Chapter III: The Fall

[IamLEAM1983]

"We'll see about that," replied Sheldon to Charles, with the same bored monotone as before. Off of his belt came some sort of walkie-talkie, almost suspiciously mundane in appearance if not for the way tiny hairline fractures of Hellfire coursed alongside the black plastic casing.

"Norma, send Bob down here for me, will you?" was all he said, the little machine letting out an electronic bleep! that felt out of place in an environment that still had a trace of the Infernal to it.

The waiting room's white tiles were soon wreathed in lurid orange light as the grout between each panel started to exude power, and as some sort of pentagram-like design that wouldn't have been out of place in Diablo or Doom shimmered into being. Meris would barely have enough time to notice that there was a little bit of everything in that focusing circle's design - Cuneiform and Greek, a few Ogham streaks and circular Latin bands sharing space with Sanskrit phonemes - and a lot of power being pushed through. Whoever Bob was, he ranked high as far as surrogate consciences were concerned... 

Sheldon moved Jenkins, Three and Meris closer to the seats they'd occupied, all the while snapping his fingers so Zhang would steer clear. "C'mon," he said, "arms out of the summoning circle; I won't have telefrag accidents in this workplace!"

A sense of rising tension briefly filled the room even as its seemingly electric lights flickered and failed, heat seemed to briefly build up in its exact center - and then red fog burst forward out of that exact central point in space, expanding outwards until it stood close to seven feet tall and a good four or five wide. Out of the fog came the sudden and oddly sweet scent of cigar smoke, along with an annoyed grunt.

"Wake you up, Bob?" asked Sheldon, without looking at the Teacher demon.

The other fellow was heard smacking his lips together. "Something like that... Said farewell to a few Nuremberg oldies and one of Barca's old generals. Might've partied a little too much last night.
- Did you get the angel's number?"

Bob snorted. "They sent a male one down for that last batch - a new one, too. Still reeked of close-mindedness; I could feel the prick sizing me up while being all gracious and shit to the lucky bastards. Fucking hate it when Gabe passes Pandemonium duty to a newborn..."

A bigger red hand closed on Sheldon's shoulder. "Clear out, lemme look at 'em."

Sheldon stepped aside, revealing a second demon that could've been his bigger, burlier and taller big brother. His arms and legs would have passed for a steroid abuser's back on Earth, cut out of cord-like muscle and wreathed in unidentifiable black tattoos. His chest and stomach were on the opposite end of the spectrum, showcasing the kind of plump, hard roundness you typically associated with lifelong alcoholics. Faded denim pants covered his legs, stopping just short of his proudly-exhibited navel. Tattooed in an arch on top of it was the Latin phrase Sic Parvis Magna, rendered in blocky Gothic script. He seemed to be wearing some sort of leather vest over his otherwise bare chest, his exposed nipples pierced with the kinds of rings that wouldn't have looked out of place in a Hellraiser Cenobyte's design.

Three had a hard time imagining someone like him could teach anyone anything, with grotesquely big yellow eyes currently narrowed in a frown behind his sunglasses, an almost comically small nose and a large, arching set of blackened lips that held back a mismatched and ruinous set of teeth. How could a Hellblazer reject hope to pass as a teaching instance, he wondered?

Unfortunately, Three's skepticism had probably been obvious to the demon, who rolled his eyes at him before moving on to Jenkins.

"Yeah," he grunted, "yeah, you're the hardass in this bunch, I'd bet... The other two still smell like they've got whiffs of common sense left."

One of his big mitts gripped Jenkins' left biceps in a vice-like grip, the other one going down to his belt to recover something that, for the first time, actually did look like it belonged in Hell. It was a gun, albeit only in the sense that it had a grip, a trigger, a finger guard and a barrel - as the whole of it was expressed as a kind of half-organic, half-igneous design, as if barely-cooled lava could have been molded into a pistol's outer casing. The caliber would've been enough to blow Charles' head clean off, the veteran being briefly able to stare down inside the gun's barrel at the swirling expanse of what felt like lava as well. It wasn't exuding heat, but glowed white with contained energy.

The Teacher flicked a switch of some kind where you would've found a safety, and the gun's muzzle morphed into a sort of needle, the firearm turning into an injector of some sort.

"That," he said, "is a Guilt Tether, my friend. You'll each get one until you learn to behave. Wander off of wherever I'll be for more than a hundred meters, and every ounce of guilt you'll have ever felt in your life - including every ounce you should've felt - will hammer into you over and over. Chronic anxiety for chronic assholes. Struggle and I will make it hurt more. You've hit each other, so you know what happens when someone hurts you here. I don't care how much of an unkillable Regenerator freak you might've been or if via gave you heightened pain tolerance; you came here with Regrets. That means you can hurt."

Obviously not waiting for Charles' approval, he jabbed the needle into his arm. Charles wouldn't feel much - at least until he'd understand the medically-administered spell had reached his heart. Once that would happen, the kind of aching sense of oppression he wouldn't have felt in a long time kicked into gear. Anxiety was a bitch for any veteran; fight-or-flight reflexes kicking in even if you consciously knew you had nothing to fear.

It wasn't anything like clocking out or actually losing all sense of restraint; he'd feel as though his mind had trouble marshaling his body. Bob's injection hadn't actually been painful in that new sense he'd discovered, but it felt as though his heart and lungs hadn't received the message. A few seconds later, he'd see the same thing play across Three's face - the body confusedly wanting to run, to get away, even as his mind realized no threat would ever materialize. The difference was that Three seemed to have experience in the matter, his eyes immediately snapping shut and his breath almost reflexively turning to forced and deep inhales and exhales. It still didn't look easy, though.

* * *

The automaton briefly looked as though he needed to consider Jericho's words, a tiny frown suggesting careful inner monetary deliberation. The hesitant way in which he'd fished out his fountain pen and unscrewed the cap turned more resolute in the last moments, and he scrawled what looked to be an ordinary check in the vaguely too-smooth handwriting a lot of Clanks sometimes developed after a few centuries of existence.

"I believe you'll find this to be satisfactory," he said, finally handing the little slip to Liddane. Instead of an amount or a signature, however, Jericho would find the following:

Cannot transact here. Others may have heard us. More to disclose. Have suspicions - not towards you, of course. Take me to your office. Act as if finalized. Will follow from distance.

Having elected not to immediately inform the roanes, he instead acted as though their business had been concluded, closing his checkbook and storing his pen away. "That's that, then," he said, smiling agreeably. "Now, whenever the two of you will have finished, Evergloam's eternal springtime awaits. As for me, I do believe a constitutional back to the office is in order: I haven't stretched my legs often enough as of late and miss Jameson has landed comments about the paltry technique behind a few of my tumbles. Parkour's 1885 school of practice is a few theoretical notions behind 2025's, I'm afraid."

* * *

Aldergard's mind was a fastidious one, not exactly the type to immediately follow the heart's whims if other matters occupied the immediate professional spectrum. He'd spent the morning giving the envelope the occasional surly glare, his one eye expressing vaguely comical resentment towards that one beige and disproportionate object on his desk that dared to break his sacrosanct sense of Workplace Flow. Lunchtime meant personal time, however, and he spent a few minutes trying to push back against the very Wyrm-like curiosity that made him want to know what His Woman had to do with a Planned Parenthood clinic. Other black dragons would've probably jumped to unfortunate conclusions, but Aldergard knew Katherine well enough to know that anything related to her health would have been disclosed already.

Still, that Wyrm possessiveness was still there, fortunately only expressed as a bothersome whisper in the back of the dragon's mind, made up of the kind of paranoid anxiety he'd seen a lot of former members of his own brood take to levels that would have rivaled Sméagol's attachment to the One Ring. In Kuhn's case, however, professionalism and his naturally martial outlook on life kept it under wraps.

It was addressed to Katherine; there was no way he'd allow himself to open it. He settled with the next best thing: texting her. Lunchtime drowsiness adding up, he didn't have enough energy to wrestle with clear English formulations and instead blurted out something quick, effective, slightly intimate - and German.

My love,

The mail service has dropped a letter that is addressed to you on my desk. Shall I have it be redirected to yours?

- A.

[TennyoCeres84]

Neasa and Ciaran got up from their stools, having already finished the meals and drinks. "We'll keep in touch about what we find, Archie," Ciaran said, heading for the door.

The female roane flashed a smile at the Berserker. "Thanks for the arm wrestle, darling," she teased, following her brother. "See you later, Archie."

***

While skepticism hadn't passed through Meris's gaze, a slight nervousness would be detectable to Bob. The archmage had managed to cope with her anxiety over the centuries, but when you had such a long history of death-dealing and experienced horrors, even more than Jenkins and Aidan had, it was a sizable effort for someone who still experienced life like a mortal despite never aging.

The sight of the gun turned injection device and its noted effects made her visibly tense, the images of the bulky syringe being stuck into her thigh to drain her body fat while in a cage playing out, from her brief South African escapades in the 1920s. Even before the Teacher demon would have inserted the needle into her arm, the selkie inhaled deeply and exhaled shakily. Falling back on a consistent coping mechanism, she began quietly singing a lyric Charles had likely heard during World War II, Loverman by Billie Holiday:

"Someday we'll meet
And you'll dry all my tears
Then whisper sweet
Little things in my ear
Hugging and a kissing
Oh, what we've been missing
Lover man, oh, where can you be?"

Currently, there was only a small amount of via being funneled into her words, the pretty melody coming from her mouth as she used it as a focus for her nerves and not directed at anybody else.

[Karl the Mad]

Charlie tensed up at the sight of the gun, but when Bob took a grip on his arm and the weapon morphed into a syringe, he felt a stab of panic. "No, stop!" he blurted out, not knowing what was about to happen but quite certain it wouldn't be any fun. "We're n-!"

We're not dead! he would have said, but the plunge of that needle cut him off. For a second he didn't feel anything, but the onset of the unfamiliar feelings was like a blow to his heart; he went pale and staggered to one knee, clutching his chest. In a panic he looked around for his lifeline; were they still in touch with the world above? Or had they lost all tethers and were well and truly dead and damned?

-------------------------

Oh, I bet I know what it is! Hopefully it's good news, I'm actually almost there so just hold onto it for a few more minutes, okay? -K <3

And as promised, the corporate super shark breezed into Kuhn's office not two minutes after that text arrived. "Mein Liebe," she purred, giving him a brief hug and a peck on his cheek. "I've told you about that Charles Jenkins, right? And all his crazy stories?"

A bright smile on her face, she picked up the envelope and opened it, spilling a few sheets of paper into her hand. "Last week he came to me with an even crazier story than usual... but apparently he was right!" Her smile had widened, and she held it out for Aldergard to peruse. It was in fact the results of a paternity test, a bunch of numbers and letters that perhaps didn't mean much to a layperson. But the important bits were quite clear. At the top:

Child: Katherine Miranda Starr

Alleged Father: Charles Alfred Jenkins III

And down toward the bottom:

Probability of Paternity: 99.9998%

"He's my father!" Starr gushed, seemingly quite overjoyed to be part of a family of Viking-descendant psychos-for-hire. More likely she was just happy to have any family at all, though. "Isn't it a small world, liebling?"

-------------------------

As expected of a man who had received an unexpected sum, Jericho sat there, staring at the check for a few moments in silence. "...yes, I suppose it will do," he replied with a congenial smile, folding the slip and sticking it away into his shot-up old coat. "I shall take my leave as well, then." He laid out a few bills to settle his tab, gestured for Winters to keep the change, and stood up. "Any time, Neasa, any time."

He followed them outside, heading for a grim-looking old Indian motorcycle and swinging his long leg over the saddle. It fired up easily, and he took off, taking a leisurely and scenic route back to his offices so that Archie could easily keep up.

Being quite on the cheap side, Jericho's headquarters were located in the blasted, sterile tracts of land that were left over from the invasion years ago, the same land Jenkins had taken over upon his proper arrival in the city. Jenkins was in fact Liddane's landlord, the latest of many, although their relationship was much more congenial than the others who had come and gone in the past. In time he pulled up, shut off the motorcycle and went inside, waiting for Holden to make his appearance.

Liddane Bail Bonds was not, on the outside, a noteworthy establishment. Occupying two stories of a three-story cinderblock building on the corner of the street, it had that dusty look of all small businesses that somehow held to life regardless of what happened. And yet, small touches here and there indicated the mixed-race detective enjoyed at least a modest success; the bullet-proof windows were clean, the lights inside were all bright and cheerful, a couple well-hidden cameras took in the view. One in particular, over the solid-looking oak door, zoomed in on everybody who approached, possibly taking a snapshot and running it against some database or other.

Inside was a reception area, where an older-looking blonde woman was seated before a newer-looking workstation. Two doors in the back; one leading to Jericho's own office, the other to a bathroom. Stairs led upstairs, where one could assume old files moldered in storage and a break room or a conference room awaited. No doubt the third floor was Liddane's own domicile.

[IamLEAM1983]

Bob simply hovered over the trio, fists on hips, waiting for the effects to dissipate. Something odd must've begun to register to him, however, as he grunted and looked back to Sheldon.

"Leave 'em with me," he said, "there's a few tests I need to run..."

Sheldon, looking as blazé as ever, only replied by calling for Zhang to enter his office. The soldier gave the group an empathetic look before Bob shepherded them in the center of the room. One bright red flash later, they were in what would've reminded Meris of Nereus' private Dalarath office, if Dalarath had been carved and molded out of Brimstone instead of the sea floor's dense and pockmarked material. Old tomes graced the demon's shelves, along with inspirational black-and-white snapshots of what looked like lost souls offering their last grateful smile before Ascending. These were people who looked to have been pushed into probing the darkest and most painful corners of their own minds, only to have come out of the experience relieved of their prior burdens. Exhaustion was perceptible, along with a long-desired sense of peace, the top half of each frame being bathed in a sort of clear haze, possibly Heaven's light smudging the lens of whatever arcane equivalent to a camera had been used.

Moving to his desk, Bob opened a drawer and pulled out what looked like an ophthalmologist's testing goggles, Infernal symbols replacing numbers and letters. He removed his sunglasses and slipped them in a pocket in his vest, all the while gesturing to the trio.

"Siddown," he groused, "there's something off about you three. We would've heard from Charon if you'd been the sorts to cause trouble, and Adam here only started his shit fit once he talked with one of the locals..."

Sitting down, Three parted with a sigh. "That's because we're not dead, mister, um, Bob."

The soldier barely had time to finish that the Teacher demon's hand whipped out and forced him to stay seated. The other one brought the apparatus to his face and fiddled with a few levers and knobs, anxiously muttering the whole while - only to slowly remove the device from his eyes a few moments later.

"You're not Infernalists, or else you've have gone for the Pit 'stead of here," he said, "and two of you don't so much as register as hedge mages - you're probably lucky if you manage an astral voyage instead of the usual nighttime dreams..."

Three started to respond, but Bob tightened his hold on his shoulder while bringing the device back down over his eyes to scrutinize Meris. He didn't need much more than one tiny tweak of a single knob to almost rip the object off his face and start rubbing his eyes with his index finger and thumb, his astonishment being more than apparent.

"Holy shit!" was what finally left him. He looked at her, briefly appearing unsure of how to handle the situation, before he rounded his office again and set his hands on its surface.

"Okay, Your Highness," he said, looking at Meris, "explain to me why it is you're associated with Solomon's Court in the first place, why they've waited close to two thousand years in Earth time for letting an Heir out on a public trip, and how two mundane, living jarheads like these two can manage to survive the trip down here.
- Captain Sam helped us to get here," supplied Three. "Our lifelines are still stretching back to our bodies as we speak," he said, even if he did share some of Charles' apprehension.

Bob nodded. "And nobody from the Pit knows about any of this yet, that much I can assume. If there's one thing the Pitspawn hate more than recent arrivals, it's the Reformists. Naberius, Samigina, Agares, Vassago - all traitors to the cause if you ask the Black Goat.
- Why aren't you publicly backing them?
- Because the Court offers power, dipshit," countered Bob. "They're playing the same tune as the Pitspawn, only they're congenial and sympathetic and shit. Betcha the Steward didn't elaborate on his slip-ups, didn't he," the Teacher deduced. "Someone's great, they pass the tests and get the Seal - only it stops being enough after a few years. The Model Statesman or woman Cerberus tries to groom? Poof. Lost, because they slipped and Fell. Naberius is forced to kill someone who's gone Sith, knowing full well that killing 'em adds one extra motherfucker to the Pit's ranks."

Three nodded. "So Pandemonium thinks Solomon's path is too risky and thinks it can stand against the Pit on its own. There aren't any success stories?
- Outside of Solomon himself? None," confirmed Bob. "The greater the mage, the more we get worried the Court's going to sniff 'em out. We know Merlin and Agrippa both dodged a bullet - but this is freaking Meris of the Goddamn Orcades. The better the mage, the tougher the life and the kinder the individual, the harder the fall."

Bob snorted. "Most of the other Heirs just sat around, reaping the terrestrial and political benefits of having the Court at their service. The Marquis de Saint-Germain never lied about his exploits, and Caglisotro owes a lot of his theoretical presence in the arcane field to the leg-up the Court have him in the publishing process. Immortality, literary fame and convenient bylines to the printing press. Period."

* * *

"It certainly is," replied the Wyrm, whose curt smile and serious approach seemed to suggest he preferred to focus on the importance of the event rather than how joyful it was.

"No-one should live without knowing of their bloodline," he said, briefly squeezing Katherine's hand. "I am glad to see this question has been resolved for you."

His eye lingered over her in a way that suggested that he saw more in her than just some confirmed genetic inheritance. He didn't feel like spoiling her joy, but he privately felt as though Katherine's origins didn't matter in the least. She'd made herself and had worked for every scrap of who she'd become. That, to him, mattered infinitely more than some errant passing of alleles and phenotypes. In his world, the only blood that had ever mattered was the blood you'd managed to spill - or the blood you protected.

Still, Charles' own well-being had to be considered. "Does he know?" he then asked. "More to point," he said, his Slavic tongue skipping past an article, "should he know? The man seems to only want responsibility for himself and his allies. There is risk he may think he has... failed you."

That was something centuries of living with mortals had drilled into his psyche. Black dragons thought nothing of abandoning lackluster brood members or any fledgelings that were plainly and simply unwanted, as if parental guilt couldn't have been expressed by the average Wyrm brain - but mortals weren't quite so brazen. Aldergard knew enough to know his own love for Katherine was unconditional, but several of his compatriots had taken the breed's choosy approach to manipulative levels he was more than glad to report to competent authorities.

Sometimes, what started as your typical financial investigation ended with Katherine having to refer a betrayed spouse to therapy; something that made the natural empathy of Mentalists a useful tool. Aldergard himself had sometimes needed to refer the Finance division's case files to local or country-specific Child Services governmental bodies.

* * *

Archie being who and what he was, keeping up with the Indian bike wasn't too hard, and he'd eventually managed to get ahead of the detective. In true spy fashion, his entrance wasn't recorded by any of Liddane's hardware all thanks to some fancy footwork and timed positioning. Yet, once Jericho would arrive, he'd find the Clank engaged in pleasant small talk with his secretary, the magic suffusing his armature making it seem as though arriving first and talking his way in had involved healthy and appreciated amounts of exertion.

After all, the best set of lockpicks in the business was the gift of gab.

"Jericho, old boy," he said, greeting the man more congenially, "I've spent a delightful five minutes hearing of your secretary's last trip to Tuscany. What I wouldn't give for winter to have passed already, hearing of those sun-crested hills and verdant farms makes my mouth water."

He briefly sent the blonde a look of apparently shared desire - globe-trotters pining for some time spent abroad - and then fished out a bonafide check.

"There we are," he said on a satisfied tone, "fifteen hundred dollars, with an extra two hundred as hazard pay in the immediate. If anything unforeseen should arise such as an injury or the pressing need for a blood top-off, consider me as your insurance provider."

His features then grew slightly more somber. "Now we come to what should be discussed in private, I'm afraid..."

[TennyoCeres84]

OOC: Don't forget about Mary and Aislinn.

BIC: Meris leaned back against her seat and crossed her arms, sighing as she responded, "I'm not really surprised Naberius has had to kill previous Heirs or Heiresses. The Ring of Solomon's basically an embodiment of "With great power comes great responsibility" and "Absolute power corrupts absolutely", or at least it can be. Otherwise, Solomon would be in Hell, and he's not."

She shrugged and eyed him squarely."If things weren't as they are now, I wouldn't have contacted Tom Magnus about setting up the party to present me as a possible candidate; however, the Black Goat's depredations toward Leonard Ephesian is only going to add to the chaos that's coming with regard to the Others and Their servants. I want to unite as many forces against Them as possible. The ones who have rebelled against Amaxi and Her brethren, mortals, Heaven, and Hell. We already know the barriers between the realms are slowly weakening, and Hell's not going to last long if everything else falls by the wayside."

"The reason why we're here is we need to speak with Ahriman and the Council as to how they're going to counter the Black Goat. Apart from Sam's help, I'm pretty sure as to how Charles and Aidan were able to make it here with relative ease is because Naberius declared them to be my Heralds, along with some other allies. The title probably came with a few benefits Naberius didn't care to mention. And this is a big when and if of defeating the Others, but if we do, Naberius can have the ring back if he doesn't wish to see me die by his hand, even if he has to cut my finger off."

Some measure of extreme exhaustion fell over her features. "I've been chipping away at this mountain for a long time by a mortal's standards, and I want to retire, if at all possible, but I'm a long way from having any sort of normal life. Whether my husband or son will still be alive to be at my side, I don't know. I hope they will, but I have no guarantees. All that matters is that this universe continues to exist, even if Heaven and Hell have to merge with the mortal plane. Regardless, Bob, change is coming, and I hope Pandemonium is willing to work with us."


***

Ciaran and Neasa had headed for a door they knew would take them into Evergloam, not bothering to return to Holden Hall. Given their statuses as Oathed Knights, crossing over into Faerie would be probably easy enough.

[Karl the Mad]

"And here I thought I was doing you a favor," Jericho joked. "Next time I will take a more direct route, without holding back." He took the check, glanced at it, and handed it to the secretary without comment. "Wait in my office, please, I need to discuss a few mundane things with Lisa first." But the first thing he did was to hang up his hat and his overcoat on the old-fashioned hat rack by the front door. Considering his was an active business, it stood to reason that there would be a fair bit of mundane issues to see to before he could jump at Archie's beck and call.

A few minutes later he walked into his office, removing his suit jacket as he stepped inside. "You are fortunate that this is a slow week, milord, or else I would not be so good-humored about your assumption that you could simply buy out my calendar," he told the clank, light warning in his tone. Without the overcoat and jacket, it was more apparent than ever that Jericho was, quite simply, ripped as hell. Even with a tailored shirt on, one could see the breadth of his shoulders and the sinewy way the muscles of his arms flexed as he moved about. A holster beneath his arm held a revolver of some no-doubt intimidating caliber or other, likely because his hands would not easily fit into a smaller weapon.

The office itself was as spartan as the rest of the firm, with a few file cabinets along the wall and a large desk set before the window. A mini-fridge hummed quietly in the corner, and two chairs were set in front of the desk; Jericho, of course, sat behind it, in a worn but well-padded office chair. The surface of the desk held nothing save for a slim-looking laptop, or at least, it looked slim with the detective's huge forearms braced before it. The walls held a framed diploma, the usual licenses and permits, and a black-and-white picture of Jericho himself from a great many years ago. "This entire building is swept twice a month for bugs, charms, and illicit devices of every sort, so you can be assured that we are in complete privacy here," he told the clank. "Now, what did you have to say to me?"

-------------------------

"You're right, of course," Katherine replied, some of her exuberance fading as she considered his words. "I... I know it shouldn't matter, neither he or my mom were ever a real part of my life, but still." Then she shrugged. "I think he already suspects; Shield made some new friends and one of them said something about me, which made him think. But I get the feeling he's very busy, as he barely had time to call me about the appointment and meet me there before he had to leave again."

She shrugged again. "It would be a disservice to us both if I kept it from him, I believe. But it can wait until we see each other again."

-------------------------

"So bein' Solomon's Heir ain't all sunshine 'n daisies," Charles summarized. "So fuckin' what? Like Meris said, we gots shit goin' on 'n we're needin' all a' 'elp we c'n git." He shook his head. "Well, y' knows who she is... 'at's Aidan Drake 'n I'm Charles Jenkins th' Third. An' I was in th' Navy, not th' Marines."

[IamLEAM1983]

Bob gave the trio a vaguely surly look and sat down in his own chair, groaning as he did so. "I'm Bob. No, that's not my actual name and no, you're not getting it. I didn't bust my ass through the Sammaelite grinder for Joe McInfernalist to snag me up as his private tutor. I don't know who Tom Magnus is, and I'm familiar with chipping away at fuckin' mountains," he said, looking at Meris as he spoke.

"The Black Goat is the biggest one there is," he said, resetting his sunglasses on his nose. "Right after the Fall, most of the angels that made the mistake of following Lucifer came down from their power trip hard and fast. A handful followed the douchebag into the lake and became the Princes, the others worked to try and carve something decent for themselves out of the shore's black stones. Humility sank in quickly, as you can imagine. Down here, they felt everything they'd always imagined their power would shield them from. Hunger, exhaustion, physical pain... A few clung to what few bits of pleasure they still had. They made kids. Mom and Dad made me some time after Falling.

Ahriman was the one who took God's lesson to the fullest. He went from Lucifer's literal and figurative trumpet-holder to the most outspoken advocate for penitence. The only angel we'd see regularly was Sammael, the Angel of Death, and he worked with her to try and come up with something constructive for the Fallen. Something that'd show they finally understood mortalkind.

My folks and other pairs went back Upstairs to the mortal plane after figuring out how they could hijack a Prince's summons for themselves. They ran away from their summoners and looked for dead bodies to inhabit. They went corporeal and set about learning everything they should've respected about the mortal condition. They lived and died and lived again - all until they knew why they couldn't judge you. The Princes think evil's something to be celebrated because it twists Creation out of sorts; we know evil is human. It's desperate and sad and pitiful. Nobody ever gets up in the morning thinking they'll be the biggest asses they can be - the road to Hell absolutely is paved with good intentions. There's just a point where these good intentions slide off and you just... sink in. You become the monster you could've avoided becoming. It's slow, comfy and steady - and you don't even know it's happening. The worst thing is nobody's immune. Mortals, undead, Fae, Transgenics or whoever else - not even those angels closest to God."

Three frowned. "How does that apply to the Goat?
- Lucifer's plan to civilize Mankind never included a Let's Make Ourselves Their Gods clause. Ptah slipped up. Marduk slipped up. Interestingly, Dagon didn't. Neither did Ishtar. There's a lot of angels-turned-tutelary gods that came with a set of goals in mind, achieved those goals, and left. They seeded the written word, developed agriculture, established sedentary cultures and just left the chips fall where they would. That was the initially-stated plan. A lot of early followers of Lucifer's ideas never took things too far and actually took the Lightbringer to court for his own abuses, later on. The Host tried to wake Ptah up and Metatron even got to voice God's direct concerns to him, but he'd sunk in pretty solidly.

The short of it is we've spent the last two thousand Earth years trying to use our expertise with mortal souls to find at least a theoretical model that might help us to reach the Goat, to make him see reason. Half of the reason why Pandemonium's demons is so crammed with armchair psychologists in various forms is because we figure that if we can suss out where Evil starts in mortal souls, we might have a shot at making the Pitspawn see reason."

Three blinked. "So you're trying to fix the Fall, or at least make up for it.
- More or less, yeah. I never Fell, myself - but ask any German if he or she feels responsible for the Holocaust. Down here, carrying the shame of your forefathers is a tradition amongst us demons. Everything we do is done in the hopes that it'll show God that we're sorry our predecessors fucked up. Of course, popular theory goes that God knows that but needs Hell to exist for legitimate structural reasons - bad people need a place to go to - and I do buy it; but it's also nice to think there's some kind of a way out for us.

"Can you account for those changes Meris mentioned?"

That one made Bob pause. "There's some of us who wonder what harm could come out of the planes merging," he then said. "Grief would be easier for mortals; your dead relatives would just start to exist on a different frequency instead of vanishing. Couples that were separated by the Fall could see each other again, and the arcane potential is obvious. Hellfire and Celestial Light would both be as easy to tap into for hedge mages as the most pliable ley line. If Faerie merged in as well, we'd end up with a kind of magic-based Horn of Plenty scenario, to the point where traditionally developed technologies would fall by the wayside. Via could power entire cities without any risk of conflagration, you'd finally drop the fossil fuels crutch and take that last step into pure and self-sustaining development..."

Three frowned. "There's a catch: the Pit.
- Bingo," replied Bob. "Picture all of the above, only there's a couple, oh, thousand billion Damned crawling over everything. Either you go Karthian and start walling and doming up your cities, or you make military service compulsory and make everyday existence on Earth read like a Starship Troopers chapter. All of that's a prelude to the universe shrinking, too - so the world gets a few centuries worth of a shitty, demon-ridden Golden Age and then the Others break through.
- So what's the plan?"

Bob sighed. "We refocus on aggression. Take the Pit out so we're the ones with the advance tickets to the Apocalypse. We've got forward posts sprinkled across the Pit, but holding them is a constant battle. Ahriman's had to host more tributes and funerals in the past Earth year than in the last several centuries.
- So demons can die," summarized Three.

"We can," explained Bob, "but only down here. While I'm here, this is the only body I get."

While speaking, Bob had pressed a button on what looked like a fairly ordinary office phone, Caller ID screen included. As he'd finished, an intercom-sounding buzz was heard, followed by a hoarse voice barely recognizable as female.

"Council Palace, Ahriman's office. Help ya?
- Yeah, Roz? Tell the boss Bob says hi. I've got Solomon's Heiress in my office.
- You're two days late for Prank Tuesdays, Bob."

The Teacher demon gave the phone a spastic, vaguely murderous smile, and continued on a dulcet tone. "Roz, when have I ever done anything for Jerry's fucking inane Prank Tuesdays?"

Silence stretched out on the line for a few seconds. "I'll get you the boss," Roz then said. "Please hold for transport."

Rolling his eyes, Bob looked back at Aidan, Jenkins and Meris and mouthed the words Jerry's an asshole.

* * *

"He should be," confirmed Aldergard, "Cordatus told me of how someone from the Hall has asked for the delivery of the campus' printing workshop's rejects from Legal Studies textbooks, from Bachelor's to Doctorate's degrees. No-one in staff has ability to learn at accelerated pace."

He grunted. "There is this, and Herr Quint's demise and... disappearance. Again, nobody on staff dares to speak to me or to others regarding Infernalist's last moments. I suspected Herr Holden would withhold information liberally and introduce whelps to darker paths towards justice. He has dealt in shadows before. The Automaton and your friends were seen at hospital - with Quint on a gurney.

Add massive via spikes at the Hall, from week ago - and I have reasons to worry. Or at least, for being curious. Something of a more... primal nature than fraudulent transactions is afoot. Never before have they felt the need to shelter one who seeks help. This is different."

* * *

After wishing a good afternoon to Lisa with a nod and a smile, Archie did as instructed and waited in Jericho's office, not doing much more than removing his gibus. Gloved fingers still picking at flecks of lint from atop his top hat, he observed Liddane with the look of someone who'd seen intimidating physiques often enough to be able to look past outward appearances. Ripped or no, Jericho still moved in a way Holden perceived as meaning he had something of an intellectual bent, something his familiar speech pattern reinforced. Having lived in the days of Victorian trappers who were built like oxes while still being able to manage a luncheon and cucumber sandwiches, Archie wasn't so much unimpressed as he considered Liddane as being flatly and simply normal. Familiar would have been a more fitting adjective. It felt like being seated in front of a slice of his own native definition of masculinity.

"What I am about to tell you should not, under any circumstances, leave this room. My friend has asked for the utmost secrecy, and I am about to betray that trust if only to impart you with as much information as possible. The more you know, the less time will be spent sending out the proverbial feelers. Another case of ours is absorbing much of our manpower and timetable at once, so some of the niceties of confidentiality will have to be left by the wayside..."

He gave the grain of Liddane's desk an almost feline look of scrutiny. "My friend's name is Preston Hauser, mister Liddane. The boy is consumed by thoughts of revenge for the murder of his parents and the dissolution of his family's board of directors. He suspects someone has directly sought control of the family's capital, and all of his prison-acquired means of digital larceny have brought him very little in terms of leads to follow.

He has only one name, one beneficiary of the Hauser empire's collapse. Alexandria Antiquities."

Holden then eyed the Berserker squarely. "Legal proceeds mean little to me in this context, mister Liddane. All I aim to see is fading tension on young mister Hauser's face, along with the finality of long sought-after knowledge. Innocent mortal individuals have died in the context of a tragedy in which greed and inexplicably-vested interests took center stage.

I believe I speak for Preston if I say that should you find anyone deserving of persuasion or coercion, you would have our consent to deal with them as you see fit. I do not speak as a city-appointed vigilante, but rather as a trained assassin and killer, myself. Considering, all of our files related to Preston's own turmoils will remain outside of the constabulary's records. Any attempts to publicly refer to this case will be met with denial by myself and all others implicated."

He leaned slightly forward. "I have my suspicions, and could forward you several hundred pages' worth of details concerning latecoming or lapsed signatories of the Vienna Accords. Former high-ranking Elysium officers and members of Anastasius Romanov's former court alike. Undead Secessionists and dragon slavers from the Southern States. Wyrm with noted pathological tendencies concerning their finances or ageless figures that dodged even the Accords' initial drafting, as anonymous now as they were centuries ago. Some are little more than monikers or blurred photographs, but there are others I know very well."

* * *

The basement's door was soon heard swinging open, followed by Tom's recognizable steps. "Sorry about that, ladies," he said as he came down, "I had to stop by an ATM to pay Dennis and figured I'd open myself a gate straight into my room. The sooner I got rid of mister Volkov, the better..."

Coming down, he'd returned to his usual purple ensemble and had seemingly tried to wipe off the scent of his cigarette from earlier with a healthy dose of Listerine. The rings were gone - now replaced back in Archie's ring box - and his being indoors meant his fedora was useless for now. He gave the pods a quick once-over, but understandably didn't want to waste Mary or Aislinn's time.

"Wonderful," he said, "thank you! Put me down for any favour you'd need, Mary; I like to pay my debts in full. Now all we need is to break the link safely."

He stood on one side of the container and gestured for Aislinn to pick the other. "What you'll want to do is push against the container - but not with your arms or your weight. We need to separate these two conjoined points in space so they return to normal, so the trick is to push not so much as a telekinetic, but as a physicist."

He set his hands against the steel surface. "In the early days, I just asked the objects I displaced to go back, pushing all the while. Then I got a little more authoritative - and then I could afford to stop speaking or mentally projecting. The idea is the container's stepped out of line, and you're trying to calmly and firmly bring it back in its place. Anger being negative energy, using shouts as your mnemonic device isn't a good idea. You don't want the junction point to explode before you're finished."

[TennyoCeres84]

OOC: Could you also add in something for Neasa and Ciaran?

BIC: A faint, amused smile briefly appeared on her face, but she now merely waited with them for the transport. Bob's explanation of the situation of the realms merging sobered her goal of allying Pandemonium and the Court. She saw it was a valid objective, but hashing things out on a more detailed level was required. Despite having seen the statue of Ahriman, she wondered what they were about to see and discuss.

***

Aislinn touched the other side of the container and focused on pushing it on the finest level possible, not allowing her more negative emotions to cloud her actions. Instead, she sent out vibrations of it needing to return to its proper place and pushed with her mind. "You need to go back to the location you once were," she told it.

[Karl the Mad]

Too much talking; Charles thought maybe his eyes were glazing over, as Bob explained things to the others. Didn't Meris have a direct line to the Council demons anyway? Why were they waiting around? Well, whatever. Not like he had anything better to do. Or anywhere better to be.

He thought about Katherine Starr and the story he had told her, the visit they had made together. The thought bolstered his resolve; he couldn't die or get stuck down here, not before he found out whether she was his daughter or not! They had to make some kind of connection! A stern look graced his scarred visage, and he glared at the door for no apparent reason.

-------------------------

As Archie started on his tale, Jericho leaned forward, fingers steepled in front of him. "Hauser?" he blurted out, looking surprised when that name came up. But he shook his head and gestured for Arch to continue, which he did. And when the telling was done, the Native leaned back again. "Interesting... I am familiar with the Hauser tragedy, in fact. His parents died in a crash, but not many people know they were accomplished pilots, the both of them. Or if they do know, they will not acknowledge it." He nodded up at the ceiling. "This building has an HC&C unit installed, as a matter of fact. But so do a great many buildings and houses across the world."

He thought for a moment, then grinned toothily. "I have not fed in the traditional manner in quite some time. It will be a rush to do so once more." The grin subsided again. "The obvious tactic is to start with the Detective we discussed earlier, but your students are already pursuing that line. I have not delved into the antiques trade in years, but I suspect this Alexandria company you mentioned is similar to others. Little more than private mercenary corporations with an emphasis on the location and retrieval of priceless objects. University professors with a background in extreme violence, basically."

-------------------------

For some reason, Mary felt slightly self-conscious as she leaned into the transport container. "Run along home, now," she muttered, visualizing the molecular interaction as best she could as she nudged it forward. Without being a practitioner she probably wouldn't do much to help, but she didn't feel like simply standing there while the others did all the work.

-------------------------

"You'd like me to pay them a visit?" Katherine deduced. She represented Kuhn and they wouldn't want to speak to her, since it would get back to him anyway, but people had a much harder time lying to her and keeping things from her than they did with Aldergard. "I can surely do that."

[IamLEAM1983]

Another brief flash later, the trio and Teacher demon alike stood at the midpoint of what felt like a palatial hallway carved out of Brimstone, painted glass windows letting Hell's lurid light shine through. The stained glass patterns were done in tones of red for the most part, depicting the events leading up to, constituting and following the Fall in what felt less like a religious mark of observance than a temporal one. Twelve windows, twelve suits of armor of fittingly Hellish design - and curiously, twelve sylvan and floral displays that clashed against the otherwise dour appearance of their surroundings. Trees seemingly plucked right out of a temperate climate in the mortal plane grew to their full length at regular intervals along the hallway, each of them surrounded by a carefully circumscribed patch of floral greenery. Every now and then, the shy trills of birds fluttering from one perch to another could be heard. A few nameless statues could also be found throughout the space, some of them serving as fountains, and all depicting vague humanoid figures bonding in different ways.

Here, a featureless couple was embracing. There, another pair was exchanging a handshake. A few stations later, a figure hoisted up a smaller, more childlike silhouette. Another station depicted a more intimate clasping of hands, the two figures implied to be a couple. You had figures hoisting up other figures from the ground, more stone silhouettes with their knees bent across nonexistent chairs, arms raised as if speaking across a nonexistent table. A figure teaching another, the first one peering over the second's shoulder...

"This is beautiful," observed the soldier. "After seeing Pandemonium, I had a hard time imagining anything like this could exist in Hell," he said, peering through one of the windows out at Pandemonium's sloping streets. They'd seemingly been transported atop the cavern's single wall-hugging hill, Ahriman's palace dominating the entire skyline.

"Hard to inspire trust if you don't pull at the heartstrings," noted Bob. "The only real Prince and Ahriman are both working pretty damn hard at making sure we understand what and who we're working for. Personal glory doesn't count for much down here."

A few seconds later, the tapping noises you'd have associated to a blind person's cane was heard inching closer. From somewhere behind the hall's currently empty throne came a hunching figure, burdened with innumerable years. His features were both human and vaguely faun-like, wisps of white hair still clinging to a pate covered in liver spots, even while a proud beard stretched down to the man's waistline - now almost touching the floor with how hunched he was. A few moments later, they'd be able to see the figure clad in charcoal robes was blind, his dark eyes appearing both lifeless and oddly piercing. Twin horns curved away from his forehead and around his wedge-shaped ears, still growing black near the roots while having faded along their length over the centuries. Ahriman was actually carrying a staff, one he currently angled forwards by a small margin in order to tap on the floor ahead of him. He seemed to be wearing some sort of heavy coat over his robes, Three needing a few moments to realize the coat was actually Ahriman's withered and ragged set of wings.

He spoke with a weary and ragged voice, something that reminded Three of Diablo's Deckard Cain, while still packing the kind of assurance that came once you'd traded physical strength for intellectual prowess and hard-earned wisdom. As blind as the Teachers' leader appeared to be, it still seemed as though he could see something, based on how he locked eyes with them.

"Living souls bearing the burden of destiny have now walked my Prince's halls... Would that I could look upon you, as you would bring joy to a tired and withered heart."

In speaking, he clasped both hands of each of them, giving the two humans and the roane a simple and frank smile. Bob coughed lightly once this was complete. "Sir, this is Meris McConmara, the newest Heiress of Solomon's Court." He also allowed himself to guide one of Ahriman's hands to Meris' as he did so, so he could put a name on that particular hand pattern. The elder demon's eyes seemed to light up at that contact, his small smile blooming into a warm and almost grandfatherly display.

"Such light," he breathed, "and so much love... Oh, but you are blessed, my child, for your ancestors and Solomon himself are all smiling down upon you."

Gently, as much with the feebleness of old age as with genuine care, he pulled Meris into a hug. Whatever defenses the roane might have maintained would almost instantly collapse, as Ahriman's arms felt as though they'd always waited for her - as if he were a long-lost grandfather she'd never known.

The same process was repeated with Charles. "Joy," Ahriman said, "and what a lust for life I feel in you, son! The strength of ten armies, and the compassion of twice as many fathers. One day, you shall set down your weapons, look upon your handiwork and realize you've done it. You will retire in peace - I can see it in you."

The hug was replaced by a brief shoulder clasp. "You are less of a mercenary than you think," the old demon said, knowingly chuckling.

Then came Three, whose contact seemingly ripped a quiet gasp out of the demon. "Love, but so little light... So much left unsaid; and it burns within you... Take heart, my son, for you have found a band of brothers and sisters in blood."

Ahriman's contact tugged at Three's heart and mind in a way no Army psychologist had ever managed. He also received a hug, which he put to use to whisper something in the demon's ear. Empathy washed over Ahriman's features, but he seemed concerned with protecting Aidan's offered secret. He slowly pushed Drake away, whose eyes had reddened even if no tears had fallen.

"I may give you my seal, should you wish it. No innocent mortal should have to carry this burden, my son. I will listen as best I can.
- But I'm no mage," replied Three, his voice slightly choked off by lasting emotional turmoil. Ahriman replied by raising a hand. "We Teachers follow different rules. We intervene when required, and come when called, no matter who calls us. The ebb and flow of via matters less to us than the particular pull of the mortal heart," he said, laying a hand on his own chest.

Bob settled with a sedate nod. "It's our job to peck away at the seedy corners of the average soul. You either cry 'em out of your system, you get them beat out of you, or you talk it through. If you're lucky, John Lennon's right and all you need is a little lovin'. We'd make poor surrogate consciences if we couldn't help you monkeys forgive yourselves. The chronically loveless types get referred to the Seducers. They're, um, basically empathetic succubi and incubi, born outta bloodlines that haven't had anything to do with Asmodeus for a good coupla generations."

Three was confused, however. "Wait - I remember being told attachment wasn't therapeutic. How can anyone here afford to care so much?
- Our fault was our lack of empathy," explained Ahriman. "We of Pandemonium have taken this in stride and opted to show the Creator that we suffered from a lapse in judgment during the Fall. Hell's hardships have more than sufficed in reminding us of our true purpose. So, we care - and in some cases, care for mortals that have yet to pass through here. We care because it defines us. We will stand by Mortalkind where all others may fail."

Ahriman's smile turned reflexive. "I once thought myself above your kind. It was my undoing. I learned to see grace where the noblest of angels only see their Creator's unexplainable pet project, and I have loved each and every one of Pandemonium's visiting souls ever since; loved them like a father does his children."

* * *

Archie's lips pursed. His mind flashed back to World War Two and the Reich's craven researchers, archaeologists in jackboots who would have chiselled swastikas atop Khufu's pyramid if it had somehow helped Hitler's cause. Jericho's last summation was therefore only met with a pensive grunt, but one veteran could guess another's train of thought.

"It's a wonder none of them have ever thought to try and exhibit either of us as curiosities for the enemy to gawk at," he contemplated, only to dismiss that topic as being unproductive.

"I felt that splitting the investigation in groups would generate noise we could all benefit from. Delgado may feel the need to see in which ways my pupils will have scrutinized her activities, which would detract any potentially involved members of the force from interfering with your own mucking about Alexandria's business. I take a stab at the middle-ground in the meantime. This way, no-one will know the nature of this investigation for certain. Is it yourself snooping about independently, my own charges pursuing their own leads - or perhaps one of my personas sticking its own feet in the mud? If anyone threatens our little cluster, the rest of us is bound to be informed in short order."

Still, something did rip a bit of a jocular smile out of him. "I... may ask you to pull me out of a rhetorical bind, if Preston ever hears of us. His non-disclosure policy was quite strict, and getting him back on the saddle required some of Bagley's finest tongue-wagging. I've a feeling that I could spend hours singing your praises that he would still feel justifiably betrayed. Only if we came to him with clear results would he put aside my rather blatant disregard for his instructions. A spy I may be, a good spy never goes at it alone. Young mister Hauser, on the other hand, is so busy licking his own wounds he has no concept of welcome assistance. Something I've no doubt the prison system has beat into him along with shanking and database penetration skills..."

* * *

As the counter-spell took effect, Tom marshalled his desire to offer Mary an empathetic chuckle. All first-time mages felt like utter cretins, and all mundane one-time assistants felt the exact same. Once the container was gone - something to which he responded by reaching out to both women in case they'd started adding physical torque and were now unbalanced - he briefly turned his settling hand into a clasp on Mary's shoulder.

"That was wonderful, Mary - and yes, that includes the mnemonics. We all start feeling like Dorothy clicking her heels and chanting There's no place like home. Even Meris did, trust me. All Cantors have to learn to sing, and Aislinn had to work past the eternal little read hearts signed for Mom or whoever your last boyfriend was."

He smirked at the roane. "And I don't even want to think of all the tribal tattoos she might've had to work on to pay the bills, all that excessive aftershave and hair gel..."

* * *

Aldergard shrugged lightly. "Professionally? Ja. Visit them as friend, however. Holden has reasons, I suspect we can trust him still - but is good to know."

He then tried to wrap his tongue around G.I. Joe's famous axiom. "Knowing is... part of combat. Or something."

Being self-aware enough to realize he'd just sounded ridiculous, the closest thing his face could manage to a goofy smirk stretched out across his maw - and still looked falsely murderous.