From the deck, the trio walked up a causeway to what felt like the starting point of a larger road, maybe some sort of highway. If the Pit wasn't much more than a network of snaking canyons, Pandemonium still looked fairly urban and recognizable to mortal eyes, even if what served as asphalt below their feet was suffused with glowing red-orange veins and seemed to lightly throb with power.
Purgatory being where souls came to cleanse themselves of their sins, Brimstone dust seemed to be stinking onto everything. The cars that puttered and roared past them were all monstrous gasoline-guzzling boxcars, some of which wouldn't have looked out of place on the set of a Mad Max sequel. They belched out black smoke that didn't just stink of burning two-step oil, but also of tangible regret and pain. The faces that slid past them all looked sullen and weathered - even the younger ones - and it was fairly difficult to see who seemed to be closer to Ascension based on these split-second snippets.
They stopped at what looked like a standard bus station, complete with distressed seats and oddly Eldritch graffiti. A few minutes later, a vaguely toadlike entity stopped its bus in front of them, its slightly bulbous eyes expressing ages-old boredom. His nametag read Charon, predictably enough.
"One-stop to City Hall for newcomers," the driver droned, "payable by funeral fare if you're Greek or Egyptian. For other cultures, one Regret suffices."
Three was a bit confused. "What if... we have no regrets?
- Then you don't belong here, smartass," droned Charon, on the same half-asleep tone that suggested he'd heard this a thousand times.
The soldier licked his lips. "Yeah, right. How does this work?"
Charon sighed, something in his eyes mutely expressing the deepest of suicidal ideations. "Just tell me something you regret, Captain Greenhorn, the System'll calculate its worth and give you the corresponding amount of public transport credit."
Not wanting to make his friends wait too long by the roadside, Three picked the first thing that came to mind. "I regret not being able to save Carrie."
The old hand-crank for the coin-feeder next to the bus' door handle flipped on its own, the old mechanism groaning painfully as it did. Coins started to spill into the glass receptacle - not in the expected trickle, but in a downpour. Seeing this, Charon started to protest, saying Aidan could've maybe picked something a little less dramatic...
It was too late for the poor coin box, which shattered under its excessive load. Coins kept spilling for a while longer, the driver staring at it. "Lucifer," he then quietly swore, "most folks get the hint and save the big 'uns for the Teachers, FYI!"
Drake smiled awkwardly. "Can I, uh, put my friends on my tab?"
Looking at the mess that would very likely spend the rest of the ride sliding and clattering around the bus' floor, Charon snorted. "You could put Solomon's fuckin' Court on your tab, with that kinda money! You should've stowed that and pulled it out in front of a Seducer or a Teacher, maybe hightail it outta here and through them Pearly Gates in record time!
- Rookie mistake," replied Three with a bashful shrug.
Charon gestured the other two inside. "Rookie mistake my ass," he replied snidely, "Hitler and Nero were so stuck-up I had to wheedle my way to paid bus fare for half an hour for each of them - and that's normal around here! Think of this place as Mexico, alright? We barter, here, and we service providers usually look down on folks who blow their wad on us!"
That perplexed Three. "How are we supposed to atone for anything we if can't take anything serious off our chests?
- Because I'm not certified to say you've atoned, jackass," replied Charon, "neither's your future landlord, your boss, or your could-be demonic neighbor. You wanna get ahead? You save your problematic shit for the Teachers or the Seducers. End of story. Next time, tell me you regret throwing fits at the grocery store as a kid or something. Not that there's going to be a next time, Mister Big Spender..."
* * *
As British as ever, Archie acted as though the contest wasn't even taking place, looking far more preoccupied with the early second quarter of the pool tourney than with Jericho and Neasa's little joust. People had gathered and some were cheering, but Holden may as well have erected a soundproof bubble around himself. It stood to reason he didn't have much attention to spare for grandstanding or public displays of metahuman abilities, but it was also clear he'd refocus on the impromptu event's outcome in due time. For now, he nibbled at his little bread bun slowly and fastidiously, scraping butter out of a small plastic cup as if that small ration was the sum of the last amounts of butter left on the planet.
* * *
"Wonderful," replied the Infernalist. "Well, then, Katya; you are to meet with your new sisters today - as well as a few brothers. We may not bring them forth immediately, but..."
He shrugged, returning to his normal voice. "It'll at least let me put faces on the names, see if I've got anything that matches Lizzie and Frank in terms of bone structure and personal preferences - she's always wanted to be blonde and he was tied between the old Saracen standard and anthro wolves..."
He clicked his tongue. "And here's another perk of swimming with the city's big fish," he said, pointing as a black limousine glided to a stop in front of the mansion. "Mary's Triad, the local Triads are in good standing with Weasel Biggs, Mary's in good standing with Biggs; Biggs has a limo service in his books... A few phone calls got this set up for today. Degrees of separation and whatnot."
Out of the driver seat came an olive-skinned fellow of particularly unpleasant, if slightly familiar features. "Mister Wyndham doesn't do blue-collar work on the usual," explained Tom, "but mister Biggs thought it was wiser to have someone around who's got more of a lifetime experience with imbued firearms to shield us. Just in case."
Said Mister Wyndham tipped a limo driver's bill cap with a gloved hand. "Magnus, McConmara - let's get Russian on these poor schmucks," he said, a bit of mean relish poking through.
Chapter III: The Fall
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IamLEAM1983
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Karl the Mad
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Re: Chapter III: The Fall
Charles couldn't help but chuckle at Aidan's mistake, watching the old coins spill all over the place. "I regret laughin' at me friend jus' now," he told Charon as he went by, sounding contrite enough. "Can we 'elp clean up?"
----------------------------------
For a few moments, Jericho acted like he was waiting for Neasa to start shoving. Then he grinned again. "Have we started yet?" he remarked, nudging her arm over.
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For a few moments, Jericho acted like he was waiting for Neasa to start shoving. Then he grinned again. "Have we started yet?" he remarked, nudging her arm over.
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TennyoCeres84
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Re: Chapter III: The Fall
Meris smirked at the young human, eying the mess of assorted coins spread out over the bus floor. "I regret not making sure my friend knew the meaning of subtlety," she told Charon, her tone a odd mix of penitence and harmless barbing toward Three. She echoed the older man's query, "Likewise, can we clean up?"
She was sincerely glad that her receiving of Solomon's ring hadn't imbued her with some automatic sensation to other demons that she was the new Queen of Solomon's Court. Being discreet was important at the moment, and having an aura of power didn't exactly play into their plans. Thank God for mundane-looking arcane artifacts, as the little copper ring on her right hand had followed her in her spirit form as much as Aidan and Charles' scars were evident. Her own scars from past conflicts covered her arms; the barely visible mark left by Chambers' cutlass now looked as though it had just recently finished scabbing over, clearly seen over the edge of her t-shirt's low neckline. She was relieved the gun shot wound was hidden underneath her pants, as she remembered that particular ghastly affliction had taken a while to completely heal over.
***
Neasa grinned and scoffed, admitting, "Oh, I figured you'd be the one to start, since you made the proposal, darling." It seemed her flirtatious side had been brought to the surface as much as feisty side had, given the playful innuendo in her response. Her hand clenched his hand a little tighter, a small tidal wave of strength washing through her arm as she pushed against his, her elbow staying firmly in place.
Amused by the challenge between his sister and the Berserker, Ciaran had finished his meal and brought the pint of Guinness over to watch the spectacle, rooting for the statuesque selkie.
***
Chuckling at his mean relish of a smile, "Katya" slid into the back of the limo and fastened her seat belt, feeling an strange blend of excitement and trepidation as they went to meet the Russian mobsters.
She was sincerely glad that her receiving of Solomon's ring hadn't imbued her with some automatic sensation to other demons that she was the new Queen of Solomon's Court. Being discreet was important at the moment, and having an aura of power didn't exactly play into their plans. Thank God for mundane-looking arcane artifacts, as the little copper ring on her right hand had followed her in her spirit form as much as Aidan and Charles' scars were evident. Her own scars from past conflicts covered her arms; the barely visible mark left by Chambers' cutlass now looked as though it had just recently finished scabbing over, clearly seen over the edge of her t-shirt's low neckline. She was relieved the gun shot wound was hidden underneath her pants, as she remembered that particular ghastly affliction had taken a while to completely heal over.
***
Neasa grinned and scoffed, admitting, "Oh, I figured you'd be the one to start, since you made the proposal, darling." It seemed her flirtatious side had been brought to the surface as much as feisty side had, given the playful innuendo in her response. Her hand clenched his hand a little tighter, a small tidal wave of strength washing through her arm as she pushed against his, her elbow staying firmly in place.
Amused by the challenge between his sister and the Berserker, Ciaran had finished his meal and brought the pint of Guinness over to watch the spectacle, rooting for the statuesque selkie.
***
Chuckling at his mean relish of a smile, "Katya" slid into the back of the limo and fastened her seat belt, feeling an strange blend of excitement and trepidation as they went to meet the Russian mobsters.
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IamLEAM1983
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Re: Chapter III: The Fall
Charon's reply was a dismissive grunt, followed by a vaguely arcane-seeming wrist flick at the floor. The coins - somehow all of long-vanished legal tenders along the lines of obol or Egyptian talents - shimmered with a smidgen of Hellfire for a brief instant and came together in easily-graspable clumps, while the coin box's pieces flew back together, the cracks fusing themselves shut.
"Can't do much more, gotta keep driving," said the toad demon. "Dump 'em in my lunchbox there," he said, pointing, "I'll have Central tally this up at the end of my shift."
Nervously, Three sat down a ways away behind Charon. "Why are regrets used like actual money? Couldn't that devalue the economy? Anyone could just scamper off with your lunchbox and go hog-wild Downtown or, well, do whatever passes for a shopping spree in Hell.
- It's an arcane system, not an electronic one," sighed the driver. "Y'can't hack or spoof regrets, and the currency's value is proportional to the size of these regrets. Someone else takes off with these, they'll have no regrets attached to 'em. These coins won't be worth squat to anyone else but you - they're the sum of your regret concerning this Carrie chick. Honestly, these're just a prosthesis so meatbags get something familiar to barter with, your whole Carrie schtick is already in the System. You could withdraw its value in any ATM.
- What keeps the currency afloat, then? Anyone could do what I just did and over-saturate the market with Grade-A Regret Bombs."
Charon snorted. "Melmoth asked the same question at the Council, way back when. Ahriman told him mortal existence makes it impossible for mortal souls not to regret anything - the concept of monetary value doesn't even need to apply; it's just there to expedite the process of expiation, make the point of letting go sink in by making it a repeated exercise, a regular part of Pandemonium life. Regrets aren't bankable by definition, not like Melmoth's stockpiling of greedy motherfuckers as spell and wish-fulfillment fuel."
The driver looked at the group through the rear-view mirror. "Lotta folks pass through here, saying they don't regret anything," he said, something of a smirk being directed at Jenkins. "It's bullshit. Strip the pride and stir old wounds - it's like drainin' pus. Meatbags forget they even hurt - it's our job to make 'em remember so they can move past that."
Charon fell silent for a thoughtful moment. "Yep - out here, pride's not gonna do you any favors, that's for damn sure. This whole place is built to hammer honesty out of the worst of your kind - and it's a cakewalk compared to being down in the Pit."
Three suddenly had rather satisfying flashes of an imagined Adolf Hitler reaching Pandemonium draped in his own pride, only to end up flipping burgers near the cavern's wall. In his mind, a testy and sweat-stained demonic franchise owner yelled at the erstwhile Fürher to get the onions right next time...
* * *
The trio drove to Sandhill, soon stopping at the city's industrial docks. Tom had a hard time not allowing himself to enjoy the limo ride too much - the beige seats were upholstered with the finest leather, while the air conditioning kept the temperature pleasant. The car's shock absorbers were either obsessively pampered or changed every other ride, as he almost was tempted to tip his fedora over his eyes and snooze while on the way over. It felt like they were gliding on an obscenely long carpet, the thought stoking Tom's lust. Freeze-frame fantasies of him having his way with the limo service's mechanic danced in his mind, as well as the rather obvious fact that the vehicle was sight as well as soundproofed. He could've fed from Aislinn in the noisiest of ways that Wyndham wouldn't have noticed anything. The warlock kept his poise, however. It looked easy enough, but it was actually a nice little feat of self-control.
As the containers in the offloading bay came into view, Tom sighed and looked at Aislinn. "If this works out and I can store these bodies away for later use, I swear to God and Lucifer alike that I'm going to suck on those cherry-colored lips of yours on the way back," he said. "I'm so nervous I could have us cuddle for days; and it still wouldn't go away!"
"Can't do much more, gotta keep driving," said the toad demon. "Dump 'em in my lunchbox there," he said, pointing, "I'll have Central tally this up at the end of my shift."
Nervously, Three sat down a ways away behind Charon. "Why are regrets used like actual money? Couldn't that devalue the economy? Anyone could just scamper off with your lunchbox and go hog-wild Downtown or, well, do whatever passes for a shopping spree in Hell.
- It's an arcane system, not an electronic one," sighed the driver. "Y'can't hack or spoof regrets, and the currency's value is proportional to the size of these regrets. Someone else takes off with these, they'll have no regrets attached to 'em. These coins won't be worth squat to anyone else but you - they're the sum of your regret concerning this Carrie chick. Honestly, these're just a prosthesis so meatbags get something familiar to barter with, your whole Carrie schtick is already in the System. You could withdraw its value in any ATM.
- What keeps the currency afloat, then? Anyone could do what I just did and over-saturate the market with Grade-A Regret Bombs."
Charon snorted. "Melmoth asked the same question at the Council, way back when. Ahriman told him mortal existence makes it impossible for mortal souls not to regret anything - the concept of monetary value doesn't even need to apply; it's just there to expedite the process of expiation, make the point of letting go sink in by making it a repeated exercise, a regular part of Pandemonium life. Regrets aren't bankable by definition, not like Melmoth's stockpiling of greedy motherfuckers as spell and wish-fulfillment fuel."
The driver looked at the group through the rear-view mirror. "Lotta folks pass through here, saying they don't regret anything," he said, something of a smirk being directed at Jenkins. "It's bullshit. Strip the pride and stir old wounds - it's like drainin' pus. Meatbags forget they even hurt - it's our job to make 'em remember so they can move past that."
Charon fell silent for a thoughtful moment. "Yep - out here, pride's not gonna do you any favors, that's for damn sure. This whole place is built to hammer honesty out of the worst of your kind - and it's a cakewalk compared to being down in the Pit."
Three suddenly had rather satisfying flashes of an imagined Adolf Hitler reaching Pandemonium draped in his own pride, only to end up flipping burgers near the cavern's wall. In his mind, a testy and sweat-stained demonic franchise owner yelled at the erstwhile Fürher to get the onions right next time...
* * *
The trio drove to Sandhill, soon stopping at the city's industrial docks. Tom had a hard time not allowing himself to enjoy the limo ride too much - the beige seats were upholstered with the finest leather, while the air conditioning kept the temperature pleasant. The car's shock absorbers were either obsessively pampered or changed every other ride, as he almost was tempted to tip his fedora over his eyes and snooze while on the way over. It felt like they were gliding on an obscenely long carpet, the thought stoking Tom's lust. Freeze-frame fantasies of him having his way with the limo service's mechanic danced in his mind, as well as the rather obvious fact that the vehicle was sight as well as soundproofed. He could've fed from Aislinn in the noisiest of ways that Wyndham wouldn't have noticed anything. The warlock kept his poise, however. It looked easy enough, but it was actually a nice little feat of self-control.
As the containers in the offloading bay came into view, Tom sighed and looked at Aislinn. "If this works out and I can store these bodies away for later use, I swear to God and Lucifer alike that I'm going to suck on those cherry-colored lips of yours on the way back," he said. "I'm so nervous I could have us cuddle for days; and it still wouldn't go away!"
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TennyoCeres84
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Re: Chapter III: The Fall
Aislinn reached out a soothing hand and gently squeezed his hand, flushing slightly at his tense, amorous intentions. "Easy, Lothario. Just focus and get through this one step at a time," she whispered in his ear, recalling the conversation during the dinner a week ago.
***
Having listened to the discussion on how regret factored into Hell's economy, Meris focused more on what they were "supposed" to do once they reached City Hall. "So, who do we go see after you drop us off, to get registered?" she inquired, looking briefly at Charon and then out the window.
***
Having listened to the discussion on how regret factored into Hell's economy, Meris focused more on what they were "supposed" to do once they reached City Hall. "So, who do we go see after you drop us off, to get registered?" she inquired, looking briefly at Charon and then out the window.
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Karl the Mad
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Re: Chapter III: The Fall
"Perhaps I should have challenged you to a game of chess," Jericho teased, letting Neasa gain a little ground before stopping her advance cold. Then he again pushed in, testing the selkie's might, egging her on with an inch back or forward at a time. "Or checkers, even!"
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Mary was waiting for them at the docks, leaning back against her motorcycle. It had been detailed and shined up for today; Mary herself was rocking the full razorgirl assassin look, and rocking it hard. Implants! Leather! Bare skin! Chromed-out shades! Her sword was at her back, and an ostentatious holster at her side carried a blackened .50-revolver, tricked out with all the "tacti-cool" attachments that gave the average NRA member a hard-on. She saw the limo pulling up, and waved them over with a grin.
"We're all on point today, I see," she teased when she caught sight of Aislinn. "Mm, I don't see how your beau can restrain himself, darling."
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Mary was waiting for them at the docks, leaning back against her motorcycle. It had been detailed and shined up for today; Mary herself was rocking the full razorgirl assassin look, and rocking it hard. Implants! Leather! Bare skin! Chromed-out shades! Her sword was at her back, and an ostentatious holster at her side carried a blackened .50-revolver, tricked out with all the "tacti-cool" attachments that gave the average NRA member a hard-on. She saw the limo pulling up, and waved them over with a grin.
"We're all on point today, I see," she teased when she caught sight of Aislinn. "Mm, I don't see how your beau can restrain himself, darling."
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IamLEAM1983
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Re: Chapter III: The Fall
Stepping out of the limo, Tom scanned the surrounding landscape of asphalt and storage containers, snout pulsating slightly and ears flicking as he did so. "I've had some practice, Mary," he said, by way of greeting her, "but I'll admit it isn't easy... It seems like the Brotherhood wanted to size us up at their leisure - I can smell cheap aftershave on the wind."
Wyndham stepped out as well, stopping briefly to close his jacket. He wouldn't win any beauty contests with his dangling nose and his unnatural proportions, but his sunglasses couldn't hide the fact that he wasn't just streetwise, but was also mentally running on all cylinders. If anything, his almost nonexistent chin and Prune Belly-esque physique gave him vaguely cartoonish airs that conferred a sympathetic bend to him.
He stretched one of his long and elastic smiles. "Yeah, that'd be them. Dima Kozlovsky, to be exact. Little shithead who thinks his being out of Moscow's criminal contingent gives him headway over the Commission. He's a track suit-wearing goon leading other track suits and entry-level sports sedans. These idiots would sell their mothers for a nitrous oxide upgrade, and peddle Crystal Meth and Red Snow like the nineties haven't ended.
- Would Biggs mind if Holden Hall forwarded information to the HPD?" asked Tom.
Dennis scoffed. "Knock yourself out, Doctor Strange. There's a local cohesion that keeps alternative elements working properly: Biggs needs Winters, who needs Shen Long - everyone depends on everyone else. If you can't synergize, you'll clash against us. If you don't want to..."
He shrugged and pouted. "Koz is a splinter that's a few years late in terms of being rejected as a foreign body."
* * *
The driver looked at Meris in the rear-view mirror. "Follow the signs from the lobby; there's one that says Census and Registration. You'll be asked the usual bevy of questions: who you were, what you used to do for a living, your best personal guess as to what got you here instead of Upstairs, your personal initial estimate of the legitimacy of your being here..."
He shrugged. "Come to think of it, you're all mighty relaxed about being in Hell, huh?"
Three affected a shrug. "We've had time to think about it before shit hit the fan. Nobody's perfect, we sure as shit weren't. In my case, it's just hard to pick things apart and figure out where I started slipping. I know I've got stuff to apologize for - I just can't think of anything. I need help to sort things through."
As Three talked, a vague smile stretched itself on Charon's lips. "Now that's refreshing, I gotta say. No disproportionate denial - just you accepting you need help. Your death must've been pretty easy."
"Adam" seemed uncertain. "I dunno. I guess I started 'dying' several months back, once I started looking over my shoulder, rethinking my life choices. All I needed was one stray bullet, a shredded carotid artery, and I got to spend five minutes feeling myself go cold. Had time enough to take stock. It felt like falling asleep. I had no idea I'd have the chance to think things through for real, that Hell would be this much accommodating."
Charon chuckled. "Y'know, Big Spender? I figure you won't be payin' rent here for too long - which is all well and good. Hope the same works out for your friends here."
Wyndham stepped out as well, stopping briefly to close his jacket. He wouldn't win any beauty contests with his dangling nose and his unnatural proportions, but his sunglasses couldn't hide the fact that he wasn't just streetwise, but was also mentally running on all cylinders. If anything, his almost nonexistent chin and Prune Belly-esque physique gave him vaguely cartoonish airs that conferred a sympathetic bend to him.
He stretched one of his long and elastic smiles. "Yeah, that'd be them. Dima Kozlovsky, to be exact. Little shithead who thinks his being out of Moscow's criminal contingent gives him headway over the Commission. He's a track suit-wearing goon leading other track suits and entry-level sports sedans. These idiots would sell their mothers for a nitrous oxide upgrade, and peddle Crystal Meth and Red Snow like the nineties haven't ended.
- Would Biggs mind if Holden Hall forwarded information to the HPD?" asked Tom.
Dennis scoffed. "Knock yourself out, Doctor Strange. There's a local cohesion that keeps alternative elements working properly: Biggs needs Winters, who needs Shen Long - everyone depends on everyone else. If you can't synergize, you'll clash against us. If you don't want to..."
He shrugged and pouted. "Koz is a splinter that's a few years late in terms of being rejected as a foreign body."
* * *
The driver looked at Meris in the rear-view mirror. "Follow the signs from the lobby; there's one that says Census and Registration. You'll be asked the usual bevy of questions: who you were, what you used to do for a living, your best personal guess as to what got you here instead of Upstairs, your personal initial estimate of the legitimacy of your being here..."
He shrugged. "Come to think of it, you're all mighty relaxed about being in Hell, huh?"
Three affected a shrug. "We've had time to think about it before shit hit the fan. Nobody's perfect, we sure as shit weren't. In my case, it's just hard to pick things apart and figure out where I started slipping. I know I've got stuff to apologize for - I just can't think of anything. I need help to sort things through."
As Three talked, a vague smile stretched itself on Charon's lips. "Now that's refreshing, I gotta say. No disproportionate denial - just you accepting you need help. Your death must've been pretty easy."
"Adam" seemed uncertain. "I dunno. I guess I started 'dying' several months back, once I started looking over my shoulder, rethinking my life choices. All I needed was one stray bullet, a shredded carotid artery, and I got to spend five minutes feeling myself go cold. Had time enough to take stock. It felt like falling asleep. I had no idea I'd have the chance to think things through for real, that Hell would be this much accommodating."
Charon chuckled. "Y'know, Big Spender? I figure you won't be payin' rent here for too long - which is all well and good. Hope the same works out for your friends here."
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TennyoCeres84
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Re: Chapter III: The Fall
Slipping back into her Russian accent, Aislinn happened to catch a whiff of the cheap aftershave, having a strong enough sense of smell, and wrinkled her nose. "So, Mr. Volkov, should we say hello to Kozzie?" she asked.
***
"Mary" looked back to the driver. She kept her explanation vague and stated, "I had a good life before I got pulled into something that had me making tough decisions with not the best outcomes, ones that I regret. Since I'm here, I want to find the help I need to learn from my mistakes."
That was merely on the surface, as she was thinking over possible ways to find Ahriman and the Council. The archmage wondered if using that "key" to the palace would be a suitable means of getting around, once she could get access to a largely ignored door.
***
"Mm, if you're wanting to challenge someone to chess or checkers, Archie would be your man," Neasa replied with a grin, glancing at the automaton. Her arm remained a force to be reckoned with as it was both flexible and resilient against Jericho's arm, teasingly pushing it back in the direction of the bar. "I'm more of a gamer girl, in contrast to the lord auditioning as an extra for a film adaptation of Dickens' Oliver Twist, what with how he's going after that butter," she said loudly enough to break through his little soundproof bubble.
***
"Mary" looked back to the driver. She kept her explanation vague and stated, "I had a good life before I got pulled into something that had me making tough decisions with not the best outcomes, ones that I regret. Since I'm here, I want to find the help I need to learn from my mistakes."
That was merely on the surface, as she was thinking over possible ways to find Ahriman and the Council. The archmage wondered if using that "key" to the palace would be a suitable means of getting around, once she could get access to a largely ignored door.
***
"Mm, if you're wanting to challenge someone to chess or checkers, Archie would be your man," Neasa replied with a grin, glancing at the automaton. Her arm remained a force to be reckoned with as it was both flexible and resilient against Jericho's arm, teasingly pushing it back in the direction of the bar. "I'm more of a gamer girl, in contrast to the lord auditioning as an extra for a film adaptation of Dickens' Oliver Twist, what with how he's going after that butter," she said loudly enough to break through his little soundproof bubble.
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Karl the Mad
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Re: Chapter III: The Fall
'Charlie' just shrugged. "Job gone wrong, bucko," he explained laconically. "Sure'n ye've 'eard it a million times a'fore."
-----------------------------
"Aw, we're going over Sergei's head," Mary commented, rolling her eyes. "Boy won't like that one bit." Her wrist pinged, and she glanced down at the display. "Whitman's ready on his end."
-----------------------------
"Then I should take you seriously," the native countered, his grin fading slightly. His arm flexed, his grip tightened, and he bore down on Neasa in earnest, slowly but surely.
-----------------------------
"Aw, we're going over Sergei's head," Mary commented, rolling her eyes. "Boy won't like that one bit." Her wrist pinged, and she glanced down at the display. "Whitman's ready on his end."
-----------------------------
"Then I should take you seriously," the native countered, his grin fading slightly. His arm flexed, his grip tightened, and he bore down on Neasa in earnest, slowly but surely.
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IamLEAM1983
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Re: Chapter III: The Fall
Archie gave Neasa a look that might've appeared snobbish or slightly rueful, if not for the way one of the corners of his mouth was arched upwards. He had nothing against playful barbs, of course, but the town aristocrat had standards to maintain...
He kept nibbling on his little bread bun, but locked his eyes on the match, the look on his face making it seem as though arm-wrestling involved as much tactics as a skillfully-played Poker hand or a six-move checkmate.
* * *
Pandemonium engulfed the creaky bus, a canyon of dusty, crumbling and rusting buildings stretching in front of them. For some reason, the residents of the Infernal City seemed to affectionate neon signs and various dot-matrix displays, something that gave the city vague airs of Los Angeles, as seen in Blade Runner. Music from all corners of the world could be dimly heard, piping out of convenience stores and office lobbies and even street buskers; the mass of pedestrians clinging onto mortal habits and focusing on the transit as they moved, their already-haggard features made worse by the effort of ignoring others. At the same time, you'd sometimes hear a laugh or a more casual comment being tossed - replicating mortal life also meant replicating its simple pleasures.
As the bus rattled and puttered on, Three began to notice that most of the police cars they crossed only contained various grotesque humanoids you could've only identified as demons. "Can mortal souls occupy important positions in here? Like, be a cop or something?
- Nah," explained Charon. "Every newcomers who hears this starts squawking about civil liberties and whatnot, but they forget the essentials. People who come here ain't angels, Adam. I had Nicolae Ceaucescu on that same cheap-ass bench you're sitting on, and the fucker thought being fished out of the lake meant we'd never toss him back in out of sheer exasperation! It's like I said, you gotta learn to be humble, here. To accept your own faults. Y'can't do that if you're given a position of authority, especially not if your past mortal life makes it clear you're the type to let power go to his head."
Three frowned. "So what did Ceaucescu do? I mean, once he got down here.
- Muscled his way past his landlord, ran his own little empire made of about six hundred rooms. Tried t'bribe cops. A couple took the bait - they're demons, they're not exactly immune to corruption even if it's functionally useless for 'em.
- Was he stopped?"
Charon scoffed. "If by stopped you mean flushed, then yeah. Yeah, he was. He bribed the wrong cop, said cop reported back to the Council, the Council got in touch with Nic's assigned Teacher; said Teacher went commando across an entire apartment building. Folks who resisted were flushed back down to the Pit. Same with the would-be slum lord."
The driver thumbed an imaginary gun's hammer in the rear-view mirror. "Bang. Brimstone-core bullets sent him right back down. Brimstone doesn't like to exist outside of the Pit, which is what makes it dangerous - and useful. Big Brimstone chunks were sometimes used by old Warlocks, way back when - a bit like if you crossed Saruman's Palantir with quantum-bit communication. Any displaced chunks resonates at the same frequency as another piece from the same vein, no matter if they're planes apart. In the early days, warlocks would strike their Hellstones like you would to tap out Morse code, and any demons they had on call could answer by tapping back. The warlock would feel the vibrations on his end if he held his own chunk right - and he'd be able to figure out their reply. Nowadays, we can send a whole lot more across the planes - complete audiovisual feedback."
Three nodded. "Satanist Skype, more or less.
- Yeah, but don't say that to a warlock's face. They're the only group that doesn't really benefit from the whole Vienna Accords shit. Far too many people still think Infernal and immediately jump to Wants to Eat my soul and fuck Little Baby Jesus. Of course, there's a couple idiots that give credence to that - like anyone who'd be fish enough to deal with the Princes instead of us."
The bus then stopped in front of a slightly decrepit Greco-Roman affair, the formerly luxurious marble surfaces looking cracked and pitted, as if Pandemonium routinely endured earthquakes. At the same time, it looked reassuringly solid, as if the plane's nature would make it impossible for any sort of tragedy to happen unless some higher power had wished for it.
Charon then opened the bus' doors. "City Hall - full stop. Follow the signs inside and you'll do fine."
* * *
"There's no need for us to move," intuited Tom as six hydrogen fuel cell convert jobs that had been 2015 Honda Civics in a previous life slid towards them.
Out of the cars stepped a small gaggle of young men, only two or three of them having vaguely European features. Hope being what it was, even the local risible cipher of the Russian mob had a multicultural bent to it, serving as a point of entry into the criminal world for folks who didn't have Weasel's honour or Jimmy's familial approach, much less Shen Long's experience. Sergei, the much talked-about defacto representative of the Brotherhood during Commission hearings, was the singular high note of a slew of self-declared captains that had trouble following anything resembling a cohesive structure. That forced the Commission to police a group it would have rather collaborated with or ignored outright.
One of the men wore a white Adidas tracksuit with red bands, something about his eyes making him out to be the sharpest tool in the shed. In what wasn't too surprising nowadays, Dima Kozlovsky's English was unaccented, the result of being raised by Russian hooligans on American soil. Odds were he was entirely bilingual.
"We're not in the habit of playing body farmers for anyone, mister Volkov," he said. "We usually dispose of our rejects, so excuse me if Sergei and I thought your request was... distressing.
- Respectfully, young man," intoned Tom in that practised accent, "I am not about to pay you to think. What my associates and I intend to do with this body is of no concern to you."
Koz narrowed his eyes. "You seen Paradise before, old man? The cloning farms, the gene sequencers spitting out illegal traits?
- I have," smoothly lied the warlock, "and I have no intention of divulging my activities to one such as you. At best, you should know that your true family stands to benefit from this transaction."
Koz ignored the insult, as Tom had purposefully played into one of Dima's weaknesses; it being an ingrained sense of Russian nationalism. "I forgot," Koz said, "you Stasi types don't fuck around. Why bother with ice bags, though?
- Russia sits on the edge of what once was Hyperborea. Modern territorial laws dictate that the lost city of Ural is ours - and ours alone. I stand ready to give Russia her splendor of ages past - and these bodies are kindling for my fire."
The young man licked his lips. "How does the Kremlin sit on this?
- Nowhere, since Putin's death. The public has never accepted his summary transfer to an android shell, the way his death was treated as a non-event - even as democracy was further stamped away. Modern governance has failed Russia - only Gorbachev kept this feeble flame alive. A new fire will be lit, instead."
Dima seemed ill at ease. "Fuckin' warlocks..."
In the back, a few of Koz' men shifted their weight around on their legs, enough for Tom to notice. In response, the warlock traded a glance between "Kayta" and Mary, as if he assumed they'd share his contempt for the thugs' attempt at intimidation.
He kept nibbling on his little bread bun, but locked his eyes on the match, the look on his face making it seem as though arm-wrestling involved as much tactics as a skillfully-played Poker hand or a six-move checkmate.
* * *
Pandemonium engulfed the creaky bus, a canyon of dusty, crumbling and rusting buildings stretching in front of them. For some reason, the residents of the Infernal City seemed to affectionate neon signs and various dot-matrix displays, something that gave the city vague airs of Los Angeles, as seen in Blade Runner. Music from all corners of the world could be dimly heard, piping out of convenience stores and office lobbies and even street buskers; the mass of pedestrians clinging onto mortal habits and focusing on the transit as they moved, their already-haggard features made worse by the effort of ignoring others. At the same time, you'd sometimes hear a laugh or a more casual comment being tossed - replicating mortal life also meant replicating its simple pleasures.
As the bus rattled and puttered on, Three began to notice that most of the police cars they crossed only contained various grotesque humanoids you could've only identified as demons. "Can mortal souls occupy important positions in here? Like, be a cop or something?
- Nah," explained Charon. "Every newcomers who hears this starts squawking about civil liberties and whatnot, but they forget the essentials. People who come here ain't angels, Adam. I had Nicolae Ceaucescu on that same cheap-ass bench you're sitting on, and the fucker thought being fished out of the lake meant we'd never toss him back in out of sheer exasperation! It's like I said, you gotta learn to be humble, here. To accept your own faults. Y'can't do that if you're given a position of authority, especially not if your past mortal life makes it clear you're the type to let power go to his head."
Three frowned. "So what did Ceaucescu do? I mean, once he got down here.
- Muscled his way past his landlord, ran his own little empire made of about six hundred rooms. Tried t'bribe cops. A couple took the bait - they're demons, they're not exactly immune to corruption even if it's functionally useless for 'em.
- Was he stopped?"
Charon scoffed. "If by stopped you mean flushed, then yeah. Yeah, he was. He bribed the wrong cop, said cop reported back to the Council, the Council got in touch with Nic's assigned Teacher; said Teacher went commando across an entire apartment building. Folks who resisted were flushed back down to the Pit. Same with the would-be slum lord."
The driver thumbed an imaginary gun's hammer in the rear-view mirror. "Bang. Brimstone-core bullets sent him right back down. Brimstone doesn't like to exist outside of the Pit, which is what makes it dangerous - and useful. Big Brimstone chunks were sometimes used by old Warlocks, way back when - a bit like if you crossed Saruman's Palantir with quantum-bit communication. Any displaced chunks resonates at the same frequency as another piece from the same vein, no matter if they're planes apart. In the early days, warlocks would strike their Hellstones like you would to tap out Morse code, and any demons they had on call could answer by tapping back. The warlock would feel the vibrations on his end if he held his own chunk right - and he'd be able to figure out their reply. Nowadays, we can send a whole lot more across the planes - complete audiovisual feedback."
Three nodded. "Satanist Skype, more or less.
- Yeah, but don't say that to a warlock's face. They're the only group that doesn't really benefit from the whole Vienna Accords shit. Far too many people still think Infernal and immediately jump to Wants to Eat my soul and fuck Little Baby Jesus. Of course, there's a couple idiots that give credence to that - like anyone who'd be fish enough to deal with the Princes instead of us."
The bus then stopped in front of a slightly decrepit Greco-Roman affair, the formerly luxurious marble surfaces looking cracked and pitted, as if Pandemonium routinely endured earthquakes. At the same time, it looked reassuringly solid, as if the plane's nature would make it impossible for any sort of tragedy to happen unless some higher power had wished for it.
Charon then opened the bus' doors. "City Hall - full stop. Follow the signs inside and you'll do fine."
* * *
"There's no need for us to move," intuited Tom as six hydrogen fuel cell convert jobs that had been 2015 Honda Civics in a previous life slid towards them.
Out of the cars stepped a small gaggle of young men, only two or three of them having vaguely European features. Hope being what it was, even the local risible cipher of the Russian mob had a multicultural bent to it, serving as a point of entry into the criminal world for folks who didn't have Weasel's honour or Jimmy's familial approach, much less Shen Long's experience. Sergei, the much talked-about defacto representative of the Brotherhood during Commission hearings, was the singular high note of a slew of self-declared captains that had trouble following anything resembling a cohesive structure. That forced the Commission to police a group it would have rather collaborated with or ignored outright.
One of the men wore a white Adidas tracksuit with red bands, something about his eyes making him out to be the sharpest tool in the shed. In what wasn't too surprising nowadays, Dima Kozlovsky's English was unaccented, the result of being raised by Russian hooligans on American soil. Odds were he was entirely bilingual.
"We're not in the habit of playing body farmers for anyone, mister Volkov," he said. "We usually dispose of our rejects, so excuse me if Sergei and I thought your request was... distressing.
- Respectfully, young man," intoned Tom in that practised accent, "I am not about to pay you to think. What my associates and I intend to do with this body is of no concern to you."
Koz narrowed his eyes. "You seen Paradise before, old man? The cloning farms, the gene sequencers spitting out illegal traits?
- I have," smoothly lied the warlock, "and I have no intention of divulging my activities to one such as you. At best, you should know that your true family stands to benefit from this transaction."
Koz ignored the insult, as Tom had purposefully played into one of Dima's weaknesses; it being an ingrained sense of Russian nationalism. "I forgot," Koz said, "you Stasi types don't fuck around. Why bother with ice bags, though?
- Russia sits on the edge of what once was Hyperborea. Modern territorial laws dictate that the lost city of Ural is ours - and ours alone. I stand ready to give Russia her splendor of ages past - and these bodies are kindling for my fire."
The young man licked his lips. "How does the Kremlin sit on this?
- Nowhere, since Putin's death. The public has never accepted his summary transfer to an android shell, the way his death was treated as a non-event - even as democracy was further stamped away. Modern governance has failed Russia - only Gorbachev kept this feeble flame alive. A new fire will be lit, instead."
Dima seemed ill at ease. "Fuckin' warlocks..."
In the back, a few of Koz' men shifted their weight around on their legs, enough for Tom to notice. In response, the warlock traded a glance between "Kayta" and Mary, as if he assumed they'd share his contempt for the thugs' attempt at intimidation.