'We gotta get out of here.'
It was a really dumb statement for DeMain to make, especially when they were all thinking it and already working towards it. But relaying his concerns about the only consistency throughout the pieces of this domain immediately put them all on high alert. Kaiyo seemed visibly shaken at the news, and her cool air gave way to a shown panic. Yolanda's ability to joke was suddenly gone. If a spirit revolving around gun violence caught them, they'd all be dead.
Going back wasn't an option, they had arrived at the skyrise of a massive building near the topmost part. Their only hope seemed to be sorting their way out of the maze of doors and windows. DeMain didn't want to resort to a desperate search, but he couldn't cut through any of the walls and Yolanda found her flames were ineffective here. The 'realness' of the domain itself wasn't lost either. Everything seemed to be much harder and sturdier than it should have been, and any amounts of pain were amplified from what should be possible. They'd discovered this together rather unfortunately. Yolanda stubbed her toe lightly on a loose tile and had to sit for a few minutes. DeMain could feel the stinging of his back still like blades driven past the skin. He'd been injured like that once during a courtyard game, but even that didn't feel debilitating. Kaiyo, knowing this now, had become very careful in any movements she made.
They eventually found a cellar door in the church, but it only led out to another school layout with many dead ends and confusing hallways. An exit door opened to a much grander-style cathedral none of them had seen before. Yolanda entered first and claimed she could see skylight, so the others followed soon after. It was really the only chance they had.
The cathedral itself was proof if nothing else of the danger they were in. Various paintings from talented hands lined the walls in massive frames, with even the ceilings above given color by murals and decorative stylizations. Only, the contents of the pictures were less than admirable. The hallways continued on in fairly followable arrangements. As they walked, DeMain eyed the artwork. Nothing about them was particularly gory or bloody, but it filled him with unease regardless.
A tallgrass field in the cold sunlight of winter, with the helmets of modern soldiers tilted on the stocks of rifles, sank barrel-first into the ground.
A choir of singers in a church, surrounded by warm, glowy stage lights on elevated platforms. They were all faced away, with holes in the backs of their heads.
A colorful club floor in blacklight, soaked in the filth of staining drinks and ejected shells.
They couldn't go back either, as preferable as finding a different route seemed. It'd only been a linear pathway for the most part, with everywhere the building could open into the outside replaced by the new innards of shooting sites. Still, for all the doors and rooms they'd ventured into, everything so far had led only deeper. It was a choice between delving further or diving off of a skyscraper.
Eventually, a long hallway presented itself. It didn't take any sort of fear or instinct to tell the three Witches that it was a sign of danger. The layout was no longer random, it'd been sending them towards the center of the domain the entire time. Almost as if to herald the terror that lay at the end of the massive nave, the paintings were similarly tainted with red tints and hues. DeMain's eyes followed the blasphemous images all the way to the end. In what would be a holy depiction, it was entirely defaced.
Where angels might have flown in bright blue skies, undeveloped fetuses rose from their bullet-riddled mothers' legs. The grace of mankind was butchered, forsaken for soldiers of all nations pointing their weapons heavensward. In the very center of the chapel's painted sky, a warped The Creation of Adam's fresco made itself known from the vibrant reds and the bullet holes in the ceiling which obscured the bodies present. Even now, the wounded ceiling dripped with fresh reds.
DeMain shuddered while his eyes averted, and the other two Witches tentatively clutched the railing of the stairwell down into the hall. At the other end was a set of heavy double doors, wrought and crafted from thousands of dog tags melded together. The walk over was deathly quiet, announced only by the group's shoes hitting the reflective flooring.
"Do we… knock?" Yolanda whispered as they reached the metallic entrance. Neither of the other two felt safe enough to speak. Kaiyo felt around and found indents for opening the door within the layered plates of stainless steel. She motioned for the others to back up, winding threads of silk between her fingers before sending a whorl of web towards each of the door handles. They stuck, thankfully, but as Kaiyo pulled the doors refused to budge.
"Guys uh… help." She called, yanking on the lengths haplessly. DeMain grabbed one section of thread, and Yolanda grabbed the other. With much struggle they all pulled, only for the door to open— inwards. The threads were tugged forward with the movement, sending them all sliding on the floor towards a massive figure on the other side. A horribly staticky voice crackled to life, reciting quotes from songs and media DeMain could only vaguely recall.
"Welcome, dear friends— what brings you to— such a horrid place?"
The doors opened fully, exposing a dark figure as tall as a TV tower and no less mechanical. A large screen made up the majority of his face, smashed down with such force into an oversized human skull that the very bones seemed to meld around the screen's frame. Wires and cables stuck out of the gaps in the marrow and steel, some flashing and blinking like the distant beacons of highway travels. A distended and morphed black and red-checkered suit was fitted to the spirit's frame, with wide, tall shoulders and lanky limbs. DeMain could see the light flashes of more screens and displays underneath the expensive cloth, hinting that the spirit was no more human underneath than the objects that comprised his body.
Kaiyo spoke up first, she'd been able to hold her balance remarkably well since she had two points of contact to gauge herself with before being sent flying forward.
"We're on a journey and we got lost here. Would you please show us the way out?"
"Of course, my dear— once my sermon —is over." It's unmoving jaw sparked. The door was opened wider for the three, revealing a large, circular courtyard with white rectangular tiling gradually leading towards the center. A rim of golden arches around the courtyard covered entrances to higher levels of the colosseum-shaped space, but gates made of sawn-off barrels and disjointed clips and magazines fused as solid objects blocked any ascension further. In the center, where perhaps an ancient relic should have stood, there was instead a spirit.
It stood as tall as an ancient redwood, its chest that of some unidentifiable man impaled and raised on one of three sharpened stands of a tripod. That was the only identifiably human piece of it. Its head was completely lacking, instead only the bloody stump of a neck sealed off by an old-style percussion cap. Its body was outstretched, long sniper rifles and shotguns grown from the shoulders in place of typical arms. Even its fingers were merely replicas from flipped scopes and stands. The tripod that impaled the torso also impaled the mass of firearms in a crucifixion pose, forcing them outwards and pushing the spirit into a slump. Where legs or guts belonged, a gaping wound spilled of belts and magazines into a pile beneath from below the figure's chest. As equally helpless as it was to escape, it posed an equal danger to the group.
"That's the Shooting Spirit?!" Kaiyo exclaimed. The TV-headed spirit was quick to correct her.
"No, no. That implies it's— normal." He scolded. "Regular spirits— ain't got shit on us. That's the Kami of Firearms. Pretty cool, right?"
"That thing isn't solely responsible for all of these shootings right?" DeMain asked. Here, all of his worst memories felt so much more vivid. He could practically smell the blood and steel from the gun.
"Nah— it'd be funny if it did though. No, —this baby's got horsepower— but not the legs to run it with. Right now, at least—"
"Right now?" DeMain probed the screenface.
"It'll have to wait— until after Conquest makes it out, —probably."
An uncomfortable silence fell between the three as they exchanged glances. Kaiyo, assuming responsibility, took on the more offensive role.
"So when is the sermon over?"
"Well I haven't started it, so it'll be until… hm… Forever and a day."
"…Oh. Please, go on."
"Thanks, sport.— Every good Kami requires worship, I am —here to do just that."
Yolanda had wandered off and begun to inspect the gates. The doors they came through were much too heavy to pull to go back where they came from either. Just another problem in their chamber among the others. The three found a comfortable spot to sit near one of the gates while they waited. The towering TV spirit stood himself in front of the Kami of Firearms, leaning into the severed neck.
"You don't mind— if I make a few changes of decor, do you— friend?"
The Kami said nothing. With a nod of his screen, the TV-headed spirited spread out his arms in celebration. Instantly, the arena roared with speakers and rotating holographic ads around every space they could be placed. Overhead lights flooded the area, somehow draining all light except for the one on the technorganic spirit himself. No bodies filled the new stadium (as it was no different from a game field now), but the group could hear their cheers and fanfare from the darkened seats of the upper levels. The three were beginning to sit down and rest their weary legs with how long this seemed it might drag on. Unexpectedly, the sounds of a high-pitched girl echoed from the showman spirit's mouth before returning to its typical assortments of clips from films and music.
"Konnichiwa, Nya~ —Welcome one, welcome all— to my triennial broadcast! I apologize for the earlier schedule, but I had to make adjustments—I simply couldn't resist— being the first— to show off the March of Conquest! This, and some other exciting developments pushed me to move up my time slots! We should all— consider ourselves lucky— to be experiencing such —momentous occasions."
Screens of scenes DeMain and the others had already seen flashed across every flat surface available on the spirit. The panicked mare of Conquest, the rearrangement of the Reikai, and…
Nuclear silos, furious military leaders, countless graphs of poverty, violence, and discourse of all kinds on the rise. DeMain looked on with disparity. What had happened since he left home? Or… was the world always like this? He'd never been in touch with the news. Turning over, he could see Kaiyo gripping her leg with white knuckles. Yolanda was clutching her wand, tapping her fingers around its surface in preparation.
"Are you guys okay?" He asked, gently tapping a hand on the wall near them both. Kaiyo perked up, glad to be distracted from what she was seeing.
"Fine. Just… reminds me of the stuff my dad would talk about."
"Like… news stuff?" DeMain cocked his head.
"Not exactly. I'll explain later, I guess."
Yolanda seemed oddly invested, though she was more entranced by whatever foreign words came out of the brightly colored, big-eyed renditions of the broadcast in the holographic displays. It seemed the spirit was taking a creative approach to market pandering, and it was working based on the varied reactions from the crowd. The screenhead would occasionally switch to other languages, continuing on segments as if everything listening could follow him. Maybe they could, but DeMain and the others definitely couldn't. Of all the things to wish he had, DeMain wished he'd brought earplugs. The place was loud, packed more densely with noise from both the speaker himself and the roaring, invisible crowd than a city-school lunchroom during peak hours. Just as things got quiet, he tore the crowd back to his presence with commanding presence alone.
"Soon we will all be— Free! Now only for a limited time! Claim yours now!"
DeMain turned to the others, eyeing the blocked exits and stairs while stuffing his fingers in his ears.
"Do you guys think I should try and cut through the barriers? Maybe we can leave that way."
"WHAT DID YOU SAY?" Yolanda had to shout. The crowd's cheering had cut DeMain off mid-sentence. He hadn't even realized how quiet he sounded by comparison.
"I think we should leave, guys!" Kaiyo yelled before anyone else could get a word out. The stadium had grown into a frenzied uproar, enough that the rest of whatever Kaiyo's point was had become too muffled to hear. All at once, the entire arena fell silent as lights flickered on above and focused in on the group. The television man was quick to segway from the quiet and into his newest spectacle.
"Now, —as you can see here— we have been brought three outstanding participants in today's— ceremony of worship. Do you think perhaps, they —know what the most dangerous game is?"
With a fluid motion, the spirit dug his hands into the Kami of Firearms, producing an oversized hash-mash pistol made from multiple different pieces from across eras. Still, it fit in his hands, and he was sure to keep his finger on the trigger as he pointed it at DeMain. His voice sped up, as if reciting the possible side-effects from a medication commercial.
"Due to time constraints— folks, I'll be limited to only giving a head start of— three minutes— you know how it is! Now — the rules are simple. Survive for an hour while— my precious little pooches— hunt you down. If you die, you lose! 321GO!"
The spirit fired his gun--not at DeMain, but into the air of the stadium. DeMain and the others came to attention immediately, barely having time to convey a plan besides 'run' between their widened eyes. The melded gun barricades lifted themselves, the three Witches scattering through the openes spaces immediately. Their feet took them up the stairs and down the passageways of the stadium's outside at random.
While they attempted to follow one another through the twisted architecture and nonsensical spacing, it seemed like the area was attempting to split them up regardless of their efforts. Yolanda and Kaiyo opened a door to the women's bathroom and bolted inside before DeMainbut could follow, the door forcibly slamming shut and nearly causing him to run straight into it. When he opened it and sped inside to follow, he found himself in a much darker room than the one they'd bolted into. Worse, the door behind him led only to a brick wall after it collided with its frame.
It didn't stay dark for long. As DeMain tripped on unexpected steps and tumbled down a small set of lacquered stairs, bright neon mood lights kicked on throughout the new shooting site he found himself in. Steel pillars supported the room, though the bulk of the club space was devoted to a hefty bar. Unlike the pristine scenes before, the place was dotted with bloodstains and broken glass. DeMain was fortunate that he hadn't fallen into any, but now the issue came to finding Yolanda and Kaiyo as soon as possible. That, and another issue.
He couldn't hear it well before, but now it was all that dominated his senses. Under the slow reverberations of the club's lo-fi music, it was there. Pops and blasts, with the ringing of metal to follow it up. Then there were the disjointed cries, the constant waning between tension, screams, and then silence again. Like the Kami's own territory was constantly hunting and prowling for itself. Everywhere resonated with terror and the shrieking of metal on metal.
DeMain quickly got to his feet and scanned the room for an exit to the night spot, but all he could see were windows with a sprawling cityscape outside. He approached one through the delicate cracking of glass and debris under his shoes, the surfaces beginning to wear from all he had seen and done in the past few days. They had to be on a tenth floor or higher with how elevated they were from the streets and lights down below, but jumping down probably wasn't an option. At least, not a sane one. He could maybe attempt to reshape his blades into something like hooks, but that was also banking on him being able to climb a massive tower with strength alone.
"Shouldn't you be robbing a convenience store or something? Didn't take you for the dreamy type." A shrill voice teased.
The words shook DeMain from his look out the window. Behind him, a new person had crept in after him. They wore a jacket that seemed to resemble a trash bag in texture, puffy and bulbous in all the wrong spots. This looked excessively bad with their black pants, which were practically tight enough on their skinny legs that their bones showed right through. DeMain wasn't one for style, but this outfit just seemed uncomfortable.
The two males locked eyes, and DeMain felt himself recoil a bit. The other boy's face was gaunt but smiling, with black hair that looked both shaven and balded in all of the wrong places. He was clearly a Witch if he was here, but something about him wasn't as human as DeMain would have preferred. Strange spots of disease and scabs covered the pestilent Witch's skin, though they seemed to hold themselves tall and formidably nonetheless. DeMain could see it in the other Witch's eyes that he wasn't a quiet person, and his buzzy voice made it more than apparent. DeMain was not reassured by their hidden hands, especially in the context of his situation. .
"What the fuck are you talking about?" DeMain asked, already bringing out his spiritblades.
"Oh! Right, I'm Inzi. Doesn't really matter though. I've gotta kill you!"
"Huh—"
DeMain didn't get to finish, Inzi had already spread his arms. He hadn't thought much of it before, but the sleeves of the puffy jacket were extended way past the guy's wrists. The material bulged and rippled, then clouds of flies poured out from innards. If it wasn't enough by itself, Inzi opened his toothless mouth and hacked up some more of the insects along with a copious amount of bile.
"I got somethin' to show ya! My pretty little angels!" Inzi shouted, stumbling hastily to close the distance between himself and DeMain. In the split second the coat flapped in the wind, DeMain could see it was barely hanging on. The other Witch didn't have full arms for it to cling onto. In fact, the only thing keeping it on seemed to be the copious amount of pests clinging to the inside— at the ready.
Reflexively, DeMain sent his foot out and forced Inzi to tumble to the ground, but the flies still clouded around his body. He could feel them landing on his skin, being more of an annoyance than an actual threat. Still, he was afraid to breathe them in, and their insistence on swarming his eyes didn't help. He had to bring his blades down to swat and scrape them away from himself, but they swarmed everywhere like they were bees in a hive.
Next to his foot, he could hear and feel Inzi gagging as he attempted to bite DeMain's shoe, but another swift kick sent him away. In the moment he could see him, Inzi was grossly gouged by one of his blades sent straight across his chest. DeMain had expected some resistance but… it cut straight through like a knife to paper. All at once, the flies dissipated into nothing more than spiritual essence in front of him, and the body lay dismembered. DeMain couldn't bring himself to look any longer at the ghastly wound he'd made, and he fled the scene in search of any exits through the ignorable cloud of fading mist.
He could hear it faintly as he sprinted around. Cheering. It had begun as soon as Inzi had fallen, and it ended soon thereafter. What was going on?
"Seems like-- we've got a fight on our hands-- Folks!" The voice of the screen-headed devil echoed through any screens and speakers in the club. "You know the rules, and so do Iiii-- Their three minute head start is still in effect, only one minute left until I start-- tracking those sorry sons of bitches down."
Only one minute left in the madman spirit's countdown, and DeMain wasn't even sure how to get out of here. But the screen-headed spirit knew when a fight started, so DeMain wasn't sure if that also meant he knew where it started. He had to get going. The only problem was that there was nowhere to go except down. It was probably by design, to corral them like scared animals.
DeMain looked around the club, but it wasn't really all that packed with good hiding spots. He could try to duck beneath the bar counter, but if he was discovered it'd probably be over. The best option was probably the rafters, but climbing up there was impossible without a ladder. The windows almost seemed like a good idea by comparison.
"Thirty seconds— remain!" The voice cried out again. Shit, how was time going by so fast? Everything was amped up here. The pain, the passage of time, anything that seemed to go on within it was accelerated and intensified. That and…
DeMain turned around quickly. In the second he'd lost eye contact with it, Inzi's body had disappeared. But where could it have gone? The bar was small, dark, and the exits were limited. Plus, he could have probably heard his shoes on the floor right? Wait, no. He had flies. His insight told him it was probably someone who'd hosted a part of the Fly Spirit, if not the whole thing. It meant something, but what? DeMain knew jack about flies besides how annoying they were to try and swat. Always in the place you'd least want them to be.
He heard the gurgle of volatile guts from above before it hit him. DeMain ducked out of the way just as a concentrated glob of acidic vomit landed where he'd stood, crackling on the flooring and gradually eating away at it. Inzi landed on his feet just next to the forming crater, and it was only then DeMain noticed his steps made no sound at all.
"I underestimated you!" Inzi said, his face deeply gashed but unbothered all the same. "You people are good at staying alive though, I guess. Hats off!"
DeMain began to charge in to finish the guy off, but multiple long, hairy limbs spread from the stumps of the host-Witch's shoulders. DeMain's blades were not grabbed or stopped by sheer force, but rather the flat ends had been stuck against the hairs of the fly-like limbs. He attempted to pull and yank away from at Inzi for a moment, but DeMain realized he could just let go of the things sticking him to the fly host.
With a dematerialization of his spiritblades, DeMain sent a solid punch to Inzi's face. DeMain's fist connected with a mighty strike straight to his temple. He figured flies would be adept at dodging strikes, but Inzi clearly wasn't. Maybe all of the traits of the spirit couldn't carry over? The Spirit of Curiosity essentially confirmed this with the mental image of a checkmark appearing for him. DeMain's fist still hurt from the bone-on-bone contact.
Inzi stumbled back and vomited in his own mouth again, doubling over on the ground to force it out of his throat before he choked. DeMain really didn't want to give him a chance, and briskly kicked him across the head. It wasn't intentional that Inzi happened to hit the sharp corner of a table full-force, and it definitely wasn't intentional that the other Witch should slump over as his skull was pierced to the brain. Inzi's body went limp and his pendulous corpse hit the solid flooring of the club, reassuring that he wouldn't be able to recover. DeMain stood in shock. Surely it wasn't that easy? Surely Inzi was bluffing. He wasted only a few seconds verifying, but he knew Inzi was dead already. He had only been a human host, and humans were pretty fragile. DeMain knew that a little too well.
"…Inzi?"
He'd known the other witch for maybe less than a minute or so. Inzi's introduction had been extremely targeted, but it was pretty obvious he might not have been of the right mind. Maybe he never had been, what kind of person lets the Fly Spirit host inside of them? DeMain didn't know if he should feel bad or not, but he was jarred by the sudden death. All that intensity and then, just, bam. Over.
He could feel worse thoughts close in even as he rushed to a set of stairs obscured behind flashy beads and hanging decor, something he hadn't noticed until the shock had let him slow down to take things in. Pushing through the droopy plastic, DeMain was led up into a much larger dancing space which seemed unfit for the smaller section he'd just entered from. This one was much more sleek and modern, given the disparity between their times. Screens for sports or ads or music videos smothered the interior, many of which were riddled with stray bullets or cracked and unviewable. DeMain didn't question it anymore. Every second spent in the Kami's domain was another second of lies peeling away. The realization dawned on him rather harshly.
This place wasn't supposed to make sense. It wasn't supposed to be easily navigable. It was an arrangement of every place people had run from in panics, been murdered in, or been trapped for hours or more. It wasn't safe, and the Kami of Firearms had designed its territory well to induce that same feeling of terror. Mismatched spaces, distant screams, and an environment that seemed to be sharp and dangerous during all of the worst times. If you didn't die to a gun, you were going to get seriously hurt from some other hazard.
DeMain was quick to cross the distance of the club floor, eager to leave and find his other two friends as soon as possible. Just as he made headway to the center, the lights flickered-- then cut off completely. Just him and his rapid breathing in the dark, alone. Red lights flashed on just as his eyes adjusted, blinding him from every available source in the club. Every surface was doused with a deep crimson. DeMain wasn't alone. The other end of the dancefloor was occupied by the towering figure of the screen-headed spirit, who was quick to have his gun aimed for DeMain's head. In its other hand was Inzi's body, which it dropped unceremoniously onto the ground. The landing sounded worse than gunfire, wet and splotched as the slow trickle of blood stained the polished marble beneath it.
"Aw, you— killed my dog. --Any last words, kid?"
DeMain could feel the panic finally getting to him, welling in his throat and gripping his chest. Everything tightened, and he could feel his breathing become labored in anxious dread.
"Can't we work something out? Why are you doing this?" DeMain wavered. The barrel was aimed straight for him, and he wasn't brave enough to die alone.
"Oh enough with the waterworks and the drama. Aren't you a man? You sound— like a fucking pussy."
DeMain's throat tightened. He was a coward right now, but there was no point in acting tough either. He wanted to heroically dodge out of the way of the bullet, or cut it out of the air with his spiritblades. But he knew with any movement he made, the spirit would just pull the trigger. He could stall for time, maybe. It was all he could think of.
"Fine. I won't act all sad or anything then. Happy?" He defied.
"No! That's— tanking the views! You're supposed to cry, to bawl, to— beg for your fucking life."
"What?! You're just gonna shoot me anyway."
"Of course. But where's— the leadup, the emotion?"
"You want me to act?! You're pointing a gun at me, and you've trapped me in a fucking hellhole!"
"Perfect!— keep that mindset. Action!"
Was… was he being killed? He couldn't tell anymore. The TV-head was treating it like it was a director's set and DeMain was the star. It sure didn't feel that way. His silence was not going to be rewarded, given the spirit's gentle pulling back of the gun's trigger. Yolanda would have done miles better than him, but he threw all of his middle school drama class into his act.
"I…uh… but what will you do after? Oh, evil, powerful, merciless… Screen Face."
DeMain swore he saw black bars narrowing his vision like a cinematic aspect ratio, with 'Screen Face' being captured in all of his ugly high-fidelity. His voice now seemed smoother and more intelligible, maybe because he was in his own movie. It echoed, filled with an instrument not unlike the words of a priest or a mad scientist.
"After? After I will hunt your two friends down like the rodents they are. They serve no purpose to us, and they bar the way to our Yellow Prophet's goal."
"Yellow Prophet?"
"Yes. Xanthe's current chosen. For he shall lead the weak and the weary to a promised land."
"You mean Avery, don't you?"
"The very same. Why? Does it upset you to know that you're not the hero, black boy?"
DeMain could drop the act, this was emotionally intense enough that it came from the heart.
"He's not a hero, I don't care what 'promised land' he's led anyone to. He was pathetic when I knew him and all he's done is kill, from what I've heard. That's nobody worth rallying behind in my book."
"Oh to be a naive flower basking in the sun of ignorance. He has killed, and he has wrought threats of war upon your lands. He is not your kind's hero. He is ours."
"Not surprised. All of the spirits I've met so far have been pretty awful people. He fits right in."
"People. What a disgusting term. We are not limited in existence by shells of clay and dim sparks of heart. We are not 'people'. They may birth us, but we are not theirs. We are beings of higher purpose, separate from the nature of humanity entirely— we are above its rigid rules and its crude exceptions."
"But you're acting just like people I've met! You're literally made of the things people use every day, too. Don't even try to deny it! I've heard all the things you've said before, it's not original!" DeMain said, shouting openly now. The spirit was just like the cops, like the courts, like the people on the news. Like Avery. Holding their heads strangely high like gods would and denying there could ever be a connection between them. They might as well be different races, and in most of their eyes DeMain was always a tier lower. Just like how it was now. A man with a gun makes the rules, and the world is all the worse for it. It had always been a convenient excuse to justify how DeMain had been treated. A gun, a law, a man upstairs, all telling them they were better than him. Gifted. Blessed.
Special.
He knew this to be more than opinion, even the jaded and harsh views of the Spirit of Curiosity mirrored his own. More than just the spirit, even the whispers of his fragmented ancestors stilled in solemn agreement.
The spirit considered DeMain's words quietly, frowning through its strangely malleable jawbones.
"It is true. I am born of them, but I do not love them. I do not care for what I am, rather I care for how I am seen. But it doesn't matter, for they are not real, and their existence is at its end."
"Not real? Even if you kill me, you can't take away how real I've seen everyone be. Real people took away my dad, and he was pretty damn real to me, too."
"Perhaps if he had been picking cotton and minding his own business, he would still be alive today."
"You have no fucking idea what you're talking about."
"Oh, but I do. I have been around for quite some time, and my nature as a 'New Witch God' is not unfounded. I have been weaving lies and spinning stories for far longer than you realize."
The words of the newsreel on the spirit's face played out a dozen times before DeMain could comprehend their weight.
Double Homicide at the Olsen Mansion: Mystery Killer?
There were only two pictures. Mr. Olsen, and his at-the-time girlfriend, Mrs. Rich. His own mother.
"You made that up." DeMain complained. "I'm not falling for that. He's a millionaire in a mansion with tons of waitstaff and probably top-notch security. You told me you're a liar beforehand too, dumbass."
"You're correct. I did make it up. My presses will release the story tomorrow. I had to compile the evidence first. Avery refused to kill them, but I suppose it was more a test on Xanthe's behalf than a mandatory task."
DeMain wanted to speak, but his jaw clenched. Avery was definitely a key player, but he still couldn't tell if any of it was voluntary or not. If he'd wanted to spare DeMain's mother (even though he was pretty sure of the pervy reasons why) it was… something. His opinion of the older boy didn't change much, admittedly.
"So she is dead then."
"Not yet. But you'll be a chalk outline by the time she is."
DeMain shifted his foot ever so slightly to the left and the spirit adjusted his trajectory to match in the same moment. His frown vanished, a sickly newscaster grin replacing it.
"You know, that's the thing with you people. Every little action you take has to be carefully measured so you're not shot. The way you look at people, the way you walk. The way you talk… on and on. I could feel bad, but the truth is you're my favorite Jolly Chimps to spread my gospel with."
"We're not your fucking toys."
"Hm. You're right. Toys is a bad word. How about— slaves?"
The spirit distractedly tipped its screen ever so slightly to the side, listening to a close crashing noise they both heard from the upper floors of the club. DeMain felt his blades coming into existence as he bounded towards the spirit in pure rage, against every conceivable notion of caution being screamed at him.
But it meant nothing. All of his hopes, his dreams, his memories— blown out of his skull in the gentle tug of a trigger. The last thing he happened to see was Yolanda, reaching past the railings up above as if to somehow, someway save him. But it was too late.
There was no fade to black, no glorious choir of angels to deliver him. No family to pray over him and mourn his slip into death. There was nothing. Not even nothingness.