Valiant: The Covenant Chronicles

[Covenant #4: The Honest Monster]

Log Date: 9/28/12763

Data Sources: Jayta Jaskolka; Raikaron Syntaritov

Event Log: Raikaron Syntaritov

The House of Regret: Raikaron’s Study

4:05pm SGT

“Raikaron, you cannot keep putting this off!”

The door closes behind Danya as I cross my study, shuffling through some end-of-the-month reports from Sjelefengsel’s intake and processing agency. “I’ll get to it, Danya. No harm in waiting a little longer.”

“You are coddling her!” Danya says, her heels muffled on the study’s carpet. “You are avoiding getting her registered, because once you get her registered, you’ll have to put her to work. What happens if an auditor comes up to the House and finds you’ve got an unregistered demon hiding out in one of your finest rooms?”

“I find it highly unlikely that the House of Regret will be the target of a random audit before we manage to get her registered.” I say as I reach my desk, setting the reports down on it one by one. “The last time we were audited was… what, two years ago? And then before that, five years ago?”

“A random audit, perhaps not.” The muffled thumps of Danya’s heels cease as she comes to a stop. “A tipoff audit, however, is becoming more and more likely by the day.”

That grabs my attention. I raise my head, turning to see she’s standing behind me with her arms folded. “Are you saying we have a turncoat or a spy in the House?”

“I’m sure we have two or three, but it’s not them I’m worried about.” she says. “It’s Harro. You know damn well what he’s like. If he finds out she’s still not registered…”

“Mmm. Point.” I say, setting the rest of the reports down. “We need to find a better deterrent for him. I think he’s starting to get used to the magma pits.”

“You need to get rid of him is what you need to do.” Danya says, shaking her head. “He will be your undoing if you keep him around, Raikaron. He’s just been getting more and more bold lately.”

“You know I can’t get rid of him. The Eighth Circle assigned him to me, probably deliberately, to put a thorn in my side and keep me from fully devoting my attention to other things.” I say, leaning back against the edge of my desk. “Unless they choose to take him away from me, or approve a trade, I have to see him through to the end of his sentence. Besides, even if he’s often insubordinate, he has his uses.”

Danya grumbles something mutinous and unintelligible, which eventually scales up into audible conversation directed at me. “Fine. If you aren’t going to do anything about Harro, then you need to do something about that girl. I can take her tomorrow so we can get in line to get her registered, if you’ll give me permission. Not just for the sake of the House, but because we can’t just have her taking up space here. We need to put her to work.”

“You have a point.” I concede. “I’ll take her tomorrow.”

Danya raises an eyebrow. “You. You’ll take her tomorrow?”

“Is there a problem with that?” I ask mildly.

“Yes. Usually you send one of your servants or minions to take care of it.” Danya points out. “The Lord of Regret has better things to do than wait in a line for days to get a new demon registered.”

“I can work remotely.” I say, reaching back and prodding the data slate on my desk. “Besides, it’s good for the upper echelons to venture into the nitty-gritty of the damned every now and then. Just to get a reminder of what the ground conditions are like for the masses.”

“This isn’t about the commoners, is it.” Danya says. “It’s about her.”

“About who?” I ask, feigning obliviousness.

“You’re looking for ways to spend more time with her.” Danya accuses, narrowing her eyes at me as she comes closer. “There’s no reason for one of the Lesser Lords of Sjelefengsel would personally stoop to something so pedestrian as registration unless it’s as accessory to some other agenda. Rai, are you… trying to court her?”

I stare blankly at her. “Why would I do that?”

Danya’s left eye twitches. “Because you are— Rai, you were very persistent about trying to lock her into a contract. Once you did, you brought her here, gave her the best among the guest rooms in the House. Now you’re delaying her registration and giving her ‘time’ to acclimate and adjust to Sjelefengsel, instead of putting her to work. It has been ten days since she signed the contract; she has had more than enough time to acclimate and begin working. And to top it off, you took her hot cocoa and a piece of pie when she was throwing her tantrum! All the signs point to you having taken a rather vested interest in this girl.”

“Well of course I have.” I admit readily. “She is a uniquely malleable soul. When I found her, she was in a place of grief. That is ripe ground for transition, for change, for most people. She was unstable on top of that; her self-esteem is rather low since it was dependent on her ex-boyfriend. This girl is wet clay, Danya; from this point in her life, we can take her and turn her into something truly magnificent. We can shape her mind, her beliefs, her convictions; we can shape who she will be. Is that not exciting?”

Danya gives me a flat look, folding her arms. “And that is the only reason you have taken such a vested interest in her?”

I have a feeling that she’s insinuating something, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what it is. “Well… we have been a little shortstaffed recently.” I say, using a finger to scratch at my cheek. “And acquiring her soul will help meet my yearly quotas. The Eighth Circle keeps giving me grief about that.”

“You are truly hopeless.” Danya says, rolling her eyes. “Very well. I will keep the House in order while you take her to get registered. Are there any assignments which you would like me to pile on Harro to keep him busy?”

“Anything new that comes through. If something easy comes through, keep it in reserve. I want to use it to train the new arrival.” I say, moving around my desk and sitting down in the swiveling chair. “Is there anything else, Danya?”

“Try as I might, I cannot invent any topics that would otherwise prevent me from returning to my duties.” she sighs. “I did find the girl’s spaceball bat, like you requested. It’s a nasty piece of work. Wrapped with barbed wire, studded with nailheads, stained with blood. It’s locked in the armory for now.”

“Perfect.” I say, lacing my fingers together and smiling. “It’s the weapon she used to commit her original sin. We couldn’t let such a sentimental item go to waste.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed that such a weapon would’ve belonged to such a whiny little brat.” Danya says. “Do you intend on binding her to it?”

“I see no reason not to.” I say, bringing up my holoscreen on the side of my desk. “Every avenger needs a primary weapon to carry out their duties, and that’s one that I think will inspire a healthy amount of terror in its victims.”

“I’ll say. I’d think twice about my life decisions if I saw a psychotic little blonde barreling down on me with a barbed-wire bat.” Danya agrees. “But I digress. I must away to my duties, and I’m sure you have your own to tend to, so I will take my leave now.”

“Much appreciated. Thank you for your counsel, Danya.” I say as she turns to leave.

“Now if you would act on it, that would be much appreciated as well.” she says as she stalks off. “Make sure you pack accordingly for the registration. I would advise a camping tent, sleeping bags, and enough food for a week-long stay.”

“Oh come now, the lines aren’t that bad, are they?”

Danya smirks over her shoulder as she pulls the door to the study open. “You wanted to refresh yourself on what the ground conditions are like for the masses, did you not? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” With that, she steps out, closing the door behind her.

I lean back in my chair, narrowing my eyes at the closed door. After a moment, I pull a notepad out of my desk, and start jotting down meal ideas for the next week or so.

Event Log: Raikaron Syntaritov

Sjelefengsel: streets of Hautaholvi

9/29/12763 10:43am SGT

Pulling my pocketwatch out of my vest, I pop the lid and check the time. In the seat across from me, Jayta is glued to the window, watching the city outside pass by as our limo rolls through the streets. When she looks back my way, I use my thumb to close the lid of the pocketwatch and tuck it away once more.

“So this is like… generic hell?” she asks warily.

“Sjelefengsel?” I ask in return. “I suppose that is a crude way of putting it, yes. Souls that have no religion and do not belong to any of the extant afterlives come here if they are judged to punishment for their actions during their mortal tenure.”

“So, like… people that are agnostic and atheists come here?”

“If they were cruel during their mortal lives, yes.”

“What about good atheists?”

“They have the opportunity to cease, as all good atheists do.”

“They don’t get to go to an afterlife?”

“They’re atheists. Generally speaking, they have no interest in the afterlife.”

She gives me a long look. “The exact definition of an atheist is someone that does not believe in gods or higher entities. You can be an atheist and still believe in an afterlife. Just not one governed by gods.”

I smile. “Smart. So you see there is nuance in these things; but, for the sake of your education, I’ll continue to speak in more generalized terms until we have the basics covered. Stereotypes exist for a reason, and at the end of the day, there is some element of truth in their broad strokes.”

She looks like she wants to argue with me, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, she goes back to looking out the windows of the limo. “It looks just like a regular city.”

“Were you expecting something different?” I ask.

“Well, yeah. It’s hell.”

I follow her gaze out the window. Beyond the tinted glass, one can see all manner of people walking about outside. Humans, Halfies, wereckanan, elves, dwarves, orcs, tree people, even Cybers… it’s a zoo out there. And beyond the people themselves are the stores: a lot of restaurants, banks, hardware stores, supermarkets, and niche shops peddling specific services or items. Theaters, bars, clothing stores, succubi strip clubs — all the entertainment trappings you’d expect from a city.

“This is hell.” I say after a moment of watching and gathering my thoughts. “Not everyone that’s here is here because they deserve to be punished, though the vast majority are. But among them, there are some, like you and I, who are here because they were offered an opportunity for employment. There were some who were born here, as strange as that might seem. And there are some who, oddly enough, served their sentence, finished their penance, and then decided they didn’t want to leave. So they stayed.”

Jayta looks at me, her astonishment palpable. “There are people that choose to stay here?”

I shrug. “The hearts of mortals move in strange directions sometimes, and as home is where the heart is, sometimes home is hell. Really, I should be calling it Sjelefengsel, since there are so many other hells; to simply call it ‘hell’ risks confusion with the other hells…”

“So this place isn’t the only hell?” Jayta asks. “Danya said there are other hells, for other religions.”

“There are, yes.” I answer, lacing my fingers together over one knee. “If you have a belief system during your mortal tenure, it usually has some version or iteration of the concept of hell: the place that bad people go when they die. Most religions, and some cultures, have a dedicated hell, and adherents of those belief systems are usually sent to those realms if they have not lived their lives in accordance with the ruleset their belief system prescribes. Those that have not committed to a belief system, but whose mortal record is judged worthy of punishment, are sent here to Sjelefengsel. The generic hell, as you put it earlier.”

She doesn’t seem to like that. “Who gets to decide that? Who gets to be judge and jury over those that have no allegiance to any religion or belief system? And what gives them the right?”

“Death, and those that serve him, make that judgement.” I answer, turning my attention out the window. “The governing assembly of higher powers, known as the Gathering, are the ones that appointed him and his kind to that responsibility. And that responsibility is, by the decree of the Gathering, to be executed in objectivity and neutrality.”

Jayta folds her arms. “What about all the people that never asked to be part of that system? That never asked to be judged for how they lived, that simply want to live and then be done with it?”

I flick my eyes back towards her. “So that your refusal to believe in anything particular should excuse you from reckoning with your mortal choices? That would be a universe without accountability. A nihilistic reality, an existence without consequences.” I close my eyes, pressing fingers to my brow. “What am I doing? An angel should be debating this with you, not me. I’m the Lord of Regret, not an ethics professor.”

“You do a lot of lecturing for someone that isn’t a professor.” she mutters.

Cracking one eye open, I fix it on her through the cage of my fingers. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” she says, hunching her shoulders and looking away. “What’s this registration we’re going for?”

That’s right, you better change topics, I think to myself, but I avoid saying it out loud. Such coarse phrasing would detract from the paragon of elegance I try to project. “We are getting you registered as a citizen of Sjelefengsel. Once you’re a resident of hell, you’ll officially be a hellion, and you’ll be able to do things like open a bank account, pass between realms, get signed up for health insurance, apply for various licenses, and other things which generally require proof of citizenry.”

“I didn’t know hell would be so… bureaucratic.” she puffs, setting her chin on one hand.

“We have to keep records.” I explain as the limo begins to slow down. “There has to be some form of oversight, of accountability, or the afterlife would collapse into unmanaged chaos. With the scale of the industry, it is chaos still, but it is… organized chaos.”

Jayta notices the limo is slowing, and turns to look out the window again. “You can’t just torment people and be done with it? You have to turn it into this drawn-out process that gets on everyone’s nerves and can drive people crazy?”

“In truth, that’s the whole point.” I say as we pull into a massive parking lot. “It’s hell. The process is not supposed to be pleasant or enjoyable. If designed correctly, the process can become part of the punishment itself.”

Jayta’s attention is growing more and more fixed on the scene outside. “Where’s the building? This is just a parking lot in the middle of nowhere.”

“Is it now? That’s a change.” I say, leaning a little to stare out my own window as the limo pulls up to the curb. “Looks like they’ve made some changes since I last visited. Perhaps this is what Danya was talking about.”

Once the limo parks, the driver gets out and opens the door for me. Stepping out, I straighten out my vest and brush down my slacks, then readjust my crimson mantle to make sure it’s sitting even on my shoulders. “Mm, just another day in paradise.” I exhale, turning about to soak in the parking lot around me. There aren’t many cars here - most of the people that arrive here usually arrive on jampacked buses run by Sjelefengsel’s central intake and processing agency.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” I hear Jayta say over on the other side of the limo. Walking around it, I take a look at the sight laid before us.

Just past the curb is a long row of dozens of of intake kiosks, all manned by low-level gremlins. Hundreds of damned souls are shuffling from the bus dropoffs to the kiosks; after stating their name at the kiosk, they’re handed a ticket and waved through. Beyond the barrier of kiosks are vast lanes of moving walkways, each one numbered and separated from each other by railings. And in the far, far distance — literally miles away and down the hill, so far that it’s outside the city limits — is the registration building.

I look askance to Jayta, whose mouth is hanging open. “What is this?” she says, stunned by the sheer length of the moving walkways and the sheer quantity of damned souls waiting to be processed here.

“This, my dear, is the closest approximation we have to purgatory here in Sjelefensel.” I say, nodding to our limo driver. “I’ll give you a call when we’re done. It may be a few days.”

“A few days?!” Jayta blurts out, giving me a horrified look.

“Indeed.” I answer without skipping a beat, and motioning to the kiosks and the lanes beyond them. “Don’t worry, we’ll be in the express lane, since you’re not actually dead yet, and you’re being registered as a demon. Wait times for citizenship applications are a lot shorter than wait times for damnation registration.”

“We’re going to wait in those lines for a few days?” she demands in disbelief. “That’s not— how are we going to sleep? How are we going to eat? Or go to the bathroom?

“Don’t worry, I planned for all three. And the third one is provided for the lanes that the living have to wait in.” I say, starting forward. “Come along now. The longer we wait, the further back in the line we’ll be.”

I can hear her hurrying to catch up to me. “This is… this is where the damned come after they’re first sent to hell?” she asks as we filter into the shuffling crowd.

“Yes. Upon arriving in Sjelefengsel, the damned are sent here to be registered, and assigned a case file. From there, they are sent to the courts to be assigned their sentence, and then from the courts to their assigned punishment.” I explain, angling for the least-crowded kiosk I can see. “The lanes you see on the right are for damned souls. The lanes on the left corner are for most other paperwork and registration matters. You can see the difference in the two.”

Jayta looks to the right lanes beyond the kiosks. “That’s a massive backlog. It takes three days for them to get all those souls processed?”

“The express lane is three days.” I say, putting an arm around her and guiding her to the kiosk we’re headed to, while using my other arm to clear other souls from the way. “Those lanes over there on the right have a processing time of two to three weeks, if I had to give an amateur’s estimate.”

“Two or three weeks!?”

“It’s been that way ever since the Challengers got shut down.” croaks the gremlin manning the kiosk that we’ve arrived at. “State yer name and your purpose here.”

“Registration for a new demon.” I say, patting Jayta’s shoulder. “This one signed a contract recently. We need to get her citizenship straightened out.”

“Pretty face. Please tell me she ain’t gonna be another succubus.” the gremlin grunts, turning to type at his computer in the kiosk. “We got too damn many of them. Hautaholvi’s crawlin’ with the horny freaks. Yah know what I think we could use? More incubi. Equal representation an’ all that.”

Jayta stares at the gremlin, then gives me a look that’s one part offended, one part horrified, one part revulsed, and one part confused.

I ignore the look and focus on the gremlin. “This demon’s role is none of your business. However, this is Seventh Circle business. We’ll be needing a ticket for the express lane.”

“Oh ho ho, Seventh Circle business. Look how important we are.” the gremlin mocks. “I’ll need some ID to go with that, boss.”

I reach over Jayta, pressing a hand to the kiosk window. The seal of the House of Regret glows around it in crimson hues, the glass starting to heat up; the gremlin hastily speeds through punching the rest of the ticket. “Okay okay, you made your point! One ticket for the express lane, coming up.”

“Much appreciated.” I say, taking my hand off the window. Once the ticket’s printed out, he hands it through the window to us; I motion for Jayta to take it.

“Wait time’s currently seventy-nine hours, fifty minutes, ten seconds.” the gremlin grouses, waving us through before shouting into the crowd. “Next!”

We move past the kiosk, and I take the lead once more, headed for our assigned lane. The rest of the crowd is headed towards the lanes to the right and the middle, so it isn’t long before we’ve left the crowd, the few among many that are allowed the privilege of the express lanes.

“What did he mean when he said the thing about the Challengers being shut down?” Jayta asks as we near our lane. “Are there more people going to hell ever since the Challengers went away?”

“I personally think that’s a reductionist way of viewing it, but for all practical purposes, yes.” I say, stepping onto one of the platforms of the moving walkway in our lane. “The Challengers had a… let’s call it a positive effect on people. Their example made a difference in a great many lives, and when they were shut down, one of the major beacons of hope in the galaxy was snuffed out. As a result, there was an uptick in the number of people that made decisions that would eventually land them here in Sjelefengsel, and in the other hells.”

“Oh.” she says, stepping onto the platform behind me. “I suppose that was good for you all, then.”

I look over my shoulder at her. “Why, because there are more souls being judged to hell? That does us no favors here in Sjelefengsel. As you can clearly see, we already struggle with overpopulation and a severe backlog of souls that need to be sentenced and punished, which in turn affects our ability to meet our commitments on the mortal plane.”

“But I thought—”

“That the devil wants to drag as many people down to hell as she can?” I say. “Hardly. That’s a myth perpetuated by mortal media, as if demons had nothing better to do than loaf around in the mortal plane tempting mortals to commit grievous sins. The afterlife is, in fact, a very busy place, with a lot of work that needs to be done to keep it running properly.”

“Well, it didn’t stop you from coming to Coreolis and manipulating me into killing someone.” Jayta mutters.

I reach into my mantle, digging around inside. “We’ve been over this. I only told you what you wanted someone else to tell you. You chose to act on it the way you did.” Pulling out a folded camp chair, I open it up and brush it off. “And when I saw how you acted on it, I realized you had potential. That’s why I offered you the contract.”

She stares at the camping chair. “Where did you— was that underneath your cape?”

“Mantle.”

“It’s a bedsheet that’s draped around your shoulders, I don’t care what it’s called. How did you fit that chair under there?”

“Same way I fit this one under there.” I say, pulling out a second camping chair and setting it up. “Magic.”

I can tell by the look on her face that she doesn’t like the answer. In response, I gesture to chairs. “We have seventy-nine hours to go. If you’re going to spend the entire time glaring at me and sulking, this is going to be a very quiet and boring trip.”

She huffs and looks towards the miles and miles to go before our lane even reaches the point where it starts to backlog in front of the registration building. “I never wanted to be here. I never wanted to do any of this, never asked to become this. I’m here because you tricked me into it.”

“I didn’t trick you into anything.” I correct her gently. “I told you exactly what you’d be giving up. I told you the price would be high, but you were willing to pay it, because you wanted to live more than anything else.” I reach down, dusting one of the chairs off. “You can continue being angry about that if you would like to. Many demons under contract do resent the Lords that bound them, and their service is miserable because of it. Not because of any outstanding cruelty on the part of their Lord, but because they carry that anger and hate around within them. I would not want that to happen to you, though. This was supposed to be a new chapter in your life — ideally, a more positive one.”

“I have every reason to hate you.” she growls at me. Those granite irises are cold and hard with a deep-seated resentment that’s not going away anytime soon.

I think about what I can say back to that. Eventually, I sit down in one of the camp chairs, eliciting to take in the scenery as our platform slowly moves down our lane. “Perhaps you do.” I admit, reaching into my mantle and pulling out my data slate. “But living life full of hate is a very sour and miserable existence.”

I can tell, from the look in her eyes, that she’s still angry. Still resentful. She does not want to hear wisdom or counsel from me; does not want to be patronized, does not want to admit that I could ever be right about anything. But she’s also an adult; she knows that those are childish, petulant urges. I can feel her frustration as she fights against them, struggling to come to terms with the way she thinks things should be, and the way that things actually are. And eventually, when she cannot reconcile the two, she gives up and sits down in the other camp chair, slouching into it in a physical expression of her inward dejection.

It’s hard to watch. I wish I could offer her some counsel, some encouragement, but it’s become clear she doesn’t want those things from me. Her conflicting emotions will simply have to be something she works through on her own.

“Let me know if you want to take a nap.” I say, turning on the data slate. “I’ve got a cot stored in my mantle as well, and it’s going to be a while before we hit the backlogged portion of the line.”

Her only response is to slouch further down in her chair and fold her arms. I return my attention to my slate, starting to swipe through my many emails.

It’s probably going to be a long seventy-nine hours.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

Hautaholvi Badlands: The Lines

3:08pm SGT

I manage to hold out for about four hours.

I’ve been trying really hard to not accept any help from him, to prove that I don’t need him, to show him I hate him and I’m angry at him. All the little passive-aggressive things I’ve done are mostly out of spite, little acts of rebellion to show that he doesn’t control me. In the end, though, it’s mostly a delusion. I can’t escape the thorny collar mark wrapped around my neck, or the manacles tattooed around my wrists. Deep down, I know that I’m pushing my luck, testing the patience of a predator that could turn on me at any moment and make my life miserable.

Which is why what I’m doing is stupid. Generally, he’s treated me well so far, so there’s no sense in picking at his nerves, trying to destroy the goodwill he’s shown so far. Yet here I am, yanking on the wolf’s tail, because I’m petty and I’m bad at letting grudges go.

I haven’t said anything in the four hours since he offered me the cot, and he hasn’t either, quietly working on his slate. But my stomach, the rebellious thing that it is, spoke up in no unclear terms and let me know it hadn’t had anything since breakfast. The first time it’d growled, Raikaron had reached into his mantle and pulled out a granola bar, offering it to me without taking his eyes off his slate.

I’d just glared at him. He’d set the granola bar down on the platform next to my chair, and had gone back to typing on his slate.

Over the next couple of hours, my stomach had continued complaining at intermittent intervals, getting louder and more aggressive at each interval. I’d pulled my legs up into my chair and hugged them to try and keep it quiet, but that hadn’t really helped things. I could feel my mood darkening and my fingers getting cold, my body switching between lethargy and agitation as it tried to figure out why its meal schedule was being disrupted.

Now I’ve finally hit the point where I can’t take it anymore, so I reach down and snatch up the granola bar, avoiding looking at Raikaron as I open it and tear into it.

The granola bar is gone in less than a minute, still not enough to sate my hunger, but enough to take the edge off of it. As I’m rubbing my hand across my mouth, I hear the rustling of fabric, and look over to see that Raikaron’s holding a green apple out to me, again without taking his eyes off his slate. After a moment of hesitation, I snatch the apple from him, and start tearing into that as well.

Once I’m finished with the apple, I look around, trying to figure out where I can put the apple core and the granola wrapper. Even though this is hell, it feels wrong to litter, but I don’t see any trashcans along the lane we’re in. There’s another rustle of fabric, and I look over to see that Raikaron’s pulled a trash bin out of his cape and his holding it out to me.

I just stare at him. “How much do you have stuffed into that cape?”

“Mantle.” he corrects me without looking up from his slate. “And don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

I scowl at him and dump the core and the wrapper into the trash bin. Folding my arms, I go back to staring at our surroundings; most of the lanes to the right of us are backed up, only occasionally shifting forwards. The platform of the moving walkway we’re on is still gliding along at a sedate pace; there’s platforms spaced out ahead of us in our lane, and platforms behind us in like manner, each one having its own occupants. 

Outside of the lanes there’s nothing but rugged badlands; we’ve long since left behind the city limits. Mountains and black hills hem in either side of the valley we’re in; in the distance, I think I can see the glow of lava and an active volcano somewhere along the surrounding mountain ridge. And at the far end of the lanes, it looks like the registration building has gotten closer. Beyond that, there’s really not much else to look at.

I hate to admit it, but I’m really bored right now, and my only option to alleviate it is to interact with the one person that I don’t want to interact with.

Trying not to turn my head to look at him, I study Raikaron out of the corner of my eye. The way he sits, his overall demeanor, is the same as it was when I first met him: a mild-mannered gentleman that seemed warm, in that polite, graceful way. Sitting all classy, with one leg folded over the other, his neon-green eyes idly studying his slate through the rimless glasses. Nothing about him screams ‘demonic hell-lord’, except perhaps his crimson hair and the choice of red in his clothing, but it wasn’t like I could’ve been expected to make a judgement call based on a color back when I first met him. I suppose that was one of the things that I resented him for: he’s more than what he looks like on the surface, and I feel like that’s dishonest. Hell-lords should resemble the powerful demons that they were, instead of looking like someone you could take home to your parents.

“It’s rude to stare.”

Even though there’s no one else on our platform, it takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to me, because he’s never taken his eyes of his slate. Once I realize that, I quickly look away, taking a sudden interest in the badlands and the distant mountains.

“If you’re going to be sneaking looks, we may as well have a conversation, so you have an excuse to do so.” he says, locking the screen of his data slate and tucking it back into his mantle. “Let’s talk. I’m sure you’re bored out of your mind, so you can ask me anything. I can’t promise I’ll answer it, but I know there’s still a lot about Sjelefengsel that you don’t understand.”

After a moment, I look at him. He’s waiting expectantly, brows raised; there’s something about him that resembles a cat. Perhaps it’s the way he holds himself or angles his shoulders, or perhaps just the glasses, but his posture has that same regal elegance that a feline has when it’s sitting attentively.

“Fine.” I say, folding my arms. “That little… imp-looking thing back at the kiosk. Why did he ask if I was going to be a succubus?”

“Ah. That.” Raikaron says, rolling his eyes. “Because gremlins are trash that have no class.”

“But it’s not like I could become a succubus.” I point out. “I’m human.”

“Mmm. You have an… antiquated way of thinking about that.” Raikaron says, leaning back in his chair a little. “A succubus is a type of a demon, and you are a demon.”

“No, I’m human!” I argue. “Don’t see any horns or a tail on me, do you?”

“No, but you don’t see horns or a tail on me either.” Raikaron points out. “For that matter, you don’t see them on Danya, do you? Or Harro, or Mek. Yet we are all demons.”

“So what, ‘demon’ is just a label?” I ask, chewing on my lip.

“It’s not just a label. Demons are those who are bound by, and draw their power from, a hell of some sort.” Raikaron explains. “Within each demon is a monster lurking beneath the surface of a more mundane exterior. That monster is referred to as a demon’s ‘manifest’ - the raw manifestation of the sin-burdened soul. So even though you lack horns or a tail right now, it is something that will certainly reveal itself if you are sufficiently agitated. But for the most part, demons are… rather mundane. It would not be easy to pick them out of a crowd of mortals.”

I look down at my hands, then up at him. “…seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. There is a nastier, angrier, physical manifestation of yourself locked up inside of you.” he says with all the blandness of family doctor. “It’s actually shown itself once. Right after you signed the contract, in the alleyway behind your apartment complex. You remember the chains and claws that you had, surely.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stem the memories of wounded and bleeding police officers strewn across the alley. “I don’t like thinking about that day.”

“It was a very eventful day.” Raikaron agrees. “Anyway, to return to the point: you have an antiquated way of thinking about demons. Demons do not have a single specific form or set of features, nor a specific race, nor could they be considered a race unto themselves. Demons are instead a community of unique individuals that share a single common trait: where they draw their power from, and what it does to them.”

“So I have… power?” I ask hesitantly, glad to be focusing on another topic.

“Yes. Didn’t you feel it flowing into you when you were being bound by the contract?”

Another unpleasant memory from that day. The sulfurous heat rising from the cracks in the ground beneath me, the hands of the damned grabbing me and holding me down; the feeling of an insatiable blaze filling me, burning me up from within. It was another something I didn’t like remembering. “If that’s how power feels…”

“Mortal frames were not made to contain the power of hell. That’s part of the reason contracts are written up; to help enchant and reinforce the vessel into which a share of Sjelefengsel’s power is to be dispensed.” Raikaron says, taking his glasses off so he can clean them. “And with that power, there are things you can do, though you have not learned any of them yet. You will have the opportunity later.”

“What kinds of things?” I ask.

“Well, that depends.” he says, his glasses fogging up as he breathes on them. “In a way it returns us to the subject of demons. There are different kinds of demons, and some of them can utilize their powers in unique ways. Take, for example, succubi and incubi. They can change their appearance at will, though it does have to remain generally humanoid.”

That triggers another memory for me. “Wait, like… like Danya did, on the night you visited the restaurant? When she turned into me?”

Raikaron smiles as he puts his glasses back on. “Precisely. Danya is a succubus, as you’ve probably inferred by now.”

“Figured a succubus would be a little more easygoing than she is…” I mutter.

He gives me a sidelong look. “Succubi and incubi have a reputation on the mortal plane that is certainly earned. Their ability to manipulate their appearance makes it easy for them to take forms that others find desirable. But that skill has utility outside of seducing others. Being able to shift their appearance makes succubi and incubi excellent spies, infiltrators, and assassins. Danya leans particularly heavily towards the more practical applications of a succubus’s inherent abilities, and has little interest in its more frivolous applications.”

“Does that mean she spies for you?”

“She used to.” he says, pulling a bottle of water out of his cape and offering it to me. “She climbed the ranks to become my chief of staff, and I now trust her with managing the affairs of the House of Regret. I still have a small cadre of succubi and incubi that I employ as spies, but she manages them now, since she is a veteran of the occupation.”

“What about Harro?” I ask, taking the water bottle. “What kind of demon is he?”

“Harro is a hound, a hunter of the damned and indebted.” he answers, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt. “Hounds are very good at tracking people down, sniffing them out, and dragging them back to their masters. Sometimes they are used to deliver punishment, but more often than not, that is the role of the avenger.”

I hesitate in popping the lid off the water bottle. “That’s… what I’m going to be doing?”

“Well, not just punishment.” he says, reaching up to loosen the knot of the tie around his neck. “Avengers are heralds of the Lords they serve; the collectors of souls owed, captains over the forces of their Lords. Personal representatives and emissaries. An extension, if you will, of a given Lord’s power and authority.”

Lowering the water bottle, I try to control the anxiety welling up inside me. “That’s… a lot. Do I really have to?”

“You’ll be starting small. You won’t be expected to take on all those responsibilities at once.” Raikaron says, reaching into his cape to pull out his data slate again. “But yes, that was part of the package you signed on for. Your role in my service was foreordained in the contract’s writing, and barring some unforeseen circumstance, that is the role you will be trained into.” Unlocking his slate’s screen, he gives me an apologetic look. “That’s where this conversation will have to end for now; I’m getting a call from one of the Greater Lords, so I need to take this.”

I nod meekly, cupping my hands around the water bottle and looking away. There is still some part of me that wants to fight all this, to reject everything that I’m being told to do and to be. But there’s another part of me that recognizes I cannot escape this; that recognizes this is my life now, and that I need to start adapting to it, instead of constantly struggling against it. And there is a part of me that is scared of all this. Of everything I’ll be asked to do, and what it will turn me into.

Popping the lid off the water bottle, I take a sip, hoping it’ll calm my queasy stomach.

Event Log: Raikaron Syntaritov

Hautaholvi Badlands: The Lines

7:50pm SGT

It’s evening when Jayta steps back out of the small, carnival-style tent that I’ve set up on our platform. I look over my shoulder at the sound of the flap falling back into place; she’s standing just outside of it, her hair wet from her shower, looking between the tent and me.

“Dimensional physics doesn’t allow for fitting an entire bedroom’s worth of space into the confines of something smaller than said space.” she says, as if that alone should undo the reality within the tent.

“Danya said you wanted to become a scientist when you grew up.” I observe from where I’m reclined in my camp chair, feet up on the footrest.

“I don’t understand how you took off your cape—”

“Mantle.”

“Whatever! I don’t understand how you took that fancy-schmancy bedsheet off your shoulders, hung it in the air, and turned it into a tent that has an entire bedroom with an attached bathroom inside it! That’s a violation of the basic laws of dimensional physics!”

“You were able to take a shower. Are you going to complain?” I ask.

She points at the tent. “That should not be possible!”

“Okay.” I say mildly. “What are you going to do about it?”

She gives the tent a dirty look, as if its very existence was offensive, then sits down in her camp chair, running a hand through her damp hair. “Is that dinner?” she asks, motioning to the fire ring that’s sitting on the edge of the platform, and the pot seated atop the burning logs within it.

“It is.” I confirm, tilting my head back so I can return to staring at the sky, fingers laced together over my stomach. “Creamy chicken noodle with dumplings. It seemed like a safe, inoffensive culinary decision.”

“Oh good. I was afraid you were just going to keep throwing granola bars at me for the next three days.” she says, fumbling around her camp chair to see if she can get it to recline like mine.

“I’m offended. Did you think I couldn’t cook?”

“Most guys I know can only make pancakes, spaghetti, and sandwiches.” she says, finding the lever that reclines the back of her chair, and kicks out the footrest.

“I aspire to a culinary repertoire that has more ambition than that of a starving college sophomore.” is my witty reply. “Tomorrow night is macaroni and cheese with sliced, pan-seared little smokies thrown in.”

“Macaroni and cheese and… smokies?” she asks hesitantly.

“Why the dubious look?”

“I’ve just never heard of anyone putting campout smokies into mac and cheese.”

“Because they lack vision and creativity. Besides, it adds some protein to balance out all the carbs from the pasta.” I point out. “It’s an alteration of one of my mother’s recipes. I think you will enjoy it.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Yes, you will.”

Silence forms between the two of us like a thin skein of ice, and after a moment, Jayta breaks it with a tentative question. “You… have a mother?”

“Of course I do.” I answer, taking my glasses off and folding them up. “I didn’t just pop out of a hole in the ground.”

Jayta doesn’t respond to that right away. “It’s just weird to… think of one of the Lords of hell visiting his mum and stuff.”

I mull that image around in my head. I suppose it does seem a little strange. “I certainly would if she was still around. She’s surpassed her mortal tenure and moved on, though.”

Again, more silence, as if Jayta was carefully choosing her next words. “Was she a demon like you?”

“Like me?” I repeat, tucking my glasses in the cupholder in the arm of my chair. “No, she wasn’t. I wasn’t born a demon; this was something I chose.”

Jayta looks at me. “So you used to be… human, like me?”

That draws a laugh from me. “Like you? No, dear, I am not like you, nor was I like you. I might look human, but that’s a form I’ve taken to convey a certain image as the Lord of Regret. Before I was a demon, I was a creature of the Dreaming, and I looked much different than I do now.”

“The Dreaming, like… the place where dreams are born?” Jayta asks. “You came from there?”

“Yes. Sjelefengsel demons have many origins. They come from many species, many cultures, many planes of existence. Not every demon has a human or mortal point of origination.”

“Hell is a lot more… diverse than I was expecting.” she says, turning her head to look back up at the sky. “Why is the sky gray here? I’ve never seen an atmosphere that looks this way. And where does the light come from? I haven’t seen any sun, but there’s got to be illumination coming from somewhere. And the stars… why are the stars red, and why are there so few of them?”

So many questions. She really must’ve been an aspiring scientist. “There is no celestial star here. The sky is gray because it is actually the roof of the vast underworld that Sjelefengsel is contained within.”

She gives me a narrow-eyed look. “Next you’re going to tell me that we’re on a flat plane instead of a celestial spheroid.”

“It isn’t, actually. Sjelefengsel is a sphere that grows and shrinks in accordance with its population. The more people are in Sjelefengsel, the larger it gets.” I explain.

That further confuses her. “Wait, if hell is a sphere, then why is… what’s the ceiling of this ‘underworld’ you’re talking about?” she asks, gesturing to the sky. “You can’t have a ceiling for a spherical body because you’d… need like a spherical cave, or something…?”

I smile. “Do you want to know the architecture of Sjelefengsel?”

“Is it going to be something that breaks the laws of physics?” she asks suspiciously.

“It is. But for a justifiable reason.” I say, raising my hands. Scarlet light drifts off the tips of them, forming images in the air as I speak. “At the core of Sjelefengsel is a vast, throbbing mass of pain and suffering, channeled from the tormented and damned souls that are punished every day, every hour, every minute, here in Sjelefengsel. This unending fountain of agony forms what would otherwise be the core and the mantle of your average planet. Around this core is the habitable crust of Sjelefengsel itself — this terrain that you see around us, the mountains and the volcanoes, and the cities built amidst its desolate, jagged plains. Then around all that is the shell — a second crust of sorts that forms the dead, grey sky you always see. The purpose of this shell is to serve as a barrier in the event of an exterior invasion. And all of this is contained within the heart of a supermassive black hole.”

Jayta scoffs at the blueprint of Sjelefengsel hanging above my fingers. “You want me to believe that hell is actually inside a supermassive black hole? Please.”

I lace my fingers together over my stomach once again. “Many hells are contained within black holes, actually. And so are heavens, for that matter. It is that way because mortals cannot venture into black holes without being torn apart, and the conditions within a black hole allow for the creation of miniature universes with their own unique physics and rules — the perfect sandbox for building heaven or hell.”

“You’re yanking my chain.” Jayta says, but I can tell from her face that she’s not certain.

“What do mortals know about black holes?” I ask as the blueprint of crimson light slowly starts to break apart over me. “You know so much about how they affect things around them, and you have theories about what they do to objects that get too close to them. Yet mortals can only ever guess as to what happens within them.”

“You have no proof, and science is all about proof.” she insists, gathering some of her damp hair and wringing it out some more. “Besides, you never answered where the light comes from here, and why the stars are red.”

“The light? It comes from the ceiling of the underworld. A slow pulsation of energy that rolls across its surface, brightening and darkening the underside of Sjelefengsel’s outer barrier in turns.” I explain, my eyes roving the darkening grey sky overhead. “And those crimson points of light aren’t stars. They’re holes in the barrier, conduits we can use to enter and exit Sjelefengsel. Most of the traffic is damned souls arriving to Sjelefengsel, however.”

Jayta’s granite eyes rove the vast grey dome overheads. “Holes in the sky, huh.” she says softly. I’m surprised she’s not mocking me for the unscientific explanation. “A lot of primitive cultures used to believe that stars were holes in the sky.”

“Yes, yes they did.” I agree quietly. “As if the night was a sheet, and there was something bright beyond it, shining through holes that had been poked in it.”

Both of us fall silent for a time, reclined in our camp chairs and staring up Sjelefengsel’s sky. The uneven warmth coming off the fire feels good against my feet; aside from the low murmur of people waiting in adjacent lanes, there’s no other sound. The registration building has gotten closer, and our platform will probably hit the backlog in our lane sometime overnight. From that point on, we’ll largely be waiting in place, our lane only intermittently shifting forward.

“Why won’t you let me go?”

I pull my eyes from the sky, only to find that she hasn’t done the same. She asked the question without looking away from the sparse, scattered pinpoints of red light in the dark grey sky. And her tone lacks defiance, but there is a certain quiet aggression in it. A demand for an explanation, or justification.

“What do you want me to tell you?” I ask, returning my gaze to the sky. “The sanitized, logical answer that follows the chain of cause and effect, of action and consequence? Or would you like me to tell you the truth?”

She doesn’t answer. I keep waiting for an answer, but one never comes; she remains silent. After a couple of minutes pass like this, I answer of my own accord.

“The reason I won’t let you go is because you signed the contract, and you are obligated to its terms. I saved your life, and there is a debt you will need to pay back. I won’t let you go because there is benefit both for you and me; on your end, your material needs are provided for, and you are now entitled to power and privilege beyond your paltry, pathetic station in the mortal realm. On my end, your soul is another step towards meeting the expectations set by my masters, another drop of power in the pool I have at my disposal. These are the reasons for which I refuse to release you from your contract.”

I allow a moment for those words to sink in. Reasons which I’m sure she’s heard before, reasons which I’m sure she already knew, but perhaps needed to hear said aloud. I doubt that any of this is truly new information to her; these are things she must’ve known on some level, at least. But I nonetheless give that time to sink in before I go on.

“But if you want to know the truth… raw, dark, unmoored from reason and logic and practicality… I won’t let you go because I enjoy the dominion. Because there is subtle satisfaction in watching another bend the knee, and yield up their will to your own. Because there is a perverse excitement in the defiance offered by a soul yet unbroken, and because there is a unique sense of fulfillment when you finally manage to break that soul. To hold the pieces in your hands, and shape them into something else, something more than it was before.”

My soft words drift up into the night sky, the low crackle and murmur of the fire dissolving them faster than they would’ve on their own. All too soon, the last echoes of those words are gone, no trace of them left but the imprint left on the mind. I am tempted, so badly, to look at Jayta and see her response to my candor, delivered in as mild a tone as possible; but I refrain on principle. The words and intent should stand on their own, without me needing to seek validation from how others react to them.

She doesn’t say anything for a long time. And when she replies, it’s much less fiery than I expected. A tone full of soft judgement, but also begrudging, hateful respect.

“You’re a monster. But at least you’re honest.”