TESTAMENT ONE

  Deviland Down Below

  Under the ever-orange sky, through the unpaved roads of sand and soot, far out and away from the rows and rows of identical dull-gray skyscrapers, lies a lone mausoleum. Not part of any cemetery or burial ground. It is a little house of stone and marble nestled in an oasis of black grass and white lilies. However, much like Deviland itself, this mausoleum is quite deceptive, with a storied history to it that few may know and none may speak of.

  And here lay I, deep within this tiny mausoleum’s winding halls, down the dizzying lengths of the spiral staircases, and tucked away neatly in one of the farthest corners of the central chamber, was the bath house. My coffin.

  Velvet carpeting paved the floor, and crawled its way around the length of the circular walls. Black metallic lattice was bent and contorted into abstract shapes and patterns in a Dali-esque fashion for the wall decoration. With the only source of illumination coming from a single flickering stage light affixed to the center of the ceiling. It was an expansive, pristine realm that dwarfed what most mansions hoped to offer. And in the very center of the room sat the lone and single fixture giving company to the otherwise empty floor, an antique porcelain bathtub occupied by two individuals of questionable mental well-being. Within the bath was the bubbling, black water from which I had just emerged. Now, sat within the lukewarm pitch-black liquid and taking in my first sights as a new man, I speak my first words:

  “For what reason?”

  My answer came in the form of a wicked cackle from the lady sitting across from me.

  “First you beg for your life, now you beg for answers?”

  I stare at her blankly, my placid expression unflinching. With a blink, and a thought, I expand upon my reasoning.

  “Well, I suppose there are other things I could ask, but I’d rather address those with the shortest answers before moving onto the more complex. Broader questions like ‘Who are you?’ would only lead into further tangents. Which would distract from getting your answer as to why you chose a suicidal young adult as your candidate for reincarnation.”

  Yet again, she laughs. Though the way her voice cracked, near shattering, made it more of a shrill howl. A cry quite contradictory to her otherwise sultry speaking voice. A sound quite unbefitting of a woman her age.

  “And who says you’ll get your answers? I gave you life! Far be it from you to interrogate me! And who was the one so gracious enough as to draw us a bath?”

  “...I was just speaking genuinely, it’s the most logical way to approach asking these series of questions, is it not? I was just planning accordingly. Besides, whether I get my answers or not…I’m plenty satisfied knowing my first words were enough to make someone laugh.” I retorted, returning a smile. It felt like there was a dead body in the room. There was something unnatural about being able to speak so casually like this again. For my lips to curl in genuine amusement rather than a facade of pleasantries in an attempt to reassure those that would occasionally check in on me for updates in regards to my health and wellness. Never having anything positive to share, nothing positive to say. All I could muster was a halfhearted twitch of the cheeks and whatever thoughtless words of consolement I could spit at them to pacify their desire to feel good about themselves. They may have cared, it’s possible to some degree. But more so than anything they knew they’d feel guilty if they didn’t check in on me in some way or another. Nothing about them was genuine. It seems my smile had faded. Rhythm leaned forward not more than a few inches, her brow furrowed, lips apart.

  “Can’t give at least a little more of a smile than that? C’mon, you’re alive again! It’s not all gonna be bad, promise.”

  She spoke not like a dejected owner looking down onto their sick old hound dog. But rather as a counselor would to a troubled child. It’s a tone of voice I had not heard in years, possibly over a decade now. However, I still am nary to believe a word of what she says. I’d be an idiot to give up my trust to the first woman that shows interest in me! I did it before, and it certainly didn’t end well…Besides, I hadn’t forgotten our agreement that this life I’m living now will somehow be worse than what I had previously, I need to press her.

  “You moved forward to try and sympathize in an act of intimacy, but stopped yourself because you knew I was the more defensive type. You’re holding back from trying to explain or show off too much. You don’t want to shatter the trust you’re trying to build.” I spoke in my usual soft, yet flat tone. It was certainly blunt, but I had to be in order to knock down her facade and gain a glimpse into her true personality. My gaze met her own, and her expression stayed firm for a moment before twisting into a smirk and a narrowing of her eyes.

  “We’re sharing a bath together, you know. You can’t get more intimate than this.”

  The water is warm, yet I am frozen stiff. I opened my mouth but caught only flies.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Sorry to make assumptions.”

  “And no reaction to sharing a bath with a beautiful woman alone in a velveted room illuminated under the stage light?”

  A pin dropped, maybe thrice before my eyes narrowed to get a proper look at her. Despite being in the same bath, just inches apart from one another, my gaze till now had been drifting aimlessly, only meeting her eyes when necessary to speak my piece when any young man around my age would be pouncing at the chance to cop a feel or act out their favorite scene from whatever porno they kept tucked away on old tape. Though I suppose if she’s being so inviting, I could indulge and take in the image of my savior.

  Starting from the top of her head, Straight grape-colored locks flowed down to her shoulders, curling up a bit towards the end. A small widow's peak split her hairline straight down the middle. Rhythm’s hair framed the rest of her face quite nicely, actually. Though under a microscope…She was perfectly symmetrical, to an astonishing degree. Not only her hair, but her shady-green eyes and each lash under them were mirrored identically. Her thin brows were equal, not only in length but down to each individual hair follicle. A subtle nose was dotted in the center of her visage, with a fair complexion untarnished by neither blotch nor blemish. Long, thin lips ran across her face, flashing perfectly white teeth when she spoke. The only concerning factor was the shape, each one was triangular, as if her gums were lined entirely with canines, akin to a shark's. Yet each was of equal length, size and color. Her chin was small and round. The only stone tossed through the reality of such a perfectly-mirrored appearance were the two black rings pierced to the left side of her bottom lip. Spider bites, I believe, was the term used. Her body was slender, with a modest chest size. The way she sat made it apparent she was certainly quite small for having such a boisterous personality, perhaps no taller than five feet. I had given thought to gazing lower, but the gentleman in me refused, or perhaps I was simply feeling a tad bashful now that the reality of the situation is setting in. I hastily turned my eyes upward, towards the particles of dust dancing about under the light.

  “Have you ever taken theater classes?” I finally responded. She scoffed, but decided to indulge my pointless musing.

  “Not once in my life, though I’ve had friends who were quite the characters themselves.” To which I remarked with an:

  “I see, because it looks like you stole these lights right off of Broadway...”

  I blinked twice, reflecting on if I should continue the conversation to maintain a natural flow, or pause to see if she would reveal more information about her past. Of course, there was no way to verify the validity of her statements yet. But it would be a good idea to let her talk in order to cross reference later, checking if she’s the type to brazenly run her mouth or lie through the teeth. But just as I was laying the groundwork, my strategies backfired when she questioned me with a:

  “How about you? You have a nice face, good jaw definition, and you certainly put on a show up on that cross.”

  It seems the only way to proceed naturally will be to reveal more about myself and my previous life. Best to be truthful and avoid crafting landmines down the road. Though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t eager to talk about myself. Perhaps she has a way with words, or I, a weakness for women. Brushing my hair back and leaning against the porcelain, my chin points north. cheeks dimpled.

  “Film class actually. Back in high school. I was always a script writer though. The scant few times I was able to act I knocked it out of the park I’d say. Only ever an extra, and only ever with a single line. But I was a cut above, I promise! The only reason I didn’t get picked often was because I was the more reserved type, I never made myself noticed. Which, to be fair, is the trait of a bad actor. Even the quiet types need to know how to make their presence known in order to market themselves. But then again, the blame may lie on the curriculum for allowing students to decide roles democratically rather than cycling between each facet of the film-making process per project, pinko bastards. The only fix for their commie brains is a bullet to the head! Nevertheless, I had the capabilities to become a star! All knew it, and none wished to admit it.”

  “So you peaked in high school?” She responded playfully.

  I say ‘playfully’ but in all honesty a bullet had been fired through my ego. A murder of my self respect had taken place, and I sit here in this tub not with egg on my face, but the entire br?lée. I feel this was the first of many humblings I am soon to encounter. Dashing the sudden impulse to kill myself in front of her, I hurriedly flounder to keep my cool before my ever-generous savior relieves me of the fires of chagrin with yet another offer.

  “How would you feel about becoming the main character?”

  My eyes widened for a moment. Though upon remembering some unfortunate incidents, I sobered up once more.

  “I’d prefer not to be in front of any cameras.” I answered gently. Her head tilted sideways with a disappointed frown, but she seemed to understand my plight to some degree. She studied my words for a moment, then spoke again.

  “Well...Not in that way. Here, help me up. I have such sights to show you!”

  Obliging the woman, I grabbed her by the neck and lifted her from the bath. What emerged was naught but a head on a spine. My jaw fell beneath the floor.

  “My! Such strength! You lifted my whole body with one hand!” She cheered.

  “What body!?” I hollered, voice thundering through the whole mausoleum.

  A toothy grin sprang across her face.

  “This is my body, what’s left of it that is. The rest of my form is constructed of Witchpower!” As she spoke, a viscous black sludge poured down from her neck and formed itself into the shape of her body and clothes. Near identical to any ordinary person, if you were to ignore the gaping holes in her legs. I couldn’t help but stare.

  “I think you missed a spot.”

  “Ah, that’s just what happens to those who cross between worlds!” she chimed, grabbing my hand from her neck and leading me out of the bath. Taking hold of the bathroom door, she turned to me with a glint in her eye.

  “Welcome to the Mausoleum!”

  The Deviland Mausoleum Central Chamber, a roomy area for sure, but nigh inconsiderable when compared to the monumental bathroom. Walls of stone and marble, some lined with bookshelves, others with frantic, indecipherable scrawlings. A ceiling of glass allows that scant bit of the sun's rays that made it all the way down here to illuminate patches of the red and black checkerboard flooring. I felt myself an anglerfish at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, though I suppose an ocean would make an appropriate place for one’s rebirth. Rhythm procured a towel previously hanging off of the desk and shook herself dry like a dog. Ah, yes. The desk, and swivel chair to match, along with a lounge chair sat across. This section of the mausoleum seemed ever stranger with each second my eyes scanned over it. It was as if Pee-wee’s Playhouse and Saul Goodman’s law office had a demented lovechild. Yet there was something calming about being nearly alone in a vast ocean of wood and stone. Perhaps I truly am a corpse. Or maybe I just like the way the sun warms the top of my head…

  If only I’d been reborn as a plant. A flower without worry or care, without family or friends, without expectations or responsibility. Where each day I could spend in peace, giving thanks for the sun’s rays. Perhaps then, I’d have lived long enough to truly blossom.

  Just as my heart had begun to sink, Rhythm's hand landed atop my head.

  “Wanna take a look at your new body? We made it together, you know!” She gave a warm smile and took my hand once more, pulling me in front of a mirror. Seeming eager to hear my response, she had already begun eyeing me up and down. While I don’t prefer to look at myself, I decided it was only fair to Rhythm to give at least a cursory a glimpse at my new form. After which I’ll surely ask about that odd comment of hers she stuck at the end.

  Once more, starting from the top: My hair seems to have a bit more luster now. How long had it been since I had a proper wash? My skin is clearer, I suppose. Though my actual tone remains a ghostly pale. My face and features elongated and angular. That same gaudy nose seemed to have gained even more definition, displayed prominently akin to a bayonet. The colors of my eyes and hair remained the same, I still sounded the same when I spoke. I was the same height, and as indicated by my visible ribs, the same weight as I’d been in my previous life. How disappointing. I had hope when Rhythm mentioned a new body, yet my boney, malnourished frame was all that greeted me in the mirror. It’s an awful thing to look at, it was a sight I’d grown tired of. And here I glare at this body head to foot, disturbingly similar to the one I so desperately tried to discard not a single hour ago. Oh, how I loathe to look at myself.

  Ah, and there’s also a giant hole through my midsection. I suppose that would be the elephant in the room. But the gaping hole centered directly above my stomach was the least of my concerns when compared to the rest of my figure. Yet just as I was beginning to lose myself in my own bodily critique, a hand jutted through my back and out through my solar plexus. My brain was sent into a hard reboot period as I acquainted myself with the feeling of having my newest orifice suddenly penetrated by Rhythm’s intrusive touch.

  “Heyy, Heyy! Wow, it's all sealed up around the inside! Good good, I was worried your guts’d leak out!”

  This is, without a doubt, a violation of some kind. Yet I could not utter a single word of defiance. Or rather I couldn’t find the ways or sounds to express myself. So I simply squeezed my eyes shut and slouched forward as her fingers danced within the walls of my void plexus (a name that was all too cool for the dreadful lack of organs that it was.) Her hand was cold and curious, exploring every inch of the in, out, and around of my newest perforation.

  “Now you’re a funny one! Staring so scornfully at yourself. This hole is your mark of your success! Where’s that lust for life you showed me up on that cross!? ”

  My eyes couldn’t stay open. Teeth gritted, my fists squeezed tight, balling up as two dead spiders affixed to my wrists. It was a feeling unable to be compared to neither pain nor pleasure.

  “You were a fine hunk of dry and dusty clay, yet with our combined wills you have been shaped once more! You are my art! This is your chance to begin again! A new life, a new name! Now speak! Speak it for me!”

  Her pitch shifted upwards as her probing and stirring quickened. The sultry-warm tone she took with me before was rapidly shifting to a cold and shrill shrieking as her fingers licked the rim of my void. I felt a sweltering sense of heat, a ringing in my ears, my pulse quickening as my arms began to raise. As Rhythm’s digits skipped back and forth along the length of my void plexus. The buzzing in my head grew louder, what kind of greeting is this? Was this an act of love? An attack? A test of the merchandise? A formal inspection? I’ve never met anyone with a hole through their midsection, so was I the lone individual capable of feeling this sensation? Delivered to me by my savior, the one whom I now owe my life?

  “I want to hear! I want to hear! I so desperately, feverishly want to hear! I want your name! I want your spells! I want to raise you into the perfect New Angel to secure an evolutionary path for Deviland!..”

  Ringing…

  “..One to stand above the Humans and Witches! Not like those filthy clay rejects, not the wanderers or those hidden in their cliques!..”

  Burning…

  “...Carve a path to salvation! One only the righteous can walk! I will be your gardener. So please, speak the name of my sapling!..”

  Clawing…

  “I’ve failed over and over and over and over and over and over and over again! Everything dies! Everyone leaves! And I’m always left alo–”

  “GEEEEEEEET OOOOOOUUUUUT!!”

  Throwing down my arms and puffing my chest, the void plexus slammed itself shut, severing Rhythm’s arm inside. I whipped around to face her, eyes aflame.

  “I don’t like…too close.” I spoke through gritted teeth.

  “You ate my arm!” Rhythm pouted, pointing her sludge-dribbling nub at me.

  “Huh?”

  “You ate it! Look!”

  The room fell silent. With a scrunch of my nose and narrowing of my eyes, I looked down to see the void plexus release itself, empty once again. My head slowly turned back up to meet her gaze.

  “Ah...Could you, uh…make another one?”

  “Nope, I’m all out of Witchpower! I used my last bits to make you!” she gestured to herself, and back at me, scattering drops of the ink-like mess across the floor.

  A cold breeze blew through the Mausoleum.

  “So I’ve got it too…?”

  “Oh, hot mama! You’ve got a lot more than that. Just take a look at those hands!” She chirped, her lips smacking as they curled into a satisfied smirk.

  “My hands?” My…hands. Well, finally getting a good look at them, they were certainly my hands, attached at the wrists and all, yet they were distinctly inhuman. Tapered fingers, from nail to wrist were a deep purple, with swirling, spiraling strings of scarlet flowing atop. Tiny yellow calluses polka-dotted all across, cracked and clacking against each other like hungry birds pecking at seeds. They produced a faint, ever-present clicking that, once pointed out, I couldn’t help finding myself distracted by. My vision wavered.

  “Can I sit down please?”

  “Can I have that arm back?”

  “Ah…oh…sorry”

  “Kidding! Sit wherever you like!”

  My head hurts, everything turns black, and I wake up lying in a pillow of sludge and vomit. A pair of ill-fitting black leather gloves stuffed over each hand.

  “Welcome to the waking world, goober! You passed out before I even got your name. I thought about moving you, but you looked too comfy! Except for the hands, but those gloves should muffle the noise a bit." she leaned in close and whispered. "It was starting to get to me too!”

  I was utterly stupefied. Nevertheless, her kindness successfully took my mind off of the qualms and concerns I held with my new form. I blinked once or twice before unsticking my face from the floor and slumping down in the nearby lounge chair. My head, as heavy as the heavens above, rested in my palms. I felt myself empathizing with Atlas for but a tick. That was until I noticed…

  “What do you mean you made me?”

  “Well, you were the blueprints, I just patched you up! Looks like your head’s still prone to springing leaks though. You landed right on it.”

  “Were the hands…an intentional design choice?”

  “Nope! That’s a natural response to being exposed to large amounts of Witchpower. Sometimes it remixes your body a little!” Somehow this was the first time that woman's taken her eyes off of me when speaking.

  My head hung low, and I could still hear the faint chattering through Rhythm’s gloves. Yet despite the mess, despite the pain and all my losses, I couldn’t help but crack a smile.

  “This is supposed to be hell?”

  “It’s only gonna get wo-orse~.” She sang, skipping towards me.

  “Then, if I can just ask one thing, Rhythm.” I look up from my hands.

  “Is there a Heaven too?”

  That lady beamed so bright I thought I’d heard her jaw crack. Staightening myself out and rolling my head cross my neck, I finally speak my first words.

  “Then call me Heaven Reacher. If I have a new body, I’m owed a right to a new name, yes?”

  Upon hearing such a bold statement, her eyes widened. It was a rapid, universal expanse happening twice over as galaxies were born that twinkled in her irises. It was perhaps the most raw emotion I’ve seen of Rhythm thus far. More so than her frantic stirring of my innards. It called back to my own youthful face of wonder, the same expression that I’d held when an action hero made his grand appearance in movies and TV. I was always going to find myself indebted to Rhythm, she’d gifted me another life after all. But it was her face now, a face that only one with a human heart could make, that solidified my trust in her despite any eccentric mannerisms.

  “Yes! Yes! YES! That’s it!” Rhythm’s arms shot up in triumph, Witchpower splattering across the floor (and onto my face) with her back arched so far I nearly felt the need to catch her.

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  I stood upright, and putting on a confident face, extended a hand.

  “Rhythm, I hope you don’t mind. But I don’t feel comfortable giving you the name that was tied to my previous life. If possible, I’d like an entirely clean slate.” I spoke clearly with her, the same way I would with a trusted business partner fresh off of closing a deal. After hearing my resolve to secure my new identity, her sobriety seemed to return and my hand was firmly grasped with a “Clap!” that resounded through the whole Mausoleum.

  “Understood, Reacher.” her voice drew back to its natural, velvety tone as she unclasped and promptly scooped up some neatly-folded office clothes from the top of her desk. An outfit looking very similar to my work uniform, topped with my own glasses. Cheerily, she turned towards me, and placed them directly into my still-outreached hand.

  “But you’d look much cooler if you said that with some pants on.”

  Ah, that’s right. I’ve been naked this whole time, haven’t I?

  “Nothing happened, she didn’t see anything," was the mantra I’d chosen to repeat in my mind as I got myself dressed, my ghostly visage burning a beet red as Rhythm stifled a snicker not six feet away. Once I’d gathered the scraps of my dignity strewn about the floor, I patted myself off, fitting nicely into the very same outfit I’d taken my own life in on this very same day. A frown painted itself under my nose.

  “Why these clothes? It seems a bit…grim.” I ask, furrowing my brow and turning towards Rhythm. Catching a glimpse of my insecurity, she flashed a knowing smirk.

  “If you’re scared of a simple uniform, you won’t make it very far as a New Angel. Besides, those clothes have changed too!” She retorted, poking a finger to my forehead. “But you’ll just have to find out the how’s and why’s of that for yourself!” She paused for a moment after, and seemed pleased when I couldn’t hide the twitch of my cheeks upon hearing her teasing.

  “Now, about your payment, rebirth isn’t free y’know! I need you to do something for me...” She spoke, turning on her heels.

  “Ah, yes, of course. Well I’m not good at mathematics or art, but I’ve proved well with–”

  “..I need you to kill and dismember thirteen people!” She declared.

  “Y-hwhat now?” I flubbed back. But before I could ask for her to expound upon that, she opened a drawer and proceeded to dump fourteen PVC cards across her desk.

  “Deviland is at war, Reacher. And these are the most dangerous contenders here. Some vying for power, others status. Some fight in the name of religion, and some for the thrill of bloodshed. These are ‘The Thirteen Devils of Deviland!’ So get a good look at their names, remember the faces of the ones with the ID photos still intact, and don’t lose these!”

  My mouth was agape, my eyes wide as I stared at the mess she poured in front of me. My mind made desperate attempts to refuse to process what was just asked, but my ears had the volume set to max. Now, I won’t lie. I’ve been known to have violent tendencies, but I’ve never acted as a hitman before! Though it was clear I was already in too deep to say no. I wouldn’t want to be rude to my savior, after all. Plus I couldn't live with myself if I were to disappoint a lady over some petty moral code. Nodding my head and flashing a victory sign, I complied with Rhythm and stared long and hard at each I.D. card. Each one numbered, with the race of the individual seemingly marked below the standard details. They were as follows:

  13. Nightmare Filo - Witch

  12. Noria Morio - Witch

  11. Satani?a Coru - Human

  10. Rosalyne Garth - Clay Human

  9. Dorikoria Holiadore - Unknown

  8. Lyricelica Lilac - Witch

  7. Nightmare Chocolia - Unknown

  6. Romero Allen Anderson - Human

  5. Shockadelica Samson - Unknown

  4. Verden Aesthmeire - New Angel

  3. Alexandra Alexandria Rosamaria Rosa - N/A

  2. Adrien Katrina - Witch

  1. Crow Fortitude - Witch

  Only a scant few details could be deciphered from each of the musty, ill-cared for plastics. Crow's in particular was riddled with bite marks and reeked of ammonia. But there was one another, a fourteenth card, left mostly blank and split in half. Given how Rhythm mentioned the Thirteen Devils of Deviland, perhaps this one had already fallen victim to the warfare. Nevertheless, their name was Jaquelyn Frost.

  “Wretches of all kinds! All of which either hold or have the potential to wield Witchpower that could shake the earth and shatter the heavens. All of them, including you, Reacher!” She spoke excitedly, grasping onto me once more. “Witchpower is innate in all living beings in Deviland, and through honing your mind and soul, you too can stand against and put an end to the urban warfare plaguing our hometown! Isn’t that cool!?” Her voice cracked as her nails dug into my shoulder. Under any normal circumstances, I’d spend time deliberating my options. The moral implications of taking a life versus staying loyal to the one who summoned me here, no doubt using her very own Witchpower to do so. But when one is faced with a woman roughly ten years their senior excitedly digging her claws into you in exchange for your dedication to cultivating a latent talent for magical powers, as well as giving free reign to crusade against evil witches, religious lunatics, and whatever else this wretched world holds…Well, one may find it hard to say no.

  I find it impossible to say no.

  I blink, and already my feet have whisked me halfway up the spiral staircase leading to the entrance of the Mausoleum. Rhythm delightedly clapping and prancing around me as I stride upwards.

  “Ah, Reacher! Make sure you steal a chunk off of each one of those Devil punks! I’ve gotta build a new body for myself too! A much stronger one!”

  I stride upwards.

  “Ah, Reacher! And make sure to punch the first one you see square in the face! Wha-bam! Yeah!”

  I stride upwards.

  “Ah, Reacher! I’m sorry I can’t come along, this body’s on its last legs. But that just means you have to come back alive! As payment for swallowing my arm!”

  “Thank you, Rhythm. I’ll do as much as I can.”

  I spoke unflinchingly, arriving at the top of the staircase and marching down the hall towards the entrance.

  “Ah, Reacher…Don’t you have anything cool to say before you begin our grand crusade?” Clearly dejected, this yin-and-yang woman tilted into view, walking backwards to maintain pace. I stopped in my tracks. With a deep breath, I squeeze my eyes and ball my fists. The leather strained in my grip.

  “Rhythm, or Carnivale, whatever you prefer…I spent the entirety of my previous life disappointing everyone, including myself. I spoke of projects and creative endeavors that never came to fruition. I failed college and nearly all my efforts in education. I was unable to keep a stable job or maintain a social life with friends and family. I simply lived complacent with the fact that I was still alive, and because of that I missed out on the innumerable joys of existence. I do not want to live that same life again. I do not wish to simply speak of my ambitions, to jail them within my mind.”

  I opened my eyes, meeting her own. I spoke not by my tongue, but through my very soul.

  “To hesitate is to die, Rhythm. I won’t die again.”

  The statue of a failed human being had cracked and crumbled to dust, and from within had sprouted a new angel.

  I reached the grand iron gate sealing us off from the hellscape beyond, and pressed a hand against it. Without effort, the tonnes of metal slowly began to grind open, and I was baptized by the warm rays of sun that now blanketed the inner halls of the mausoleum. Taking my first steps onto the obsidian meadow, breathing in the smell of fresh air and white lilies, I tilted my head back to meet Rhythm’s gaze.

  “Now watch me blossom.”

  — THE WALKING DEADMAN/HEAVEN REACHER —

  Deviland is nostalgic. It is dark and macabre as Rhythm had warned, yet there is a sense of serenity within the madness. The warmth of the sun shone through the blanket of orange swathing the sky. The grass crunched beneath my shoes in just the same way it had my entire life. The petals on each of the lilies were as delicate as the blossoms I’d held as a child, taking joy that their presence meant summer break was drawing near.

  Now, I am given no such respite. I am not a child, I’m not even human. Yet here I find myself clutching a bouquet of one between my palms. The leather gloves shield my hands from direct contact, yet I feel it all the same. Each fiber of life sewn together to create its being, the waxy leaves and firm stem, the petals lain out in perfect symmetry. It was a beauty that no human could possibly attain. An existence of true purity held only by that which bears no intelligent thought.

  To think is to sin. The curse of knowledge brings about greed, wrath, bias…All forms of evil in the world are spawned from intelligent beings and their selfish whims. The most vexing cases come from those who speak of how their ends justify their means. There is no justice. No catch-all set of morals or values to set one apart as righteous. Attempting justification for one's actions after acting dubious is simply a snake-tongued robbing of the senses. Both for thyself and all wronged.

  I have a distaste for humanity. It is why I have avoided most confrontations. It is why, as a child, I chose to speak to the plants and animals rather than any peers. A flower doesn’t tease or pester. Not hurt or harm or rape or pillage or plunder. The lilies listen to my worries and woes, offering comfort with their dainty appearances and pleasant smells. I miss my dear friends.

  Once again, I have sinned. Plucking this young blossom from her roots and setting her in my hair. Her petals graze my cheek with each passing step, and my heart is soothed. I make a silent promise to return her kindness with a lush garden once this is all over.

  * * *

  It is because of the flowers, and because of my disdain for my own kind that I felt not a shred of sympathy for the impaled citizens I passed on my way into the city. Their bodies crooked, splayed, and half devoured by the crows soaring overhead. Some were strung together like streamers, tied by their feet and cut off at the neck and arms, left to bleed dry up on telephone wire. I paid no mind to them, for whomever they were, they assuredly deserved such a sentence. The dusty, unpaved road I walked down was chalky and bare. The towering skyscrapers blocked out the sun, forcing a chill through the whole area. Garbage lined the alleyways and weathered flood lights hung in place of streetlamps.

  Those who populated Deviland clearly had no regard for others, and thus created an unlivable city. They are simply reaping what was previously sown. I passed not a single white lily, and that alone was confirmation of the evil that crept through these open catacombs. I passed those sickly and hungering, those in their last moments of life and those picked-clean by the dutiful birds of prey.

  The fauna were the only redeeming factor of Deviland. They kept the streets clean, they gobbled-up evil, and even shaded me (if for but a moment) as they flew above. Animals have the capability for evil, but not on an intelligent level. Thus they remain without sin, and it is my belief that each and every one makes it into heaven. I tilt my head towards the sky, and give an approving nod to the fellow guardian angels of this forsaken city.

  And wouldn’t you know it, I’ve been stabbed.

  Starting as a simple impact that knocks me off balance, then creeping into a hot, stinging sensation as I notice the shard of glass lodged between my ribs. The pain is undeniable, curious how I’m even still conscious really, as Witchpower begins to dye my shirt with its gaudy attempt at abstract art. Curiouser is the fact that my aggressor is nowhere to be seen. After regaining my balance, my eyes scan the area, and I see a single man in the distance. Standing tall and proud and covered in various fluids in an alleyway surrounded by halves, fifths, and three-quarters of several different women. My palms begin to chatter…

  “Excuse me, sir? Did you see who put this here?” I hollered over, gesturing to the hunk of glass embedded in my left lung. I made sure to use the same cadence I would when taking a call from a customer, albeit at a louder volume. Though I quickly regretted my action as I felt the taste of bitter sludge stain my tongue and lips. It would be smart to save my breath and simply walk towards the man. Hopefully my kindness will be rewarded with a respectful answer. Though I’m not sure what to expect around here…

  Bracing myself for another impromptu piercing, my body tensed. But to my surprise, I was met with a response hollered right back.

  “You aren’t a part of the Armory Sisters?”

  “No sir, no affiliation.”

  “Then you aren’t my problem.”

  The bewilderment that comment left me in far outweighed the pain in my chest, so I approached further to greet the man properly. Perhaps he too, was hunting the Thirteen Devils of Deviland.

  “You have a good aim, sir. Do you kill Witches?”

  “I kill anything that won’t fuck me.”

  “Well I’d like to keep things here strictly professional.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” He spat, turning his nose up. I balled my fists to quiet the noise, and what lingered in my mind was his face as it slowly came into frame. Still about a dozen meters away, but he was blonde with brown eyes. Tall and lanky with tight fitting clothes and scars all along the palms of his hands. I paced with heavier steps, narrowing my eyes. Something was terribly off about this man. Gesturing to the girls just behind him, I ask:

  “What’s…all this here?”

  “Women look better without their heads.” He sneered, prodding a corpse with a long shard of glass. He glanced my way with a look that expected approval. I could not think to describe myself or what face I gave him. The air hanged in my lungs like tar.

  “Well, sorry about the trouble. I’m Jaquelyn Frost. Can I ask about you?” I spoke politely. And upon finally reaching him, a welcoming smile twitched its way across my lips. Removing my gloves and placing them in my pockets, I extend a cautious hand. The man makes his chin high and taps a thumb to the right of his throat.

  “Well, I’m M-”

  “Threads.”

  Bursting forth from the callouses within my hand were thin red tendrils that burrowed deep into the man’s right arm. It seems my utterance was able to call them forth. Despite having no previous knowledge of this ability, calling its name just felt right. It was the only word I knew, holding my tongue would have been signing my own death warrant. I noticed each individual muscle on the man tense in response to the vicious probing. Pulling and yanking and recoiling in extraordinary detail, exactly as one would see in the movies! I suppose life mimics art in this case. The expression of disbelief into betrayal into pure rage as each individual synapse of his brain processed my decision was nothing short of spectacle. He leapt back, seeming to take flight as he regained roughly a half court between us again. My tendrils extended all the while, as a fishing line that had just hooked a legendary catch. I had not chosen to attack him because of my disapproval for his actions. It was simply convenient timing that he began to speak his name as my suspicions were confirmed. The exact moment that I attacked this man was the exact moment I recognized him as Noria Morio, straight from the cards. Perhaps it was my own anticipation that boiled over and erupted within those microseconds which gave rise to this new spell.

  Finally, it took twenty-two years and one death for me to finally get the chance to make a man of myself. A way to give my life worth, the only cost being his. He was a sandbag. A check to cash. He was my dinner, my home, my fears and my regrets. He is anything but human, he is a point to be scored. And it was at that exact moment that I promised the lily rested within my hair I would use this power to kill Morio.

  Time halted as Morio began his descent. Should I close the distance between us? Or attempt a similar attack with my other hand? Yet I’m still unaware of the parameters of this ability, so would it be wise to already begin relying on it? Sweat beads down my face as the claws of dread sink into my shoulders, its beak pecking at my brain. It hadn’t even been a full second since my attack. He should be the one in shock, and he surely is! Now is not the time for paranoia, but action!

  “Mori-!” My hoarse voice echoes through the dusty alleyway. Though before the words can slip my tongue, Morio lands deftly on his two feet, raises a long chunk of crystalline shrapnel, and severs his right arm.

  Ah!...Surely, this wasn’t more than theater? What fear drives a man to such an extreme exhibit of desperation? As a winch, my threads began to retract. Morio’s arm did not have time to land before it found itself glued to my palm. How macabre, for its warmth reminded me faintly of the days I’d owned a healthy body. How I’d procrastinate homework and class duties with folded arms, pinching and chewing the loose fabric of my sleeves.

  I could have spent those precious hours in so many ways.

  I caught a glimpse of Morio’s face, mouth ripe for catching flies. With teary eyes that so desperately wanted to clam shut, yet in spite of that fountain of sludge pouring out from his right half, his sights stayed locked on to me. My eyes wavered but a tick before I hurriedly straightened myself out, turning up my nose to him. And after an eternity of our silent staredown, Morio let his head hang. Emptying his lone working hand, the vile confederate slowly raised his arm in surrender.

  Ah…oh!...Wow! Such power I felt in that moment! To see his face, drowned in shame. To see that wretched body properly mutilated. It brought catharsis. Morio was everyone that ever did me wrong. He was everyone that ever spewed to me their mindless sympathies. He was every politician and every healthcare executive that left me to rot away in bed covered in dirt and puke and shit! He was the thorn in Rhythm’s side, ripe to be plucked. In that moment, I was God. For just that single moment, I’d forgotten the blue sky.

  A breeze caught Mirror Solomon’s arm as it sliced through the air, landing flat out with two fingers pressed firmly together.

  “Shatter Kingdom.”

  It starts with a snap,

  and it ended with a flash,

  Crystals line the sky.

  When all around cracks,

  Starving fish swirl their master,

  Gleaming King of Glass.

  Devil Number 13 - Noria Morio.

  It was a hail of glittering crystals. Pieces of every mirror, window, and streetlamp housed in Deviland came spiraling down to earth at his command. Taking reign once more of the long, twisted shard, he was a conductor of destruction. Each shred of glass caught the warmth and beauty of the sun as it tore through my flesh. They became crimson arrows, rosebuds planted through me and into the earth. A normal man would have died in such a devilish style. He would be now nothing but a puddle or pincushion. But there was only one factor my opponent hadn’t accounted for, I have a girl waiting for me at home, and I never like to make a lady wait. Noria Morio had never seen a man move so fast while being shot at. I had never chased after anybody while choking on magical bloodsludge.

  “MORIOOOOOOOOUGHHHGH!!”

  My body felt hot and wet, leaking from innumerable new wounds. An inky-black trail paved the road as we ran as far as our legs could take us. Noria Morio had pockets that would jingle and drop out necklaces and jewelry as he ran. The kind any girl would be delighted to have as a gift. I thought about which ones would look best on Rhythm, that made me run faster. Morio was a fit man, more so than I. He kept a solid lead, though he’d always look surprised when I caught up to him while he was catching his breath in an alleyway. Eventually, he found himself against a wall.

  My shoe landed in his groin and he sank that shard into the ground, resting his whole weight on it.

  “Do you have a working heart?”

  Morio sputtered and glared at me. He reeked of ill-intent.

  “Give me a way…to get out of this alive.”

  “Sorry, I owe a favor.” I spoke flatly, slipping a hand under his shirt and pressing it to his chest. It was warm and firm, slicked with sweat and pushed against my touch with each breath he took.

  “Open your mouth.”

  Morio could do nothing but comply. His breath was lagged and wheezy. I took hold of his tongue without issue and felt the clicking beaks in my fingers peck curiously along his taste buds. If his powers worked anything like my own, then as a Witch, he was now utterly neutered. Morio leaned his head into me, yet for some reason I offered no resistance. There is an innocence in those accepting of death, I believe. A sort of peace and unity, perhaps hope that the next life will be more merciful. Noria Morio may have once lived a life similar to mine. And perhaps that’s what makes it so easy to kill him. There is no such thing as a good person. Even Rhythm herself may be plotting some awful way to turn me cripple or poison me or eat me whole once I finish her gruesome shopping list. Yeah, the only good person is a dead one, and I mean that honestly. The dead feed the plants, and that’s the greatest charity any human could ever do for this world. The only time I’d ever find myself sympathizing with people was for the ones long past. The ones that have shed their sins and turned into grass and lilies and rosemary. The only ones I’d speak to were those who’ll never speak again. Ones I’d never get to connect with, no matter how many chances I had put on hold when they were alive. They made the world pretty, even for a wretch like me. It doesn't matter who it is either. It doesn’t change, no matter how many gifts I leave at their graves, pets die, people die, plants grow, nobody comes back. Why do I only shed tears where nobody is able to see them? Why can I only laugh when there’s nobody to laugh with me? Why do I only find peace among death? Why do I feel guilty when other people smile at me? Why did falling off that building feel good, even if it was only for a second? Why is holding a man at death’s door the closest I’ve come to appreciating human contact? Why are my eyes wet? I don’t want to listen to his heart! I want to hear Rhythm’s! I want Merry’s! There is no love left in the world! No peaceful deaths! The only answer is to clear my debts and claw my way to heaven, praying to God I’ll meet her there one day. And for this wretch, for this corpse-prodding, head-peeling, woman-shredding, fagfucking cockshitter! The only comfort I can afford him is the most basic facade of meaningless sympathy and a short lived memory soon to fade as I find the next poor bastard up to die.

  “Life shouldn’t be this way. But I’m sorry that it is.”

  Morio’s heart calmed, and I spoke once more.

  “Threa—”

  — SNAP —

  Glass buries itself in my eyes as my frames drop to the ground. The shrapnel embedded in my chest explodes into glitter. Sludge clouds my vision as I hurry to scrape away the pieces.

  Raising a hand in defense, Morio’s sword of glass lands squarely between my knuckles, splattering the ground and crushing the bone.

  “You lose, shithead!” Norio Morio’s voice boomed through the alley. My head is buzzing, the ink floods out of me. I try to speak, but it’s nothing but a stream of black froth.

  “Men..don’t..die easy!” Barking through labored breath. Sawing his blade and kicking my shin.

  “You think I’ll fucking cry…over an arm!?” Cackling, his face contorting into…ah…I can’t see much of his face,,,

  “Ffphreads—”

  — SLAM —

  Morio’s head…hit me…

  “...Threshds—”

  — SPLRTCH —

  “......Shreadss—”

  — FWSHHHNKKK —

  “.........’reads—”

  — KRRKRACK —

  Auughh…ow…

  The world turned sideways as Morio dusted himself off and hobbled away, clutching his cane of sludgey, boney glass.

  “You…are going right to the top of the Santa Maria’s shit list!”

  Noria Morio thought he could hobble away, but he didn’t account on…ah,,,

  ...What Noria Morio didn’t realize was that actually…ow…

  I can hear his footsteps getting quieter. The clack, clack, tick was a rhythm weaving a distant pattern in my mind. I only see…little pointy pieces. And the murky, dark blood can’t pour out anymore. I’ve forgotten how to breathe, it has become less painful to keep it held, lest the storm of glass mix my innards to a stew. Now I’ve become just another messy puddle of man littering these barren city wastelands. Beaten into all sorts of funky colors. With enough black covering my face and arms I’d fit right into a minstrel show. Enough holes punched through me to legally classify as swiss cheese. A split in my hand deep enough to…ah well. The Angels play their tinny trumpets in requiem, and I do my best to applaud their performance. If I try really hard, and God blesses me once more with the strength of hercules, I can move the first knuckles of each of my fingers and toes…

  …And sometimes that’s just enough.

  I always knew karma would catch up to me. I’ve believed in that shit since I was a kid. I had hopes for it. I had it all planned out. I was really banking on getting my luxury shit lifted or having a bitch get cold on me mid-fuck. The kinda things that hurt but, well, you can always get ‘em back! Not a fuckin’ arm. I must’ve puked five times on the way to the payphone. Didn’t even eat today, it was just that yellow shit spilling out. The only upside now is that I already have a good enough blood flow to fill the callbottle just by leaning on it. I hate whenever I have to use that dinky communal knife. I just know that shit has AIDS on it. I fumbled the buttons too, ended up ringing some spaced-out stoner chick and had to give another pint. Goddammit, my head’s getting all needly. I took a look at that handsome devil reflected in the mirror shard and punched the shit out of those keys waiting a fuckin’ eternity for one of the choirboys to pick up, I’d talk to any of those retards right about now, as long as it wasn’t Peter.

  — click —

  “Yeah hey I’m gonna need med-”

  “Ooooooh! What’s this? Lost little minnow tugging the line?”

  Goddammit it’s Peter.

  “My fucking arm’s bleeding out! Prepare a—”

  “And what happened to your buddy system?”

  I swear to god when I get back I’m slapping the Lennon shades off of this dopey little nerd.

  “I tossed him a pack and told him to fuck off. I got busy, be back soon.”

  “Awww, you’re too cruel to your brothers. Treat them with some care, M—”

  “Don’t say my name! This is a public phone.” I cracked, squeezing that dinky hunk of plastic fit to burst.

  “...Show them some love, Judas.”

  — click —

  Fucking bastard didn’t even let me hang up on him. At least I collected most of the shiny-shiny shit on my way back. The walk back to the temple is always so quiet. Meandering through bloody halls and empty streets. It’s ghastly. Feels like a fuckin’ funeral, I hate that shit. The great thing about ghosts though is that they look the same as the body they died in. So if you hack a bitch to pieces, even if she does come back, she’ll never find ya. Now that's Judas IQ. Still though, it has to be karma or the wind or something, the streets are colder than usual. There’s chills running up and down my spine like crazy, did I drink the wrong glass? I swear I can hear some kinda echo…

  “...—oooorio…”

  Somethin’...

  — tamp tamp tamp tamp tamp tamp tamp —

  No…

  I turn around to face the setting sun, forehead slick with sweat, teeth chattering out of my fucking head. It was that tricky prick, barrelling towards me with the speed of a goddamn Olympian. Gettin’ the lead out on only the tips of his toes. Soaked in magic, bruises, and what smelled like a little bit of piss. My heart dropped into my balls.

  “MORIOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

  “AUUUUUUUGHH—”

  — FWH-BOOOOOM —

  The world turned slow as my arm curled around Noria Morio’s neck. I’d never clotheslined anyone before, so I didn’t expect his head to whip front to back like that. I’d knocked the perspective clean out of him. He became a skipping stone, tumbling and flipping along the dusty road. When I caught up to him he was back on two feet, and I greeted him with another kick to the testicles, for old times sake. Morio vomited on my pantleg, a generous souvenir. I couldn’t hear what Morio shouted at me, the Angels played too loud. I couldn’t read his lips either, not like I ever had the ability to. But he gathered the sense to raise his blade and split my head open.

  That is, if his glass had not gotten wedged in the notch in my fist. Morio was quick to turn me into a pi?ata. Frantic to yank and pull and kick as much as his body would allow. But King Arthur had already sunk his sword into the stone. With no blood left to lubricate the blade, it found itself a new home right in between my knuckles. That sweet melody had come to a close, and Noria Morio spoke to me with passion.

  “DO I NEED TO BURN YOU TO DEATH!? You…fucking COCKROACH! LET GO!”

  I held firmly.

  “WHY…ARE YOU SO…FUCKING…ZEROED IN ON ME!?”

  “...Bsh cuz eye maede uh pwomiss.”

  “WHAT ARE YOU SAYING!? IT’S FUCKING OVER MAN, YOU LOSE! I’LL SAW YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF WITH YOUR ARM STILL STUCK HERE!”

  “Stuck?”

  My knuckles tensed, and Morio’s arm fell motionless.

  “Wh-what?”

  He whipped his arm wildly, squeezing the glass splinter until his hands were sticky with black sludge.

  “Move. Move. Move. Move. Move. Move! Move! Move! Move! MOVE! MOVE !M OVE121! mOVE ! MOVE!!”

  “Morio, yew caubt me ad just tuh righd angle tuh fowfill my pwomiss…See where mai hand poinds?”

  I couldn’t count how many teeth were missing, but I still had just enough left to throw him the greatest shit-eating grin. Finally, I closed my weary eyes, and spoke from the heart…

  …Somewhere in the world, a flower blooms…

  “CANNONBALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL—!!”

  “WHAT THE-!?”

  — BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMM —

  When my fist hit Noria Morio’s face, a nuclear bomb went off that broke all the teeth in his skull, burst the blood from his ears and make his skin ripple like a trout-filled lake. For a single half-second, he became silly putty wrapped around my fist and then fell to the floor dead. Punching through his sword of glass had split my left arm in two from the valley between my middle and ring knuckles all the way up to the edge of my shoulder blade. An inch further, and my arm would peel off like a cheese-stick. I hurriedly stuffed my gloves back on and plucked a few fingers off of his corpse to shove in my void plexus. Standing back up, I gave one final glance at Noria Morio, who looked like a stain.

  My eyes linger on the sky a while, one shut, the other barely keeping open. It’s dusk now, and the stars just barely peek their heads out. The stars are innocent, they’re spaceborne cherubs that twinkle and peer into our tiny hunk of spinning rubble. I feel guilty that they have to see such carnage. I wonder how many children walked by my splattered corpse before some cop threw a tarp on it…poor kids.

  Just as my heart had begun to sink, a soft hand took hold of my shoulder.

  “M—!” I jolted around only to be met with an equally baffling surprise.

  “...Ma’am?”

  “Oh no way, were you just about to call me Morio?” Rhythm asked, stifling a laugh.

  “No, uh…Someone eldse…used duh hold me like dat…Whad about yew? I fought it wuddn’t dafe here?” My face is burning up, I hate this bitter nostalgia.

  “Awww well I just came to say congratulations! And I know what I said! I just wanted to tail you from a safe distance just this ooooooone little time to see how a real New Angel kicks ass! I had plans to pull you out if it looked too grim too, but every time I was about to step in, ya got back up and kept fighting! Now that’s a real hero! That’s what Deviland needs!”

  Rhythm was good at making me swallow any confusion, maybe she had a job kissing ass back when she was my age. I should ask her sometime. But right now, I couldn’t help but bask in my own heroics.

  “Not bad fur ah warmup, ah? Morio was ah pushover!” I spoke, shards of glass falling from my wounds and clattering onto the murky trail.

  "Hm? That wasn’t Morio.”

  “Yeah! Haha-waid what?”

  Rhythm shook her head.

  “That wasn’t Noria Morio! You really thought that was Noria? I’d thought you just wanted to test your Witchpower out on some rando before going steady with the kill list.”

  A pin dropped, maybe thrice. The stars watched with bated breath.

  “T’en who was ’at?”

  Rhythm shrugged her shoulders.

  “You made his head look like an abortion, Reacher. How am I supposed to tell?”

  I took one last look at the motionless puddle of man on the ground, then swung my head back to Rhythm.

  “Oops.”