot being aimed at their backsides. The more tranquil-minded you are, the more he'll tolerate you. I can only guess that that's how mages and Fae work; the more grounded you are, the less psychic noise there is to be heard. Quigley is one of those types that Greene doesn't mind being in his presence, despite the flamboyance he can display."

"I know Karthians, as a general rule, are more pragmatic, but there might be some correlation between telepathic noise and arcane skill. Then again, correlation doesn't equal causation."

***

Being part of the local law enforcement, Crystal cleared her throat and interjected, "I'm glad that you will be able to balance the different aspects of your character, but I would like to voice an opinion on a previously mentioned topic. I think it wouldn't be unreasonable for mortal attorneys and lawgivers to have some say within any supernatural court that will arise in the coming period, if there is to at least something of an egalitarian approach to relations between demons, angels, and us. At the very least, will mortals have some bearing in this prospective court down the line?" she inquired. "Mortals as coworkers, rather than just variations of happenstance in a long existence, if you will."

[IamLEAM1983]

Herbert looked back to Leonard. "Well, madam Lowell; I believe the prerogative remains mister Ephesian's. In my quality as a Pitspawn, I would not trust supernatural affairs to a mortal, however capable he or she may be. It would simply seem unfair, to be honest."

The hand he'd brought up to his chest was offered outwards. For the very same reasons, I would not dare to question your own practices, not until having grown sufficiently acquainted with them."

Leonard lightly grunted. "We'll get there, Wormsworth, we'll get there... Provided you do pass this interview you've more or less foisted on me, I'll make sure your proclivities don't rub off those surviving juniors of mine. You might mean well, you've just found a tactful way of confirming what the Deputy Chief is afraid of."

He looked up from the resumé. "Pride goeth and whatnot."

Wormsworth briefly looked as though he'd been caught with his pants down, then going for the facepalm's more muted cousin - the chin rub. "Er - of course, you're right. I'm admittedly a bit of a newcomer when it comes to expressing concern - I didn't mean anything other than interest in our potential juniors' welfare. Do you have any names in mind?"

Leonard looked back to Crystal and Meris. "A few. Seeing as you're all roused and hopefully refreshed, there's something I'd like to ask of you. The Goat's had a few weeks to wow my clerks and interns, and I'm now fairly certain that I've lost a few to less patient examples of demonic possession. I'd set a precedent myself, but I doubt the Goat would let me use this body to foil his attempts at personal amusement."

He paused. "There's this club I've seen a few of them go to - The Fens, just outside Renton. It's half a sports bar, half a varsity douchebag watering hole. They're within a few extra visits of calling for Father Curran, or for an exorcist. Someone from Downstairs is clearly having fun at my staff's expense. With the invasion being so close, I wouldn't be surprised if a few runts decided to try and go bar-hopping before global warming makes a sudden and apocalyptic return...
- Joy," mirthlessly replied Herbert. "You don't suppose they'd forego decent spirits, do you? Let the professionals handle Scotch, snatch all the vodka mixes for themselves."

The goat made a slight glower look rather chilling. "I wouldn't jest, mister Wormsworth. I've seen good boys with fresh colors from Ivy League schools turn to hard drugs within weeks, since the Goat began tormenting me. Future star attorneys, dilapidating their intern salaries with escorts and car modifications. I've seen calm tempers turn hostile at the office, and saw my oldest associates driven to work from home, as toxic as the cabinet's atmosphere had become. I wasn't there to stop it, I was too weak and mired in my own problems to act. Now, the only reason I can't act is because I know for a fact the Goat would take over and find some way to make a laughingstock out of me by turning these blazer-wearing hellions into the Stepford Husbands in time for my arrival."

Cuthbert crossed his arms against his chest. "We don't necessarily need to be confrontational. A little faith, a bit of coercion - we'll quickly know what's what, especially if we bring Magnus out of his newly-gained domestic bliss."

That seemed to lighten the mood somewhat, as Three scoffed. "Shit, don't remind me. It's like Aislinn burned out our favorite lounge lizard and swapped him out with an obsessively entrepreneurial type. Club Ishtar was supposed to be the initial stopping point for his renovations, now the basement bunkers and hydroponic systems are already kitted out and waiting for refugees. Half of Ais' Snapchat account is Tom snoring his head off after spending the day running around with laser levels, disaster-proofing forms, power tools or hired help. He's turning into Bob Vila's scarily effective cousin, minus the weight loss."

* * *

Loren seemed indecisive. "Not all practitioners are equally focused, actually. A quirk you Earthlings have is the ability to get things done despite letting your heads soak in an emotional and cognitive maelstrom. Take the limelights away from Quigley and he's nothing; he simply can't handle performing for its own sake. When the conditions are met, however, there's a quirky calm of sorts, waiting behind the swagger and the wisecracks. The surety of purpose of mavericks - or the foolhardiness of someone who's willing to channel the full measure of a Nexus to save a city. Nigel Griffin is much the same - if less annoying to be around."

He managed a smirk. "Imagine that you've been with us since the Golden Age, miss Robertson. Imagine fighting back against Hitler's resurrected Hyperborean Warlocks, and needing every ounce of your focus to make your shots count. Then, in comes this cape-wearing buffoon who blatantly sympathizes with the enemy, if only to better fool them in complex acts of arcane prestidigitation. Your life is almost constantly on the line - and he steals space from the front lines, with his billowing cape and ballroom dancing acts involving entranced female SS officers. The idiot even managed to rip compliments out of Himmler, for God's sake, and later used the same moxie to tear through Rommel's African offensive!"

Silas shrugged as he drove. "Call me crazy, but Merlin wasn't any better. My research shows he was a cross between Gandalf and a rabid dog, using every scrap of Briton and Pict fury he could muster to scare Hadrian's Romans out of the isles. The only Archmage I've ever read about that matched the whole Sedate and Patrician idea was Solomon - and he's dead. The crazy or the crazily driven ones? Still alive and kickin', by most accounts."

[TennyoCeres84]

Neasa scoffed, "Tell me about it. You remove physical fixation from him, and he's a completely different person. I guess doing so made room for more constructive behaviors, hence HGTV's newest prospective franchise. Though, Ais has changed, too. She has far more energy than she did before, and she went through a ton of food at our parents' monthly get-togethers. Going Archmage will do that."

"It certainly does," agreed Meris. "A ritual like Hieros Gamos will push a mage to a peak of focus that mirrors the threshold that most potential Archmages have to pass, only without dying. As for Tom, it's good that he has his own form of focus. It means he'll be ready for the coming war, rather than the alternative. His arcology will serve as a suitable refuge and fortress."

***

Feeling that they could speak freely around him, Aspasia commented with a shrug, "I guess Meris would fall under the crazily driven type. She was around during the Golden Age period, but she's obviously quite the opposite when it comes to approach. She preferred lethal stealth when it came to handling foes and only leaving a folkloric trail behind her, as well as trying to garner friendships and allies. Then again, you noticed that huge arcane surge originating from Magnus's club recently, so I would assume Aislinn or somebody's also joined those ranks. And Magnus hasn't gone Full Evil Warlock yet, so I would assume it's the former. Given her pedigree, Aislinn must've received a hell of a genetic boon from her grandmother at such a young age. From what I remember you telling me, Coach, most Archmages don't reach that level until after their 100th birthday!"

[IamLEAM1983]

Three glanced back at Leonard. "So we stop and get Tom and Ais, then drop by The Fens," he summarized, then scoffing lightly. "If I were a Chicago native and knew that a bar named after my stadium was turning into a haven for frat-bro demonic orgies, I'd probably be pissed off."

Leonard put some order in a few papers and then reached for something that had been hiding behind a stack of them - a pack of cigarettes. Hand on his cane's pommel, Archie raised an index finger and added a disapproving click of his tongue. No smoking outside of the Huntsman's Room, as per Holden Hall's house rules. The lawyer glowered, but pocketed the cancer sticks for now. Wormsworth seemed lightly surprised. 

"My research said you'd quit smoking decades ago," he mentioned. Leonard glared back as he headed out of the kitchen. "Try sticking to it when you've got a thousand tormented souls wailing in your ears," tersely replied the anthro. "If I'm leaving this old bag of bones behind, I'll leave it for the Goat as packed with tar and a junior clerk's love for cholesterol as I can manage!"

Herbert seemed indecisive. "Er - you've read my resumé. Shall I come with, or should I wait for a response?
- What the Hell," snorted the goat, then rolling his eyes at his own accidental pun. "Sure, you're my first demonic associate, Wormsworth. If you so much as step out of line, I can flay your mind with enough spiritual baggage to turn you into an overgrown imp, anyway."

The former Pride worker seemed a bit flustered. "Er - of course, sir. I'll use this as a means to study mortal procedures in cases like this.
- Whatever," replied the anthro as he recovered his overcoat, "just don't sir me. I've lost that right when I started compromising verdicts for cash, and I've lost my yen for the usual bar-stool post-trial pussyfooting, Counsellor this and that over martinis and empty courtesies..."

Herbert arched an eyebrow. "I, for one, rather enjoy them.
- Of course you would," quietly seethed the lawyer, "you're from Pride. Call that chauffeur of yours, we don't have time for traffic!"

Understandably, the others were a bit taken off-guard. Leonard finally noticed, and looked back to the group. "Come on," he then said, clapping his hands, "chop-chop! We've got a doe-eyed warthog and his girlfriend to get out of home improvement slackwear, and I've got juniors and associates to save!"

Three couldn't repress a chuckle, while Archie, Bucky and Cuthbert went for a more gamely stretch of silence as they moved out of the room.

* * *

"They don't," confirmed Loren, "but the last few years have been anything but regular in tone. While my people aren't sensitive on the arcane level, we do sense the ways in which the local ley lines and Nexus serve as the Tree's own neural net. Sophia's parent entity doesn't so much have formed thoughts as it does a persistent emotional cloud, a sort of vague mnemonic miasma... It senses a change in the wind, and it's spent the past several decades preparing for it, following the plodding pace common in flora. I've recorded minute genetic mutations, increases in the thickness of the tree's bark and in the energy efficiency of its photosynthesis process. When things as slow as plants possessed of situational awareness are beginning to adapt to changes we sapient folk can barely perceive, something is definitely stirring."

He sighed. "I should speak to Francis again, see what the cad's been up to, now that his tenure at Holden Hall mostly consists of a monthly round of research and documentation... He is bound to have a better grasp on matters of the spirit than I could."

Coach seemed amused. "Does Sophia know you've been poking around her home?
- She doesn't need to," replied Martin, "I've only implanted a syringe's worth of nanites between two layers of the bark, left the years and weather patterns to allow them to dissipate throughout the plant's circulatory system and occasionally stopped by the park to check on the emitted signal and the nanite population's overall health. I've set it to feed on the Tree's own discharges. If anything, I've very likely saved Sophia from having to manage a termite infestation or two."

Silas winced slightly. "Call me skeptical, but I don't know how I'd feel if you told me my home was one software switch away from turning into so much gray goo...
- Oh, please," snorted Loren, "I'm a professional and a keeper of this city! I've dealt with Sophia before as Mentalor, and she knows I would never do anything to jeopardize her!
- Does she know about Martin Loren's real face?"

The Grayskin protested. "No, but-
- So you're telling me a Rendell crony could just steal your tablet or desktop access, change a few lines of code and turn the local ley lines into so much inert mush.
- It's never happened before!" snapped the alien.

Coach sighed. "You know, the Hyperboreans said the same thing, about their pylons collapsing. They spent a few thousand years patching a tropical pocket in the middle of Siberia, then the cost of maintaining the kind of necessary greenhouse effect with via caught up with them. They also said it couldn't happen before, just like they said that about their senior researchers flipping their lids and going either Warlock or lich..."

He clicked his tongue. "Next thing you know, the Hermitage Museum has a permanent exhibit with ward-covered sarcophagi keeping folks down who'd make Thulsa Doom look like Skeletor at his whiniest."

* * *

For once in close to a month, Tom felt he could afford to stop working. He looked out to the city from the penthouse's baywindow and worked a crack in his back with a grunt, his innie briefly poking out from underneath his intentionally ugly purple Christmas sweater. Unless nothing changed, his plan was to spend the next several hours lounging around, until Ephesian's final address to the jury, tomorrow. Then he'd shave, put the old purples on again, and work the old Warlock charm. In the immediate, his plans involved finding an excuse to bug Aislinn and then noisily swallowing flies somewhere between their living room or his office in the club, at least until someone from the apartments or offices below rang his proverbial bell. Gammell was still settling in, the Wizard's Nook had growing pains, and Ephesian and Associates still smelled like wet paint. He stretched out and loudly yawned, briefly cursing his wizard-fingernails for keeping him from balling up his fists, and added a snort for good measure.

His mind wasn't empty, far from it - but being free from his burden of lust made the incoming turmoil feel strangely manageable. Things, it seemed, were under control. No matter what happened, they'd be able to react to it accordingly. After spending thousands of years ruled by carnal passion, it stood to reason he'd need more than a few hours for urgency or desperation to kick in. Still, as was often the case when he thought about Aislinn, he felt his old bedfellow invite itself in the cockles of his heart again. Lust saying hello again, this time as a passing visitor rather than a clinging invader. Still being an incubus, he felt the old sense of warmth radiate throughout his body, now carrying nothing if a desire for a bit of tenderness. After days spent stealing absent pecks between errands, he was due for something a tad more substantial - and felt the same could apply to the roane.

So, turning around, he headed down the corridor that connected Aislinn's tattoo workshop with the main penthouse, and stopped to hide his sweater in the confines of his purple overcoat. He stopped to check his watch, making sure the roane was in her half-hour lunch break she'd set for herself, and then stepped in, making sure his sweater would stay hidden in the immediate. Apart from it and the overcoat, he was wearing slightly too-tight jeans he'd consigned to paint stains, welding burns and marker scuff marks, and some of Quint's old sneakers. Nothing he didn't mind destroying or marring in a fit of home improvement, honestly.

He stepped in and looked around. "So, my dear Miss Power Overwhelming," he teased, "how's business going? Is this place too upscale for your usual clients?"

Magnus gave Aislinn a wry look and drummed a few fingers on the headrest of one of the unused barbershop-style chairs. "That said, working on this place hasn't done me any favors. I think I'm bringing our land value down by a few thousand bucks for every hour I don't spend in a suit."

[TennyoCeres84]

The three women reacted to Ephesian's burst of snark and gumption with a collective series of scoffs. They then followed after the goat and toward the vehicle.

***

Martin's admission and rebuttal to Coach's concern caused the satyress to have the expression of a tactician. Her right ear flicked, and she sighed with hard, pensive features. "The scenario that Coach painted is entirely plausible, Mr. Loren. I know Rendell like the back of my hand. He has people loyal to him keeping a finger on Hope's pulse. That's how he is able to stay in touch with the outside world. Also, he will jump at the chance to escape, and we could be caught unaware. If he felt the urge to, he could easily kill Sophia by draining her now that he's a half-lich. He is a crafty brute and will do anything to achieve his goals."

"And not counting Rendell, there are other threats. Void Weavers, misguided mages, and so on. I would speak with Sophia about the nanites and the vulnerability they pose. She is trustworthy, and she wouldn't share your secret with anybody. In fact, there may come a time when you will no longer be able to hide your face. Being honest with her is the best way to protect her. Saying that she doesn't need to know is condescending to someone of her character at the very least and dangerous at the worst."

***

"I can't say I've lost any customers. I just had to give all this class some edginess to ensure they don't think I haven gone soft," Aislinn joked with a grin, looking back at the recent purple, gray and white-accented paint job. "White Wave Tattoo and Piercing Parlor will stay afloat regardless of where I move it," she stated with a proud grin.

The selkie chuckled. "I think you've probably done enough renovation for the next decade, and then some. I think you're allowed to change out of the Mr. Fix-It uniform and resume your role of Warlockian Entrepeneur via your suit."

[IamLEAM1983]

By now, Three had learned not to voice his skepticism when someone made outlandish supernatural claims. Hearing that one of the Black Goat's former legal eagles had his own limo, considering, was starting to feel rather ordinary. As Leonard opened the door, to the front porch, the faintest tremors followed the sight of what looked like a modified Mercedes-Benz G74 sedan seemingly rising out of the gravel, Infernal light and the sounds of gravel stones stirring accompanying the vehicle's arrival. The rear passenger door opened, exposing a suspiciously normal-looking limo interior. As they stepped in, however, they'd realize the space was conveniently Non-Euclidian, most of the seating comprised of a single, curving sectional sofa upholstered in white leather. With a coffee table and a small entertainment center, the place felt more like a living room than the seating space of a car. All the windows were opaque, the interior lights were generously spaced and efficient in their provided cover, speakers set high against the cabin's walls piping Chopin's works at a sedate level.

"It's weird," confessed Aidan as he took a seat. "You'd figure Chronic Affluenza would be Melmoth's thing, not the Goat's."

Herbert took a seat, and pressed the Concierge button on his phone. "Magnus Tower, please," he said, going back to his earlier aristocratic boredom, "and quickly."

They began moving without really moving, the streets outside relegated to a dark blur occasionally punctuated by Christmas lights, no amount of G-forces registering as they smoothly took corners. "Melmoth has no pride," he explained. "Or to be more precise, he has no Capital-P Pride. He affects insolent wealth, whereas I must affect success. The difference might seem marginal to one such as yourself, mister Drake, but it is non-negligible. Tacky expenditures are Greed's hallmark, where ours are finely cultivated. We naturally oppose Humility, who would find a means to live in a remote shack with a burlap sack over her chest, if she were to feel the need to manifest corporeally on this world. The Vices and Virtues are pure embodiments; it is up to the mortals to give them scope and texture."

Archie pursed his lips together. "So you feel compelled to see yourself ferried about like this, correct? Same as your ego?
- Not so much compelled," Herbert explained, "as I currently fail to see the interest in doing otherwise. You mortals have a knack for worming your nuances into the brains of the proper, suitably wicked folk - and sticking there. I imagine I'll downsize a few court cases from now, but until then..."

He squirmed contentedly, grunting in pleasure as he found his back's groove in his seat, and then rested his feet on the coffee table. As wide as the seating arrangements were, he didn't have to worry about inconveniencing anyone. A little flick of the wrist was all he needed for a champagne flute to appear in his curved fingers.

"Until then, why bother? To have a fine palate where I'm from is a rarity, and I've heard plenty about the ways in which Pandemonium's own folk manage to capture a bit of the old demonic swagger without reneging their obligations or desired points of collaboration with your kind. In the best of post-Invasion scenarios, Wormsworth & Ephesian hobnob around the city's moneyed and wealthy while managing feats of legal and supernatural daring-do.
- Ephesian and Wormsworth," corrected the anthro. "I'll be the one signing your paychecks."

Wormsworth froze slightly. "Paychecks?
- You've joined the mortal world, genius," snarked Anton. "Within a few hours, you'll start to get hungry. Then you'll get tired. You'll need a place to crash. You'll deny it, just like every other stupid demon I've come up against, then show up in the E.R. as a case of chronic exhaustion and malnutrition. You're physically manifested, so good luck finding a physician who knows how to handle your physiology or your blood type - which I assume you don't so much as know."

Herbert blinked. "You mean you don't just... live?"

Three eyed Meris. "Hoboy. Tom's got one hell of a candidate for immersion."

* * *

Silas didn't know if he should scoff in exasperation or smirk at the sight of the Karthian sulking in the back of his car. The good doctor obviously hadn't needed to admit his past mistakes all that often, and settled with giving the outside streets an indignant pout. He didn't need to be a telepath to figure out that Loren was busy trying to relentlessly justify his actions. Still, one look at Coach made his expression look dubious. Again, the supposedly inscrutable being looked obvious, grudging admissions scrolling past his mind.

"I'll give it some thought," he then quietly added. Coach laughed easily at that.

"Hell's bells," he said, "I've got a grown man in the back of my car reminding me of my daughter's own contrarian phase. Remember when she took off on that sleepover party of hers without telling us, a few years back?" he asked Aspasia, an amused twinkle in his eyelights and a knowing parental smirk pulling one side of his jawbones upwards. "She'd forgotten her mom was an army woman, at one time..."

* * *

"You think so?" asked Tom, smirking. "I mean, I haven't so much as tested my Beard Scratchiness Factor, and I only see one fair face around here, so..."

Embracing her, the Warlock parted with a hungry groan as he pressed against her. "I'm sorry I wasn't around much, lately. You had your own workload, sure, but I mostly just cadged kisses and crawled into bed. I didn't expect that out of love: missing someone you still see everyday. Missing someone you sleep with every night. It's... strange. Strange and bold and vibrant and real."

He slightly parted away from her, enough so he could look at her directly, hands on her shoulders. "I missed you," he whispered, then slowly leaning in for a kiss.