Anger of the Angels

by Thomas Duder

  "Welcome home, Jac-k," Frank murmured, saying his name with a hard K.

  "I'm home, Masterrrrr," Jack purred around his finger. Pansy blue eyes dared to look up at him from under his bangs, his blonde hair cut short more out of practice than necessity.

  Frank stroked his chin before capturing it with thumb and forefinger, forcing the young slave to look up at him directly, his frown steady, "When did you cross our demesne?”

  Jack's eyes widened slightly as he kept a calm, carefully neutral expression, breathing lightly, "Three hours ago. Dash told me to check in on you while he goes and secures your newest allies. He should be here in another couple of hours. In the meantime, this one followed Master's orders and made oneself at home."

  Despite his carefully controlled features, Jack's eyes flickered towards Frank's lap. Leaning back and petting his slave, Frank chuckled, "Good. C'mere, you've earned a nicety."

  Without further ado, Jack swarmed onto Frank's lap, cuddling up close and pressing his ear against his Master's broad chest, purring. Frank, for once full of good cheer, petted the young man and continued his questions.

  "Tell me - the twins. What is their current situation?"

  Jack looked up at him and kissed his chin before answering, "The Fiends have swapped New Jersey and New York as of yesterday. Neither are able to come down to help since they've already been in each other's locations - they'll have to wait thirty hours, and it'll take time just to get down here."

  Frank considered the fate of the Five Survivors altogether, the Pacification of Perris County - the shit-like battleground, muddy and bloody, and the interdimensional rage of the Psyker Demon they had faced. As graymeat templates, human beings were able to be compatible with just about any other creature, biologically and spiritually, creating weapons far greater than any before them. While that had been achieved through artificial means, the Psyker Demon was a natural phenomenon, one that defied the laws of reality and common sense. When a human died, and their soul remained tied to a particular location, the ghost could become stronger the longer it took to deal with the issue that tied them. In time, they could become a true nuisance, which allowed exorcists like Frank (as well as Jack and all the Survivors, for that matter) to make a bit of spiritual and magical coinage by forcibly banishing, exorcising, or simply aiding the creature.

  When a psychic underwent such horrors, they became one of the absolute most powerful of monstrosities, a creature beyond terror, one whose power knew no bounds or limits.

  Of the five, Frank had acquired the Overdrive, the Demon's incredible power to defy reality and overcharge his senses and abilities. He also had two cons that neither of the other Survivors had - the dreaded gift from the divine Demon was always on, attracting other lesser demonic creatures to his location (many of whom now stayed away with the rise of The Shop). Unlike the other Survivors, if the Overdrive pushed its limits beyond a certain point, Frank could single-handedly allow the Psyker Demon to once again invade Earth.

  Only next time, the trick they’d used to banish it wouldn't work.

  Frank looked at Jack as the smaller man purred against him, wondering at how the most powerful telekinetic in the world had fallen in love with him. The battle itself tested the five Heroes, and in the end, they had won, if temporarily. Shortly after, Jack had approached him on bent knee, pledging himself to Frank's sigil, his brand, the proof of his mastery.

  After their first night together, Frank had finally learned how the tall, muscular and heroic Jack Guin could also become short and slender, his telekinetic ability granting him almost inhuman shape-changing abilities even before the upgrade he had received from the dread demon.

  "May I ask, Master?"

  Frank nodded, prodding him to continue, "You told me recently that you've been following Morrow. Has he really become so active?"

  The Generalist stopped petting the young man’s hair for a moment, then continued, his voice a husky rumble in his chest, "Yeah. He's become active again. The Daemonsidhe bullshit was just the most recent, and I wouldn't be surprised if he had a hand in this Angel-gene problem"

  Jack frowned, gripping at his shoulders as he began to tremble, "And..."

  Frank grunted and poked him in the side, "Speak. Don't make me have to remind you again."

  Jack gulped, unable to look into Frank's eyes as he asked, "So...are you going to lose yourself to him again?"

  Frank did not lift an eyebrow. He did not chuckle. He very carefully did nothing outwardly as he responded, "You know better than that. I won't forgive his betrayal, no matter how in love we were."

  Jack flinched at the mention of love, then sighed and relaxed, the tension leaving his body completely as he snuggled up to his chosen Master, "Good. That's good. And you're right. I'm sorry, Master...a psychic merge is one thing, but the sonic magic he employed was just...weird. It's already unfair that we can't spend more than thirty hours close to one another, and with Kind around after so long...

  I'm just honestly worried that there's a part of you that's been affected even now, that's all."

  Frank growled playfully, leaning down to suck hard at Jack's throat, grunting slightly, "C'mere and lemme show you what part of me is affected, brat. His sonics-"

  Frank suddenly stopped completely, his eyes wide in surprise as something hit his intuition, Overdrive-fueled and powerful.

  Jack, caught off-guard but quite used to such a thing, waited a few moments while Frank came back down, a slow, sly grin crossing his brown features.

  "So...where were we?"

  ****

  Deep in the heart of the night, the true Witching Hour of eleven p.m. found Frank and Dash standing before The Shop, the various lights showing that it had been powered up and prepared for this special night.

  Walpurgisnacht had begun, the battlefield prepared and all combatants ready.

  Turning at the sound of footsteps, the two warriors watched as humanoids began to slowly spill out of Uncle Chao's antique store, suited and booted for war. Tordekians, one and all, they were mostly humanoid, inhumans and subhumans spotted here and there, all of them reeking of another dimension.

  Leather armor, togas, and bondage gear denoted the uniform used by the followers of the God of Battle, Bitches, and Brew, as well as melee weapons of all shapes and sizes. Over a hundred bodies filled the street with more streaming forth from Chao's in slow procession, beginning the religious rite known as the "Tordekian Rave," their orgy of worship and excellent house music.

  Parting with care and caution, the crowd knelt as Uncle Chao himself walked towards the Shopkeepers, clad in the ceremonial white toga and short party skirt of his people, his staff of office clutched in his hand.

  Nodding towards Chao formerly, Frank and Dash both coughed as Chao unleashed a wave of opium smoke at them as he cursed, "Bah, fuck you and your fucking rules. Too much pomp and bullshit - all of you, ALL OF YOU! Rise up, Tordekians!"

  The Tordekians, forced to endure the ritual normally ignored on their own world due to the Pact of Pantheons, found themselves freed of the geas as Chao continued on, "This isn’t like any of us! Aren't we here to dance and fuck in the name of Tordek?! C'moooon, all of youse! Ai-yah, stop that bowing and scraping - the only time you should be on yer knees is if yer gonna give head, hah!"

  Frank grinned, pointing at Chao as he responded to Chao's profanity, "Heeeeey, youse guys aren't supposed to leave this block. You here to back us up, right?"

  Dash gave an equally feral grin, clasping Chao's slim shoulder, "Yeah, you guys are only gonna rave in this sector to make sure no one gets in the Shop while we strike out, right?"

  Chao's smile, full of completely and utterly lewd glee, radiated at the very prospect, "WE! Are gonna get some bitches tonight, get some new notches on our gauntlets, and yeah - we're gonna live up to our promise to you from two years ago. As for what we do here, you KNEW what you were getting into when you asked us to Rave! If we do, if we don’t, we’ll protect the Shop, yah."

  C
hao held up his left forearm, displaying the heavy metal gauntlet that all Tordekians wore that was so important to their faith. Tordekians revolved around not only partying and violent revels, but in the acquisition of “bitches.” Broadly defined, to the Tordekians “bitches” were anyone not Tordekian, most of the time, thus game for their aggressive pastimes. For each "bitch" they sexually or violently (sometimes at the same time) conquered, usually anyone not Tordekian, they acquired a new notch on the broad face of the item, usable for an immediate, temporary upgrade of either health or power at the cost of a notch. Unlike other Tordekians, Chao's was completely covered in scratches and notches, his rank and faith allowing him to power up without losing a mark.

  The Tordekian faith was one that usually caused enough chaos to ensure that they were the first ousted during any crusade, religious purge, or during the breakdown of the Pact of Pantheons on other worlds and dimensions. By pledging themselves to the cause of The Shop, they enjoyed a far more stable hold on this particular version of Earth compared to others. The only place they found as much stability was in a sister, neighboring dimension, one that lacked The Shop but had another organization that usually kept the Tordekian Raves in check.

  Letting go of Chao, Dash formed his massive hand into a fist and let the older man bump knuckles with him carefully, Frank following up with his own fist-bump. Nodding to one another knowingly, Chao turned and called out to his faithful petitioners as the Shopkeepers turned towards the main street, beginning the walk that would take them through wave after wave of obstacles before tackling Babel itself.

  This was the Thirteenth Clause of the Pact of Pantheons. This was what it meant to walk amongst the deities as the Shopkeepers. This was the Walpurgisnacht Jam.

  "ALRIGHT LINE UP YOU FUCKS! LET'S GET THIS JAM STARTEEEEED!"

  Dash cackled monstrously as Frank groaned, slapping his forehead into his palms as "Get Ready For This" by 2 Unlimited blared into the night, carried forth by the strange magics of the Tordekians.

  "Y'ALL READY FOR THIS!" Dash laughed and began to dance down the street, bouncing on his heels and criss-crossing his legs to the beat. Frank, frowning at his taller friend, at first grumped at the UnGrimm Troll's antics for a minute or so before he slowly began nodding his head, the loud, infectiously bubbly tune getting to him.

  In a moment more, he found himself dancing to the tune, egged on by Dash. In such a manner did the brick buildings of their block fade away as they found themselves in a commercial district, standing in front of a Stater Brothers grocery store, the parking lot empty of customers.

  Perfectly in sync with one another, the music from the Tordekian Rave shifted to Technotronic's "Pump Up The Jam," the song echoing from the store's P.A. system as the Tordekian's magic took hold, the duo began to stomp rhythmically facing one another before lashing out with a foot, colliding with one another in a vicious kick before stomping back, stomping forward once more to lock boots and leap, trading positions before doing it all over again.

  "Well well well, would you look at this fuckin' shite?"

  Not giving the minor character even a moment to be properly introduced, the two immediately rushed the mercenary in a blur of flying fists and stomping boots, smashing the man utterly into the concrete.

  Ignoring the heavy, iron gloves and noting only a green mohawk and slightly tanned skin, the two looked up, snarling and deep-breathed, and finally recognized the small gathering of mercenaries about them, all of them sporting various bits of facial jewelry, to a one bearing the same kind of heavy gauntlets their leader had worn, each one uniform in their leather vest and armored pants. The second in command, frowning, took off his shades and glared at them, his skin an artificial gold coloration as distinctive as his silver, spiked hair.

  "Yo, Terry, he stomped Mack!" One of their ilk, a young woman with half her head shaved, clasped the second in command's black shoulder pad.

  Terry rubbed at the base of his nose, glaring at them through his red-colored contacts, "I warned Mack we weren't ready to tangle with these guys."

  Frank grunted, "The fuck, Cyber Crime? What the fuck are you punks doing here? Did you REALLY take this job thinking you can take us on?! Take on The Shop?! We were pissed off already since you fucked with our Kid n' Play style, the fuck you think we're just gonna let y'all off without a major murder or four?!!"

  Getting an idea, the tall Troll slammed a fist into his palm then hiked a thumb over his shoulder, "Heeeeey, I have an idea! Instead of dying by our hands, why don't youse guys take on some of our friends who are massing in front of The Shop? Yeah, it shouldn't be that hard of a fight, plus you can still get some fame sayin' you took on The Shop, right? Right!"

  Considering their options, the mercenary gang picked up their broken and beaten leader and headed past the duo, ignoring Frank's stuttering and vociferous complaints.

  "W-wait up, what the fuck! Dash, what the hell, I was all ready for a good rampage-"

  "Bro, broooo, Bossssss," Dash hissed, rubbing the smaller man's shoulders, "Relaaaaax. Consider this - we don't have the energy to waste on small fry, right?"

  Watching the young men and women of Cyber Crime flee the scene without running too fast (lest they draw the attention of The Shop after all), Dash leaned in and whispered, "Also, it'll keep the Tordekians busy, right? Sure, they're protecting our home and what-not, but y'know how Tordekians are. Do you really want them fuckin' with our help? Like, figuratively fuckin’ with our help?"

  Frank blinked, already having come to that conclusion as Dash reminded him of the Tordekian proclivity towards mischief. Chuckling, he rubbed Dash's shoulder's back, patting him slightly as he grinned, "You sly Trollfuck, you! That's good thinking, bro."

  "Eh, don't worry, we'll catch some Battle Heat on the next one, right? Get your Overdrive intuition pumpin'," Dash lifted a finger towards the full moon, the moonlight making his terrifying teeth and wicked smile far more monstrous than they were normally, "Besides, the night is young, and we've got more stompin' to do!"

  Hurrying down the street and ignoring the shops that jutted against one another side by side, garish signs proclaiming their wares within, Dash and Frank came across a peculiar scene.

  "Say, Boss?" Dash blinked at the gruesome object, settled onto the middle of the street as if it had every right to be there.

  "Yeah, Chief?" Frank frowned, considering the object as well.

  Dash, rubbing his chin slowly, considered it a moment more before complaining, "Is that a rotting skull? That looks like a rotting skull. Y'know I hate skeletons, bro. I have one in me, and so do you."

  Frank glanced around, realizing that they were nowhere near a cemetery, "Actually it's a zombie. Look, the jaw is still moving and it's not hissing – skellington’s hiss. This is a zombolotty, not a skells. Also, there's still brain in its skull."

  Walking over to the skull and ignoring the feeling that the zombie was looking at him, even without eyes, he nudged it with his boot before stepping on it slightly, "See how the brains are still inside? Kinda squishy, this thing is at least an hour old...which makes sense now. An hour out the grave and it's just, like, here."

  Dash grunted as Frank put the zombie creature out of its misery, "So there's zombidildoes runnin' 'round? That means the Wormwood Agency, yeah?"

  Frank lifted an eyebrow, "Wait, do you think Karsiel placed the zombies somewhere 'round here to screw with us? I smell magic around here. Magic plus zombies almost always mean Necromancer."

  Dash nodded and began trotting down an alleyway as he led the way, his massive form illuminated by an overhead streetlight, his psionic senses already hooked onto the Wormwood agents, "Yeah, and I bet you're thinkin' what I'm thinkin' - a zombie ambush means Necromancer, which means Karsiel hired one somewhere 'round here, but they got waylaid by the Wormwood Agency. Y'know those guys don't take too kindly to either necromancers or anyone who fucks with the dead."

  Tracking down the Wormwood agents didn't prove too hard - corpses were strewn about
as the zombies were culled, disengaged forcibly from the vile magics that animated them, the only respite found in the cruel ends that brutalized them.

  Brutalized indeed, Frank noted the marks of violent, yet precise, impact attacks on the remains left in their wake, proof of the blunt instruments that were the favored weapons of two of their most elite agents. Frank grinned, his intuition making the leap of logic before Dash's strangely revved intellect.

  Wiping down an unloaded bazooka, the smaller man put his hat back on and regarded the newcomers with a jaundiced eye, the two resting on crates at the end of a particularly fenced-off alleyway, zombie corpses piled high next to the boxes. A tall, broad-shouldered man and a shorter, thin man, both wore pinstripe suit pants and funeral parlor shoes, shiny and black in the streetlight. Where the shorter man wore a business suit jacket of the same pinstripe design, the taller one wore a black blazer, coordinating with his shoes and black gloves.

  The smaller man set his modified bazooka down as the larger man finished lighting his cigarette, watching the Shopkeepers warily as recognition lit within his brown eyes. The shorter man, his hair balding and close-cropped, sported a pencil-thin mustache and a glare in his hazel eyes that never quite went away. The larger man, having taken his jacket off for the gruesome work, had the sleeves of his expensive-looking button-up shirt rolled up, a pair of red suspenders keeping his pants up, his black hair slicked back with pomade, a cross-designed war club bouncing gently against his shin as he hooked it with his arm.

  Frank nodded to the both of them, "Tim. Tyler."

  The shorter man lit a cigar, focusing on it as the taller man nodded back, "Frank. Dash. What are you doing here?"

  The smaller man, Tim, blew a puff of smoke towards Tyler, "Didn't you hear, bro? These two are on the warpath."

  Tyler, waving his own cigarette about, dispelling the cigar smoke for his own chosen vice, chuckled lightly, "I remember, I remember. I meant right here, right now, on our turf."

  Dash, taking a step forward, growled at the Agents, snarling monstrously, "Hey, HEY! Watch your mouth, Wormwood. You're about two miles offa yer usual location!"