The last thing you remember was sitting in the APC across from the package.
Now you’re staring up, blood raining down from above and splattering against the clear glass awning. The sky is black, the colour of a television, dead and bleeding on the side of the road.
Moments ago you and your friends were tearing apart a group of rival mercenaries who stole your package. You remember the feeling of your supercharged limbs carving flesh from bone, turning the sands below you to a deep red.
You felt strong. Invincible.
Now your limbs feel cold and heavy, your head is swimming and feels loose on your shoulders.
You try to center yourself, trying to figure out when and where you are.
You’re standing outside, in the garden of Malphas’ large estate. Daisy is standing next to you, watching you carefully. Your friend Orphan-Maker stands across from you, on the other side of the table, he looks at you concerned. Your leader and friend Hostage-Killer stands at the head, near your boss.
Grand Duke Malphas. She has a guest. The package you picked up from the Gate of Blood.
You watch him, the lump of raw flesh, crawl into one of Malphas’ fancy wood dining chairs, with your boss sitting on the opposite side of the long dining table, two pairs of chairs separating them from each other.
You jump slightly when you see the back door open. It was just another servant, bringing out their dinner. Daisy pats you on the shoulder, and keeps her hand there.
“Easy, Fruity, easy.” She rubs small circles on your upper back.
What’s… happening to me. You say softly under your breath.
“You’re coming down pretty hard from all those daggers, love.”
I feel… bad.
“Yeah, I know.” She lets out a sad sigh. “Just focus on my hand, alright? This whole thing’ll be over soon enough.”
She keeps rubbing your back and you give her a soft hum from your chest.
You love her touch. Right now, it’s the only thing grounding you.
You watch Malphas gingerly place a napkin onto her lap, and smile at the package, whose name you keep forgetting and remembering. Kissinger. Kissinger. Kissinger.
It looks like you missed their introductions, but you’ve seen this dance so many times you can recite it in your rare moments of sleep.
A handshake. An exchange of fake smiles. Malphas introduces herself.
Grand Duke Malphas Killjoy. Matriarch of the House of Lead.
Owner, CEO and Head of R&D at Malfeasance: the largest arms corporation in all of Inferno.
Founder and general of YANQUI U.X.O., Scourgebringer and former Tier-One mercenary, VIP gold card member at the Mortal Coil.
And finally her old royal title:
The Whore of Death.
Even though the royal court of Violence hasn’t existed in almost two and a half thousand infernal years she always insists on being called that title.
You think she does it because she’s insecure.
Not that you’d ever say that to her.
The package reciprocates by telling her what meaningless titles he once had; titles she already knows.
He wouldn’t be here if she didn’t.
The servant places two crystal glasses of fine bloodwine and their respective dinners at each end of the table. One for your boss, and one for Kissinger. On the plates is a large chunk of seared meat, a dark sauce drizzled around it, a small serving of red fruit and three identically cut bones lying side by side.
Kissinger grabs a fork and knife and gingerly pokes at the steak. It bleeds over his utensils and a part of you wishes you were back in the desert, knife in hand.
Or at that nice restaurant in the Upper Artery. The one with the spicy blood noodles.
One of the two, just not here.
“So, uh, what is this exactly?” Kissinger says as he sniffs it.
Malphas slices into her steak and places a chunk in her beak. She savors the taste for a moment before swallowing and returning to her guest.
“A delicacy from the Ninth Circle, dear.” She points to the meat. “Rapist shank, freshly butchered. The sins give it a particularly distinct taste that I am rather fond of.”
You see her take another slice, the knife sinking through the flesh so easily.
“The sauce is made from a combination of blood and bone marrow from said rapist.” She dips her meat in the sauce and takes another bite. “… A perfect mix of salty and savory.”
“Huh, alright.” Kissinger eyes his plate further. “And the sides?”
“Angelheart fruit from one of the plantations in the Ninth Circle. I imagine the serf we are eating farmed it himself.”
“And the bones? Are they also from the same person?”
“Quite. The sins are the most concentrated in the marrow and thus are the most prized for their flavor.”
“The wine?” He says, having smelled the copper scent a moment ago.
“Bloodwine. All from the same source. Not exactly standard practice, but this particular demon was a real piece of work.” She took a sip of her wine. “Deliciously so.”
“I see. Well, this is certainly fine dining.”
“I hope it is to your liking, or would you have preferred something Kosher, Mr. Kissinger?”
“Oh, nono. This is perfect.” You can smell a spark of fear in him. Borderline microscopic, but present. “Don’t worry. Like I told Nixon when I was working under him, I’m one of the good ones.”
You decide that you don’t like this man.
Despite your wishes, he continues. “After all, anyone who's been persecuted for two thousand years must be doing something wrong.”
Malphas hums. Her polite, fake smile never faltering. “Mm, so I’ve heard you say.”
Kissinger nods. “If it were not for the accident of my birth, I would be antisemitic.”
“Mmm…” Malphas gingerly pats her beak with her napkin, careful not to disturb her feathers. “Speaking of Nixon, I just want to say, I admire your work in Cambodia. Such a fine example of how to completely destabilize a region.”
“Ah, well…” He stabs a fork into his steak and takes a bite. “It could’ve gone better. People found out about Laos and Cambodia eventually, which was… less than ideal.”
He dabs a napkin on the side of his mouth and digs into a spoonful of marrow.
“In hindsight, the bombing campaign wasn’t as effective as I’d hoped. Cluster bomb technology was still rather primitive back then, and not all the ordinance detonated, now there’s a ton of them just stuck in the dirt.”
A piece of angelfruit explodes in his mouth as he bites down.
“… Still, it did its job.” He sips a mouthful of blood wine to wash it all down. “And as a bonus it helped Pol Pot come into power, and he was a real thorn for the North Vietnamese. Well, that, and they’re still finding bombs in Cambodia and Laos.”
“Oh yes, the unexploded ordnance. A common phenomenon amongst most iterations of America. As you can tell, I am a huge fan.”
“Of America?” Kissinger raises his brow, a small smile creeping out across his face.
“Well, I meant the U.X.O., but yes, I love America. Every iteration of it. It’s a personal inspiration for me.” She leans over her meal, knife in hand. “After dinner, I’ll show you my collection of americana, you’ll love the flags.”
U.X.O… You mutter from under your breath. The two in front of you, devouring what remains of a rapist, fades from thought. Your mind tuning to a new channel.
YANQUI U.X.O. The largest mercenary company in the Seventh Circle.
You try not to remember too much about your past life (the drugs definitely help with that) but you can always remember your first day in Inferno.
You walked out of the Gate of Blood, a million screaming shouting voices pushed past you to flee from the violence surrounding them. A terrified mass of flesh.
All except for you.
You weren’t scared. You weren’t terrified. You weren’t fleeing.
You were fucking pissed.
You grabbed the nearest sharp object you could find and started stabbing, slashing, gouging anyone or anything that got near.
A ballet dancer on a stage of corpses.
But eventually someone did get near you. Your dance of death ended with a kick to the groin, a bullet in the throat and an abduction.
But the merc who kidnapped you, the one with YANQUI U.X.O. printed on his armor, called it a ‘recruitment’.
You watch Malphas and Kissinger stab, slash and mutilate the meat in front of them. Knives in hand. Feasting. Content.
Your first deployment for YANQUI was on some distant rock with a dying sun in a backwater universe. You stood across a ruined battlefield against a formation of biomechanical mutants.
They’d send out a wave of demons made up of recent suicides, armed only with machetes, knives and grenades. YANQUI calls them ‘Wave of Death’ attacks.
Knives in hand. Scared. Starving. Angry.
You survived your first deployment. Then your second.
By your third, they decided to officially enroll you into service.
They gave you training, made you into a ‘Close-Quarters-Combat Specialist’ and gave you a job.
Admittedly, it wasn’t so different from what you were doing back in your old life.
You liked your job. You were good at it.
Extremely good.
It wasn’t long before you attracted Malphas’ attention. And finally, another job offer.
You, as a member of her personal ‘royal guard’. Her prestigious ‘Killjoys.’
But you and your friends just call each other the ‘FUN SQUAD.’
You smile, Daisy notices you smiling and scratches the back of your head. You must’ve had your face off if she can see you smile.
If there was one thing you feel grateful to Malphas for, it was introducing you to your friends. To Daisy.
… It was just all the other things Malphas did to you that you’re not grateful for.
Your daydreaming is cut short by the sounds of Kissinger and Malphas laughing. You didn’t catch the joke, nor do you particularly care.
Their laughter was cold and hollow. An echo of each other. It lacks the warmth that Daisy’s laugh has. The love and its raw violence.
No, this was the laugh of two people who would gladly send you and your friends to be shot, stabbed, blown up and fucked to death in some shithole deathworld without a second thought.
Kissinger tells another joke, another empty platitude and Malphas lets out another empty laugh.
A cruel laugh.
“If I may ask, who are these… people.” Kissenger asks, pointing to you and your friends. “Your special forces? Security detail?
You notice that he gets you, he gives you the side-eye. It dripped with disdain.
“Ah, yes. You are correct, though these are much more than just mere guardsmen,” Malphas cooed. With a regal hand she gestures over to each of your friends.
“These are my children.”
“Your…children?”
She nods, pointing to each of them.
“Their team leader, Napoleon. Their designated marksman, Jean. And finally, my youngest, their SAW gunner, Daisy.”
You see Napoleon and Jean give a polite nod towards Kissinger. Daisy doesn’t. She just pretends not to hear her mother. Like she always does.
“My children have been groomed to be perfect war machines, as you can tell.”
A saccharine stream of empty platitudes fills the air, emanating from the bloated husk of a politician. As sweet as a rotting corpse.
His compliments end when he gets to you.
“Uh, what about that one there?” He points to you, the way someone would point to a dead dog on the side of the road. “He- uh- she…?”
“It.” Malphas corrects.
“Yes, well, is it one of your children?”
“Oh, goodness no.” She sounds so offended. “Absolutely not. I would rather it die than be a blemish on the House of Lead.”
Daisy clenches her jaw tight enough that you can hear her teeth grinding. Across from you Jean lets out a long exhale and shoots you an apologetic look. Napoleon suppresses his urge to cringe so much it looks like it's physically hurting him.
She continues. “Think of it more as… a useful animal. A pet, if you will.”
Kissinger lights up. “Like an attack dog!”
“Yes, precisely! An attack dog!” She exclaims, as if the term was on the edge of her tongue ever since she made you this way. “Though, it is more like an attack bat, but I am splitting hairs.”
“Does it have a name?”
“It had a name, before it embraced its current role. But that was long ago.”
“What do you call it then?”
Malphas smiles.
“We call it FUCKHEAD now.”
She lets out another polite cruel laugh at your direction. “A more fitting name, I think.”
You see Kissinger give another sycophantic nod as he drinks his wine. Malphas does the same.
“We don’t call them that.” Napoleon says bluntly.
“… Excuse me?” Malphas turns to her son and puts her glass down on the table.
“That’s not their name. That’s just what you call them.”
An uncomfortable silence descends over the table. Like, a cluster bomb deep in the dirt waiting to detonate. Malphas narrows her eyes at your friend, your leader Napoleon, boring a hole through his skull with her stare.
You see Napoleon lighting up like a Christmas tree. Fear flooding into his body.
He tries to meet her gaze but eventually he breaks, he averts his eyes, looking down. “I-… I’m sorry-”
“By the by, how was the trip?” Malphas’ smile returns, picking her wine glass back up and returning to her dinner guest. “Hopefully it was not too bumpy.”
“Well, it was certainly a close call. Some other group attempted to apprehend me, threw me in the back of a truck, but your team managed to intercept them.”
“… Really now?”
“Mmhm.” Kissinger says, mouth full of wine and bone marrow. “I think a missile hit the side of the truck and spun me in the air. I landed with a pretty nasty bump, honestly.”
“A missile.” Malphas remarks as she turns to her children. To Daisy. “Was that your doing, dear?”
Daisy snarls, and was likely about to tell Malphas to fuck off. But Napoleon doesn’t give her the chance to.
“That’s on me.” Napoleon interjects. “I gave the order, it was my idea. It-”
He freezes, mid sentence, as he realized his dire mistake.
Malphas turns to Napoleon, and stares at him. Like he walked right into a trap.
“No, it wasn’t.” she says, with a great amount of joy in her voice.
Napoleon shuts his eyes.
Lie detection, Malphas’ infernal trait. It’s the reason she got to where she is today.
You can’t lie to her.
You can’t lie to death.
“You gave the order, but it was not your idea, Napoleon.”
She’s silent. Letting the statement linger in the air. All you can hear is the pitter patter of rain and Kissinger chewing on bone marrow.
“Who was it?” Malphas finally says.
Napoleon doesn’t respond. Your leader was always good at putting on a brave face.
“Napoleon, answer me.”
Nothing.
“Was it Daisy?”
No response.
“Was it Jean?”
Silence.
“No, no. It could not have been Jean.”
Jean grimaces and looks genuinely hurt. But like all of Malphas’ children, he tries his best to hide it.
“And if it wasn’t the both of them, that would mean… No, really?” She begins to laugh. “It was FUCKHEAD’s idea? It had an idea you three thought was worth listening to?”
Your friends’ fear burns brighter than nuclear fire.
“It looks like FUCKHEAD may be getting too independent. Perhaps another round of augmentations is in order.”
“You can’t be serious.” Jean says in disbelief.
“I am.”
“You said that would be their last round! You promised! You said you’d reverse-”
”Do not talk back to me, Jean.”
You watch as Jean’s mouth hangs open impotently. He closes it, and lets the silence hang in the air.
“Whether or not I reverse FUCKHEAD’s surgery is completely dependent on their performance.” Malphas says coldly. “If they are acting on their own volition then that is grounds for further cognitive tweaking.”
Napoleon clears his throat, bringing Malphas’ attention to him.
“I don’t see how anymore cognitive damage would make them a better asset to the team.” He says plainly. “We completed the mission, and they executed their orders flaw-.”
“Say its name.”
“I- What?”
She points towards you, the edge of her finger looking so very sharp.
“Say its name. The name I gave it.”
“I…” Napoleon looks from Malphas over to you.
“Napoleon.”
“…”
He shuts his eyes tight and swallows.
“… Fuckhead executed their orders flawlessly. Mr. Kissinger being harmed was my fault,” There was a small break in his voice, nearly imperceptible to anyone that isn’t you or Malphas. “… Please don’t hurt them.”
You finally notice that Daisy had been squeezing your shoulder this entire time. Holding onto you tightly. You look up and notice a thin trail of blood leaking from her lip, where she had been biting it.
For the first time you notice that your hand has been trembling.
Malphas looks at her son, impassively. But quickly loses interest in him. She got what she wanted from all of you. “Apologies, Henry. I hope that did not ruin your appetite.”
“I had two of them, myself. I know how it is.” Kissinger assures her. You don’t know if that implies Kissinger has a similar relationship to his children, or if he’s just trying to butter Malphas up.
You almost don’t know which is worse.
“Of course, do enjoy the rest of your meal, Mr. Kissinger.” She takes a scoop of bone marrow and places it delicately in her beak. “It was specially prepared just for you.”
“Well, I certainly appreciate it.” Kissinger says, eating his last bit of food and washes it down with his wine. “We can discuss my employment now if you’d like.”
“Mmhm, your employment.” Malphas smiles.
“You know my credentials, you know about Cambodia and Laos.”
“And Bangladesh, Chile, Cyprus, East Timor, the entire continent of Africa…”
“Of course.” You watch him nod, proudly. “America’s interests were my interests, of course, and I believe I secured them well. And now your interests are my interests.”
Sweat accumulates on his jowls, he wipes it off and loosens his shirt collar. “Sorry, feeling a bit warm right now.”
“It is Hell, my dear. You will get used to the heat.”
“Ah, right.” He clears his throat. “Suffice it to say, I can be a valuable asset to you. You’ve seen my work with Nixon.”
Kissinger pauses.
“He, uh, isn’t here, is he?”
“Oh no, not here,” Malphas sets her wine glass down for the final time. “I have him hung up in my gallery.”
You watch as Kissinger laughs.
Malphas doesn’t.
Kissinger stops laughing. Sweat breaks out across his loose skin, as much as the torrent of rain overhead.
“A-are you- are you serious?”
“Mmhm.” Malphas says in her sing-song voice.
You see Kissinger freeze, he’s nearly sweated through his entire suit. Fear floods through his body from toe to tip.
You sigh. Finally.
You always hated how long Malphas took to play with her targets.
“I- um- apologies but I may need to use the restroom.” He tries to stand up, pushing himself off the table with shaky hands.
“Oh, by all means, feel free!” Malphas chimes. “Though, I do not expect you to go far. Your legs will be giving out before long.”
“Wh-…what did you-…”
“What did I put in your food? Oh, nothing. Just a special stimulant I have designed. Quite a lot of it, too. I suspect you realize that you are having a rather intense panic attack. One that is getting worse… and worse… Until you-”
Kissinger hits the floor like a sack of ground meat. Eyes wide open, and darting wildly.
Malphas smiles. “… Are literally paralyzed with fear.”
Kissinger scampers up to his feet, making a noise that you thought sounds like a strangled hog.
He tries to run.
“FUCKHEAD ,” Malphas turns to you. ”Shake.”
Her command tears you away from Daisy’s side as you bound towards the struggling warmonger trying to flee.
You stop Kissinger by grabbing the back of his head with your hands. Locking him in place.
Daisy calls this position a ‘double collar tie.’
You slam your knee into Kissinger’s groin hard enough that you feel something burst.
Demons call this the ‘Seventh Circle Handshake.’
He collapses to the ground and vomits up an acidic stew of partially digested flesh, marrow and blood. He weeps, his body shakes, every cell in his body cries out in fear and agony.
“Now, FUCKHEAD, Fetch.”
Fetch. Fetch means fetch for Malphas.
You pull Kissinger up to his knees, he begs the entire way, a soft pleading and wet mewling. You place one of his hands on the table and pull your knife out. You stab down, punching through tender flesh, hard bone and solid wood. He screams.
He screams louder when you pin his second hand to the table.
Kissinger struggles, desperately pulling at his hands, hoping to wedge the knives loose so that he may escape.
You grab the back of his head and slam it forward, his teeth breaking apart on the edge of the table like bullets on Daisy’s skin.
“Well done.” Malphas says to you. Hollow praise. You feel nothing.
You were aching for the opportunity to carve this rotten fuck since the moment you laid eyes on him. To make him bleed for the first time in his entire pampered existence.
But now, on Malphas’ command, you feel nothing. No ounce of joy or thrill. Only a void. An obligation to be done for the monster holding your leash.
Napoleon rubs his forehead. And Jean exhales, loosening his shoulders.
“… Are we done here? May we please leave?” Napoleon says, turning to his mother.
She does this every time. With every politician. She makes her kids watch. You don’t know why, and frankly you don’t ever want to know why.
“Do you have someplace to be, children?”
“Yes,” He says quickly. “We were planning to go to the Upper Artery for a meal.”
“Where?”
“Shukufuku. They make spicy blood noodles and meat dumplings.”
And the corpse flowers by the entrance smell so nice.
Malphas is silent. Not looking at her son but at the crying politician on his knees.
And to you, standing over him.
“A little treat for your pet?” She smiles nodding in your direction.
“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Daisy finally speaks up, unable to hold back any longer. “Would it fuckin’ kill ya to talk about them like they’re a real person for once in your miserable cunt life?!”
Her two brothers stare at her. Horrified.
“Daisy…” Jean whispers. “Maybe you shouldn’t’ve said that.”
Malphas doesn’t react to Daisy’s outburst, only keeping her eyes locked on you.
You hate it. You hate the way Malphas always looks down at you.
“… I always disliked how attached you got to your little pet, Daisy.” Malphas sighs. “I understand you know, I really do. You are not a little girl anymore and like anyone else your age you need to go sow your wild oats, get it all out of your system. Lords know you will end up just like Jean if you repress it for too long.”
From the corner of your eye you can see Jean pinch his brow and shut his eyes tight. Napoleon walks over and places a reassuring hand on his back.
“Fuck off, don’t talk ya about Jean that way,” Daisy sneers, blood boiling. “He’s still me big brother and he deserves better than a rotten hag like you fuckin’ his entire life-”
“I thought it was just a phase, I really did,” Malphas continues. “Your fixation on that piece of river trash standing right next to you. I thought perhaps you would have managed to grow up a bit more and move on. You did not. Hence, why it was up to me, your mother, to try and fix things.”
She glares at you as she says that last point. Like a broken tool, you needed to be ‘fixed’, to be made ‘correct’ and put in your right place.
Daisy’s fists clench hard enough that you hear her knuckles pop. A rage that could be barely contained by her flesh.
”Fix things? I didn’t need or ask ya to fix SHIT!” You could see the tears forming around Daisy’s eyes. You watch as they fall down her cheeks, like diamonds down the side of a cliff.
“We were happy,” Daisy sniffs and wipes her tears back. “We were fucking HAPPY!”
Malphas closes her eyes, shaking her head. “Our first conversation in so long and this is how you speak to me, Daisy?”
“Fuck. You.” Was all Daisy could manage to croak out. You hold her hand and she pulls you in closer, tight against her chest.
Malphas leans back in her chair, her eyes unfocusing as she stares at the blood splattering on the glass awning above. Pitter patter.
“That’s fine, of course. I am your mother, not your friend. I don’t need your forgiveness or for you to like me. I only need you to understand that what I’m doing is best for you.” Malphas turns to look at her children. “You will understand someday when you have children of your own. All of you will.”
Malphas reaches up to rub her eyes slowly. “… You should’ve seen the things my own mother did to me whenever I acted out, Daisy. Be glad that I am more merciful.”
Daisy doesn’t respond, she only squeezes you closer to her chest. Afraid of losing another inch of you. She looks at you and not at the monster seated on her throne. She reaches down to brush a stray lock of hair out from your eyes.
Finally, after a small eternity, Malphas speaks.
“You may all go, enjoy your meal.” She said with a gentle shrug. “But FUCKHEAD stays.”
“Wha- why?!” Daisy’s eyes go wide. Her nostrils flare. Cortisol spikes as fear drowns her.
“Now, normally I’d love to carve Mr. Kissinger up myself and hang him in the gallery next to his friend Nixon but…” Malphas fakes a yawn. “Your little outburst just took too much out of me.”
She smiles at you. “And who else can I trust for this other than the most talented CQC specialist YANQUI’s seen in centuries?”
You feel ill. You do NOT want to be left alone with Malphas. Not again.
“It will be a good opportunity to calibrate their systems.” She says absentmindedly, running her finger around the rim of her wine glass. “And like I said, I have reason to believe they require some tweaking, perhaps I shall give them an update while they are here.”
“W-we-” Daisy stammers, hugging you tightly. “We ain’t leaving them with you. We just ain’t.”
“You are.” Malphas responds bluntly.
Jean approaches his mother. “Look, how about I carve him up instead? Fruit Cake’s tired, they wouldn’t be able to-”
“No.”
“But-”
”No– and what did I say about referring to it by its proper name, Jean?” Malphas sneers at him. “Either way, you can barely handle a blade without cutting your own head off.”
You never understood why she was so hard on Jean, why she always seems to reserve a bit more venom just for him. Not that any reason would make you less upset.
Kissinger moans and you punch him in the back of the head, bouncing it off the table.
Napoleon steps forward.
“We’ll all do it together. We’ll segment him properly and have him hung up on the gallery rails in a few-”
Malphas bangs her fist on the table, her plate shatters, the wine glasses topple over and roll off, breaking into a thousand tiny fragments. Kissinger screams as he feels the vibrations of the table stab into his nerves through his impaled hands.
“If any of you talk back to me one more time, your pet dies. Understand?”
Silence. The pitter patter of rain. The politician is crying and pissing blood. No one moves.
It’s okay.
Everyone turns to you. You realize you haven’t said anything till just now.
I’ll do it. I can do it.
You pull your machete out from the horizontal scabbard on the back of your belt.
Please don’t be upset with them. This is my fault. I think.
You feel woefully sobered up. Coming down from your high hours ago. The desert of reality lay before you now.
You belong to a rich and powerful entity. All of you do. None of you have a choice but to make her happy. To contort yourselves to her every whim.
“Very good.” Malphas says to you. “Maybe Jean and Napoleon were right about leaving your higher cognitive functions. At the very least you’re smart enough to know what is good for you unlike some other people I could mention.”
Without another word, you grab Kissinger by the scruff of his neck in one hand, and grip your machete tight in the other.
“WAIT!” Kissinger screams, spraying blood across the table. “PLEASE JUST WAIT!”
Malphas raises her hand. Your own hand holds still.
“Wait? What for?” She asks.
Kissinger wheezes. “I- I can be useful! You know I can be useful! I can advise you, help you move against the other dukes, I can-”
“No.”
Kissinger freezes, his eyes the size of the broken dinner plates he ate from.
“Henry, let me be very blunt with you. There is quite simply nothing you can offer to me that I don’t already possess.” Malphas says, giving a polite shrug. “I have been at this game for far longer than you have and, personally speaking, I believe I am far better at it than you were. You simply are not that special.”
She stands up, and moves down the table. Closer to him.
“Honestly, at most, you would be more potential competition for me down the line.” She looks him up and down slowly. “… You would do so much better as a trophy.”
“P-please, don’t kill me, I swear, I-” The glob of expired mayonnaise’s begging was cut short.
“Oh, do not worry about that, my dear.” She motions to you.
You pull him off the table. Knives tearing through his hands as you drag him to the floor, he opens his ugly mouth in a choked silent scream.
“Trophies are much more valuable when they are alive.”
You raise your machete high, casting a long shadow over the weeping man. You pause, blade aloft, and turn to look at your friends. At Daisy, at Jean and at Napoleon. Something inside of you is pleading to them.
“We aren’t leaving you.” Napoleon says, eyes meeting yours. “Promise.”
“We’re not going anywhere, Fruit Cake.” Jean says, nodding at you.
“Yeah, to the end, right, Fruity?” Daisy stands close to you. A warm hand on your shoulder.
You turn to Malphas, looking for approval lest you all be punished.
“Fine.” She says. “Just get it done quick, you may all leave after. Enjoy your dinner.”
Kissinger screams and the machete comes down, biting into the back of his neck, cold metal splitting his loose skin apart. His screams turn wet. The next swing comes harder than the last and severs his head clean from his shoulders. The flowers that bloom from his neck smell rotten to you.
Malphas reaches down and picks it up, tearing off Kissinger’s eyelids slowly and forcing his still conscious, panicked eyes open. She makes him watch.
You bring your blade up again and move to the rest of his body.
A part of you - the strong part, the loud part, the part that’s holding the machete - imagines Malphas’ face over Kissinger’s. Your next chop and the subsequent ones after hit with more force than you were expecting. Somewhere nearby Malphas laughs, pulling at your puppet strings.
You’re trapped here, forever in the palm of a devil’s hand.
But the other part of you – the weak part, the quiet part, the part who was there before and will always stubbornly remain – brings you elsewhere. Far from Malphas, from Kissinger, from the other dukes and their squads of murderers.
You’re at Shukufuku in the Upper Artery. You smell the corpse flowers by the entrance. You’re eating the spicy blood noodles you like so much. The broth is rich and flavorful. All your friends are there, happy to see you, happy to be here, happy to exist. Napoleon orders too many dumplings. Jean cleans out their entire bar. Daisy holds your hand and pulls you in close. Her lips touch yours and you feel a gentle warmth flow through you.
But then you blink and the scene is gone. Back to the present. Back to hell.
The only thing you can do is close your eyes again.
Now, and for the rest of your life, swing your blade as hard as your body allows it and hold onto the ones you love as close as you can.
Even if it’s fruitless, you try your hardest to imagine a future worth living in.