by Thomas Duder
Navigating the maze of halls, Williams stopped completely, sticking to the shadows as he gazed further within at the heart of the sub-basement. Where all roads underneath Babel led, a massive, floating cube of precious gold and jet-black onyx set amidst floating waterfalls of unsettled, moaning souls that pounded out of Neo-Los Angeles itself to disappear further below, on their way towards whatever judgment the afterlife held for them.
Biting his lip not to cry out, Williams drank in the sight of Gervais St. Germain’s secret business: Spirits. The massive artifact, shielded as it was by floor after floor of earth and more, radiated a power and presence he had never felt before in his entire life. Suddenly, right then and there, he felt how small he genuinely was in the world.
This, the combined Artifacts known as “Soulsander” and “Core Charger,” were what was used to distill a soul to drinkable liquid form. Highly frowned upon but not illegal, the Spirits company was used as an alternative punishment by many gods within the Pantheons, skirting the clause making punishable by death the consumption of sentient flesh.
After all, who cares about discarded, failed souls?
The quality of alcohol produced by such a process was determined by the quality of life the soul had led, how deep their sins were, and how they affected reality. At times, a rare, eldritch God or empowered Soul was sent to it, here where the dead streamed by in silent protest, heading to an unknown destination. Heroes, kings, even Gods, all provided varying qualities of flavor and effects.
Only a truly select few knew of the Spirits company due to the rarity of their product. Even the lowest quality drinks could fetch hundreds of thousands of dollars.
A series of mezzanines connected one side of the massive cavern to the other, a series of elevators and stairs heading to upper and lower levels. Monitoring stations littered the grounds, but it was a particular collection of machinery he was looking for.
About to tear his eyes away from the external shell of the cube (the Soulsander), he found his gaze trapped by the strange energies and glyphs that ran through the cube. Finding a level underneath the initial, glowing skin, Williams found himself tracing a fiery line through the Soulsander itself, as if he were racing against the golden, impossibly beautiful metal right then and there instead of standing in the shadows of a passageway. Circling and dipping, racing down straightways and finding new ways of going to higher or lower levels, he instinctively knew a terrible truth of the Artifact - there were worlds within it. Worlds within worlds beckoned to him, each one more glorious than the last.
With a very physical shake of his entire body, Williams tore his gaze from the glorious thing, a maddening sutra smashing about within his skull to keep himself centered and in control. Keeping a hand over his eyes, he adjusted his Mage Sight and broke out in a cold sweat at how close the thing had torn his all too human soul out of his fragile body.
No longer feeling very confident of himself in the face of such raw, awesome power, the Magus cast the first spell necessary to complete his task - less a cloak of invisibility and more a simple deflection of other’s gazes, so long as he acted like he belonged there, he could get by. One of the weakest of the Illusion Magia school, the version of Look Elsewhere, taught by the Shop (renamed and empowered with the new name “Lyin’ Eyes”) allowed him to cast the spell not only at a higher level but also despite the incredible pressure of simply being in proximity to the machine.
Stepping with a confident stride that never quite reached his heart, he nevertheless plunged himself into the busy world underneath Babel. Small units of the clones clustered here and there, on hand to help or guard the various workers entrusted with the task of running and operating Spirits. Each one was of the same pale woman with long, orange-colored hair wore loose, their eyes a raging red coloration. Slim, somewhat regal features drew his eye even as he attempted to not look at anyone in particular. That Caroline Walters was hooked to a spell-machine, her body and soul tortured against her will as the machine spat out clone after clone only made it worse, but to do so within the vicinity of the Spirits Artifacts had to be tearing her apart at every second. With enough exposure and training, anyone of even remotely light magic use could withstand such a power, but to a normal citizen…
Williams cut that line of thought off completely, focused on his path. Staying on the main level that brought him to the “base” of the Spirits Observation Ring, he picked up and looked at a random clipboard, simply lifting it off of a table covered in graphs as he passed by. Sure no one could see him, and such a trick never worked, but at least it made him feel a bit better.
If it was good enough for television, it was good enough for him at that moment.
After a mile of such travel, he began to stop and simply breathe, taking in the incredible sights and finally learning how the place was lit - the massive cube itself gave off an incredible light, one that was consistent and warm no matter how close or far he was. Eventually, he decided to up the ante after noticing the golf carts used on the various levels above and below this one.
Finding one unattended, he made his way at an unhurried pace, fighting with his own impatience and the growing, frantic energy rising within himself.
Hissing to himself, he blinked and stopped as a particular, simply-dressed man waved him down. Climbing onto the back, the man tapped the golf cart’s side lightly and murmured, “Take me to Orbital Station 7. I need to check on the Clone machine. The Animula.”
Williams immediately snapped himself into action, taking off towards the very area he had been heading to himself. Lulled into stopping for the man, Williams stopped himself from breaking into further cold sweats but could do nothing to quell the internal screaming within himself.
The man leaned back comfortably on the golf cart’s rear seat, his face covered by a silver, nondescript mask. Black hair cut short but with noticeably spiked bangs, the man wore a simple white button-up shirt tucked into a pair of comfortable looking black slacks.
The mask alone, though, the edges of it lined in black, told him more than enough that the jig was up. Of all the worst scenarios he had trained on, this was the absolute worse.
Aristotle spoke again, his voice carrying clear through the mask, “My Master awaits you. I have orders not to kill you…unless you try to stop or turn around. Keep going forward, Magus Williams.
Let’s see what is in store for your future.”
Controlling his shivering and swallowing his fear, Williams drove further into the heart of dangers, knowing only what he had been told about both Aristotle, the “failed experiment,” and one of Frank’s fellow Heroes of Perris.
Of the five people to survive facing the reality-warping Psyker Demon, the one that remained the greatest mystery who also had the softest hand involved with the entire Battle for Brownstone now held him.
An hour stretched into days as Williams fought with his anxiety, certain of his ulcer now as they drew closer. Heeding Aristotle’s orders to go at maximum speed, he found himself brought directly to a far smaller machine the size of a car, set at one of the independent stations set aside at the base of the floating cube, the tip of it parallel to the floor itself. Ringing around the cube, thirteen stations lay, each one dedicated to a different service. On the seventh one squatted a heavy machine, taller than two men standing atop one another, a foundation of metal with a pod-like structure connected to it, all gleaming gunmetal strangely foul compared to the divine cleanliness of the cube Artifact.
Behind the pod, black waters ran into a pool, allowed to spill over the boundaries of the pool itself to fall into the darkness below. As Aristotle and Williams drew closer, Williams felt his breath catch as a flame-haired, red-eyed woman slid out of an orifice at the bottom of the pod directly into the pool, covered in the slimy, black waters.
Several other clones helped her stagger out of the pool, to be cleaned, toweled dry, and provided the clothing of their ilk (a simple affair of white towels used as makeshift skirts and tops). Sitting on a
comfortable enough office chair, dressed in simple cream button-up shirt tucked into black slacks, a blonde woman of absolute incredible beauty watched dispassionately, her long, blonde hair worn loose, a black rose tucked into the breast pocket of her shirt.
As Williams spied her, he recognized who it was immediately. The fragile, feminine beauty of Morrow Kind was usually the first part of his almost unbeatable charm. All who gazed upon him fell prey to that beauty, but to hear his voice was to invite doom.
Williams, having cast his second spell while driving, successfully doing so without attracting Aristotle’s attention, hoped it was enough.
Morrow turned to them, smiling as he took note who they were. In that moment Williams confirmed who it was - one gray held a warmth that was all too human, promises of absolute glory and joy beyond measure.
True happiness beckoned to him from that single eye.
The other eye he tried not to look at. The Demon’s Eye, violet and endlessly powerful, beckoned for him to lock gazes, to fall further into Morrow’s spell.
Then he spoke.
“Hello, Magus Williams. Double agent of the Order of Magi. Apprentice to my beloved Master.”
Williams couldn’t help himself as he shivered, biting his bottom lip to keep his composure in check. Slithering to his feet, Morrow twirled a simple rattan cane about before tucking it under his left arm, holding onto it as he presented his side to Williams, letting the resonance of his voice reverberate through the Magi. Both knew, full well, how this was the final straw for most - Morrow Kind’s voice, the strange energy known as “Song Magic.” With but a word people threw themselves to his feet, and with a song…
With a song he could kill. Enslave. Destroy. Disrupt.
To reorder reality with his words was only one of his many known abilities, and certainly one of his most noteworthy.
That eye, gazing at him almost lovingly, glowing with the violet color mostly seen from angels and demons. When the five Heroes of Perris defeated the Psyker Demon, each gained a different part of the Demon, to keep safe against the creature’s return.
Frank Todd, whom Morrow called “Master,” had gained the Demon’s Overdrive, a boost that could never be turned off, unlike the rest of their comrades. His lover and slave, Jack Guin, had gained the divine demon’s Aura, ramping up his already incredibly psychic powers and allowing him to subjugate the lesser demons that constantly clawed at the edges of their existence.
Morrow Kind gained the Eye of the creature, its powers unknown. While four of the Heroes kept in contact (the Fiend twins keeping to New York and New Jersey), Morrow Kind had fallen off the map completely, causing alarm to all organizations who knew them, from the Amerifed government to the Vatican.
It was well known amongst these clandestine powers that should any of the five Heroes stay within a certain distance within one another for thirty hours, then the Psyker Demon could immediately return from the strange prison they had locked it away in.
Williams took a deep breath and regarded the beautiful, possibly insane man. Frank had explained it to him, more so than he had any other person outside of The Shop.
“The thing is, Morrow Kind loves me. I know this. But he’s nuts, bro,” Frank looked away from Williams as he explained, his gaze intense as he glared at his own thoughts, “Jack loves me too, but…Jack can accept things as they are. Morrow does not. Morrow never could. It’s why I broke off from him completely, for all that he can never forget about me.
We have to always be alert to his fine, psycho ass showing up. For all we know he’s been playing at the edges of my demesne, leaving at the 29th hour or whatever. Either way…if he’s involved, then the scenario is gonna go like this - he’s probably going to try to ensnare you. If you can resist, he may play with you or have Aristotle fight you.
Let him. If you win, good, but don’t get your hopes up. Don’t focus on fighting to win, focus on fighting to survive, you hear me boy?”
Dash chuckled as Frank spun and pointed at their apprentice, “Look, go in with a plan. Even if my hunch is correct and Morrow Kind IS involved, get him to admit how and why. Either way, you’ll still have the chance to save that Caroline woman, and even escape. Just remember these words…”
Murmuring the words to himself, Williams blinked and suddenly everything shifted. His perception, his gaze, the world itself suddenly shifted violently and he felt…
Good.
Morrow clucked his tongue against shell-pink lips, impressed as he set the cane on the ground, holding it with both hands as he leaned fetchingly forward, “So. Klaatu verata nickel, eh? Master, you bad, bad man.”
Williams nodded towards the clone machine, “You know why I’m here. I need to take her home, Mister Kind. Please live up to your name.”
“And if I refuse?” Morrow smiled, mischief in his eyes, “I hold all the cards, and I highly doubt I will make the same kind of Bond villain mistake you would need to leave here alive. No, I’m not going to monologue for you. I would move mountains for my Master, your teacher, but I’m not going to give this operation up for you. I am very close to my goal, and that is all that matters.”
Something tugged at Morrow’s intellect as he noted something both Frank and Morrow had mentioned. His mind working at high speed, Williams took a deep breath and responded, “I don’t know you, sir, but I know of you. I know, kind of, what you’re doing here.”
Morrow arched a slim eyebrow but offered no retort. Feeling he was on the right path, Williams continued, “You need the army of Caroline, but I think she needs to go home now.”
“If we take the base material away from the J. Geil Animula: Centerfold spell, then the clones will die immediately,” Morrow chuckled lightly, withdrawing a small notepad from his breast pocket, finding a particular page before quoting, “Five thousand, four hundred and eighty-five clones. Eighty-six now. That is how many souls you are asking me to kill here, young man. Even further, they will explode upon death, killing anyone nearby. Naturally that would be the entire staff here on this level, manning this semi-illegal operation, and also those where they are massed in certain key points about the city.”
Morrow blinked before bursting out in glorious, musical laughter, “And here I said I wasn’t going to monologue like a Bond villain, yet here we are! Fine, then. Let’s…play.”
Williams shivered at the small pause, anticipation filling him with baser need for Morrow as he continued to speak. Recognizing what was happening but doing his best to fight it, Williams responded, “What…what do you have in mind? I will do anything to save that person. She…she doesn’t deserve that. She doesn’t deserve any of this.”
”Doesn’t she?” Morrow arched an eyebrow, walking to the spell-machine and placing a slim hand on the pod, an almost proprietary act, “And if I told you that she willingly gave herself to Karsiel, the angel-gene? What if I told you she begged to have this done to her?”
“Even so,” Williams kept his gaze calm and cool, feeling a bit more confident the more he resisted Morrow’s charm, “This is something I simply have to do. They told me you’d understand.”
“They?” Morrow frowned, causing Williams heart to race. Turning to him, making even the frown pretty, Morrow clutched at his cane and spoke with heat in his voice, “The only one that matters is Master. The only one.”
Williams caught it. The spell over him completely broken, Williams saw his chance and grasped it with both hands.
“You…do understand that there are two people in the Shop, right?” Williams asked, slowly walking towards the machine, closing the distance with a casual stride between himself and Morrow, “You haven’t said Frank’s name, and I understand why, but…you haven’t said Dash’s name at-”
”Stop.”
Aristotle took in a small hiss of breath as the entire scene stopped completely at his murmured command. Clones, personnel, Aristotle, and Williams - all stopped suddenly as the very real threat of Morrow took instantaneous hold.
Morrow
relaxed, and so did all who had heard his command. Confused slightly, Williams stood where he was as Morrow drew closer, murmuring, “I will not lose my temper here, not this close to my objective. You’re right, I do NOT recognize that fool, Daniel, nor his proximity to my beloved. He is a bookmark, a mere distraction, a whimsy for my Master, and that is all. That is it.
You, too, are nothing but a mere whim, a trifle, to one such as he,” Morrow hissed lightly as he drew closer to Williams. All at once the spell was back, stronger than ever - Williams closed his eyes as glorious scents, Morrow’s addictive voice whispering the most dangerous of nothings in his ears, the feeling of his slim fingers gripping his hair, that long, luxurious wave of hair cascading through his own, the slim neck under his lips-
”Klaatu verata nickel!!!”
This time nothing happened, save that Morrow laughed at his ineffectiveness. Looking at his hands with wide, frightened eyes, the situation caught up with Williams.
The realization of it hit him with brick-like force.
”It only works once, you slow boy,” Morrow smiled, hiding his mouth behind a hand as he spoke, eyes fairly glowing with mischief, “And only because of how absurd it is. The power wasn’t in the words, but simply in how absuuuurd it is. That’s…that’s okay, though,” Morrow gently touched his shoulder and caught his gaze, the spell washing over him once again, “It’s honestly alright. You are a wonderful joke, and I feel the need to show you, my guest, the proper honors.”
Turning smartly, feeling William’s heated gaze on him, Morrow once again took up his perch on his chair, crossing his legs at the knee with a smile, “Alright. As befits a good host, I will do this then. We no longer require the services of Caroline Walters, and I can even disengage the spell without detonating the clones. They will die, but the bodies will be the problem of the city and St. Germain’s various businesses here.
