Chapter Text
Any hopes that learning Helltongue might clarify Mariah’s intentions towards us turn out to be unfounded. We’re becoming more familiar with our Habbalite friend (captor, note mandatory sarcasm intonation), but her attentions remain either completely opaque or entirely unknown, maybe even to her.
We can’t relax, but we can’t stay perpetually braced for a blow when we have no sign of its arrival.
We keep our (metaphorical) ears tuned, and bit-by-bit we learn a little more about the one who controls our current existence.
—
We memorize Mariah’s sounds. Not just her voice, which remains consistently young-sounding without being particularly high-pitched, but her ways of existing within the soundscape that set her presence apart from any others.
When she moves, her footsteps shuffle and scuff along in hard-soled shoes. It’s a medium-light sound. Whatever her actual force count is, the substance of her celestial form is not particularly heavy when she moves, even when she’s taken towards fits of anger and stomps rather than shuffles.
(We must be shoved in a corner somewhere. We only ever hear that motion coming in from two directions.)
Her activity in the room mostly seems mundane. When she’s nearest to us, we hear a lot of metal pieces clink together and some vague electrical noises. Sometimes we hear the scratch of a too-hard pencil on paper, and the breaking of the graphite when she presses the tip too hard. One of the artists in us want to tell her to use a softer, darker lead, nothing too soft, a basic HB even. When she’s further away, we hear the click-clack of keys on a keyboard (computer, we’re pretty sure) being pressed and released.
The most expressive feature of Mariah, from an auditory perspective, are what we’re sure are sharp, metallic claws at the end of her fingertips. The claws are what give her touches on the keyboard a signature, and it’s the the rhythm and pattern of her tapping fingers on surfaces that let us build a sense of mood and body-language.
It’s one finger tapping four times in succession that becomes the signal that we can speak.
Not that we [Mariah and I] have anything worthwhile to say to the other.
—
Intellectually, even before we met Mariah, we knew that Habbalah really do consider themselves angels. It’s one of those fundamental band quirks we [angels in general] get told about when it’s time to learn about the other side. “This band is the opposite of Elohim. They can make you feel things. And oh, yeah, every last one of them is absolutely convinced they’re an angel.” Of course, when we were first taught this as a reliever, that level of delusion was completely foreign to us. Incomprehensible. We knew angels. We had grown up knowing nothing but Truth. Being mistaken for naive reasons? Sure, we understood that. Persistent delusion in the face of contradictory evidence? Not so much.
We can tell you—after hearing Mariah go on about her ‘choir’ at length—that yes, Habbalah really do believe they are angels. The leaps of logic or science or metaphysics or theology that this Mariah goes through to rationalize her claims to divinity may be the most creative we’ve heard her get. The first couple times, it was genuinely fascinating to see what false premises she’d compose to fit her conclusion.
What we were never taught in those classes is just how tedious the delusion becomes after the dozenth time hearing the latest chain of reason.
“…and see, Kira, that’s why Habbalah really are angels.”
As per usual, we’re not impressed by the lecture. This is not the first time she’s given us this particular set of arguments, nor do we think it will be the last.
After we remain silent too long, she speaks again. “You still don’t believe me, do you?”
“No,” we say because indulging our captor’s ego does not merit taking dissonance, not even when refusing to indulge means a quick and nasty spike of regret. It doesn’t always. Just often enough that we still brace for it regardless.
We’re lucky this time. No strong emotions come in. Instead, Mariah huffs and makes a quick four-nail tap on the table. Her attention turns back to her work. Or hobby. It’s difficult to say with Vapulans. They’re a bit like Creation that way.
It’s an uncomfortable perspective. We shove it back to a mind that won’t think too hard about it.
—
If Mariah has friends, they don’t visit her in this room where she spends most of her time. This doesn’t necessarily mean she doesn’t have any friends (though we wonder), simply that if she does meet up with them, she doesn’t bring them back to this particular room for some personal time.
(This makes sense. Would we want a prisoner from the other side listening in on our personal time with Cole? Definitely not. But then, that’s a single, minor reason among many why we would never catch someone and keep them in a Force Catcher in the first place.)
Mariah does leave occasionally. For a few minutes, for what seems to be work-related reasons. Either she’ll leave with something that hinders her movement out, or returns with something that’s makes coming back in difficult. Are they heavy, awkward burdens, or is Mariah just a little light on celestial forces? We could believe either.
Less often, she’ll leave for hours of the time, and the atmosphere of the room changes. The omnipresent distant scratches will draw nearer. Once we heard something metal above us pop out and clatter on the floor. A ventilation grate? We try to picture it: Ventilation ducts in the walls and ceiling. The scratching sounds coming from the demonic equivalents to the youngest relievers.
“She’s not actually gone yet,” something whispers. “Put it back!”
“Why? What’s that one going to do to us?”
“Stomp on your wings and put you in a box to serve as a Spirit Battery? She’s done that before.”
“She’ll have to catch us first!”
“Put it back!”
The voices continue to argue up until the point where the door beeps again. By the time Mariah comes back in, the baby demons have scrittered back through the ventilation ducts, though the grate still remains out of place. We hear Mariah sigh.
“What were those?” We ask.
“Demonlings. Rotten creatures, always getting where they’re not supposed to go.”
—
“Kira, we’re going to play a game!”
Mariah always sounds emotional when she gets back from her longer trips, but rarely the same emotion twice in a row. Happy, or sad, or a little dreamy, angry, embarrassed—something that makes us wonder if these are her own emotions brought about by a rich social and intellectual life taking place entirely outside the confines of this room, or if there’s something else going on.
This time, her emotion of the minute is excitement.
We don’t bother asking if we’re going to like the game. We already know the answer.
“Are you going to tell us what it is?”
“Oh, I’m not going to tell you. I’m going to show you.”
Usually, we don’t bother to resist most of Mariah’s Habbie whims. When the rest of our existence is the blank of nothingness and sensory deprivation, even an artificial emotion is welcome stimulation. It’s something to feel other than the monotonous dull terror that characterizes our every day. More than that, it’s an expression of time passing in a situation where that sense has faded away alongside our essence regeneration. Unpleasant as it is, Habbalite resonance has a flavor, an intensity, and, most relevantly, a duration.
Her resonance’s duration is the only time we can sense things like minutes (harsh, intense, sharp), hours (horrible in a moderate, non-distinctive way), or days (dull, lingering, elusive) via even a proxy.
(Maybe we could convince her to get an analog clock in here, with a ticking second hand and some kind of chime for the hour. Or maybe that would be too depressing, to hear all those numbers pile up.)
When a deep sadness hits us, we let it wash over, indulge in it like self-pity even. How can this be our life is this right now? Does anyone even care that we’re gone? Who is the unluckiest little Hive in all the Symphony? Is it us?
(If we were rational, we would think of those who were handed over. By definition, we are not rational right now.)
And in quick succession, before we can really settle into the sadness, we’re hysterical. An angel, in Hell, with no way out. Captured by a demon who thinks she’s an angel. Who we’re probably celestially tougher than. Dark humor would love this.
(They probably would.)
And then, deep, deep anger. Intense, and more honest than we’d ever choose to show on our own. An emotion we’ve swallowed these past…however long comes back up. We can hear the essence spent through all this: the capacity of a new-fledged angel and more on top of that. This is Mariah showing off her willingness hurt us even if it takes the currency of her soul and reliquaries besides to do that. There’s accepting resonance as part of our existence as this Habbie’s prisoner, or even that whole situation when we first came down, where we could identify the practical purpose of all those emotions in succession. There’s no rationale here. This is just suffering for suffering’s sake.
And, no. No. This is too much. We draw a boundary. One emotion at a time. Let’s see what the will of a Kyriotate can do against this Punisher, even without any essence to back it up.
When the next emotion threatens, we don’t even bother to check to see what emotion it could be. We gather up the will to bounce it right the fuck off where it belongs.
“Kira, why would you do that?” Mariah’s voice turns away from that near hyperactive excitement and takes the tone of almost innocent confusion. Like we were her lover who suddenly slapped her during a routine argument. (We’re not. We would not.)
We almost (almost) feel bad for bouncing that emotion, whatever it was.
“What were you trying to throw at me?” We ask, the sharpness of that fury dulling down into a more natural anger.
“Nothing that would have—” Mariah stops suddenly. We hear the beeps of the door code being entered, and we, even on the tail end of our rage, quiet down. On this, and this alone, can we [Mariah and I] find accordance. Our [my] primary attention turns from Mariah’s state and activities to the incoming problem.
(This is Hell. Everything is universally a problem.)
Someone slithers into the room. (Balseraph, probably, or a certain kind of snake-y Djinn if not) Whatever it is, Mariah takes to her feet quickly.
“This is too much disturbance.” The sentence is hissed so assertively, we can practically hear the forked tongue in it. “Some of us are trying to work on important science here.” There’s a pause. “You’re not authorized to use reliquaries on premises, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“How about you hand it over, and I won’t tell your supervisor.”
We can’t actually feel the resonance building behind those statements, but seven out of an arbitrary nine of us would bet actual currency that Mariah is being resonated by a Balseraph right now.
“Yes, sir.”
“Perhaps you’re running out of useful things to do down here. I’ll see about putting in a request to Tizzy about that.” The presumed Balseraph slithers away, the door shutting behind him.
We both let out sighs. Her literally and audibly, us almost so.
A few minutes later, Mariah exclaims: “Bless it! (A profanity down here in Hell, and one that, like all Helltongue curses, comes with mandatory truth marking.)”
“Do you really need authorization to have reliquaries on hand, or was that a Balseraph?”
“Balseraph,” Mariah confirms. “I hate when they do that. All that work just to get a decent source of essence, and then someone with seniority confiscates it. One day, I’ll show him. I’ll show them all. They’ll learn better than to mess with an angel.” Her nails hit something plastic around us. Ten fingers, a single hard clack.
She’s one to talk about messing with angels.
—
Just when we start to think we’re getting the sense of rhythm of this environment, the door beeps open and an entirely new person moves in. The noise is all wrong to describe it a walk of any kind. It sounds like a damp mop hitting the floor, a clack of claws, and then another damp mop thumping down on the tile and coming to a stop.
Mariah shuffles to her feet.
We stay silent. The only nice thing about being in a force catcher: no means to make involuntary noises.
The damp mop speaks. The voice is djinnish, lacking affect, and it’s very likely the same one we heard some time ago when Mariah handed over our fellow prisoners and kept us hidden away in her pocket. We didn’t understand the conversation then. We can follow this one now. “Fix these. New chips, new serial numbers. Destroy the old ones. Use the paper shredder.”
Objects clatter in a box as they’re shoved towards Mariah.
“Got it.” Mariah sounds almost as enthusiastic as the Djinn. A close working relationship with a dear mentor, this is not.
“After that, you have another quota due in three months. No Shedim. I received complaints.” The Djinn manages to say that last bit as though it had been both mortally inconvenienced by and entirely unconcerned with said complaints.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The damp mop that is a Djinn, that is herself not actually a damp mop but rather a variation on a creature that hops about wetly, turns about and leaves.
Part of us searches through our reference of “things we have been” to try and match that sound to anything familiar. Nothing immediate resonates. Another part pays attention to the box (larger, kind of flat) hitting the worktable. Yet another part pays attention to the words Mariah speaks under her breath, quiet enough that we don’t think she intends us to hear, loudly enough that we can’t be sure.
“Not my fault that angel was weak.”
The chair nearest us slides against the hard floor, and Mariah takes her seat again. She gives those taps that serve as our signal that she’s alone again. “That was my supervisor with more work and a new assignment.”
“Are you heading back to the corporeal?” We’re getting accustomed to asking questions in Helltongue. After curses, they’re the safest utterances to say, at least from a dissonance perspective.
“After this next repair job, yeah.” Mariah does not sound thrilled.
“And we’ll just stay here?” Interrogative case. It’s an honest, if slightly leading, question.
Our most focused thoughts run along a couple of tracks.
First, we consider the thought that she could take us back to the corporeal. This would be our best and most likely chance of escape. The problem (from Mariah’s point of view) is that going up to the corporeal means that her prisoner (us) will start regaining essence. Regaining essence means eventually being able to put that essence into an escape attempt while we’re in a location less inhospitable to angels than Tartarus. (Where might a more inhospitable location be? Abaddon? Sheol?)
Most of us like that concept. The problem (from our point of view) is finding a way of convincing Mariah that we would NOT attempt to escape given time on the Corporeal and the opportunity for essence regeneration.
This of course ties into a side debate we’ve had since the whole concept of Helltongue started making sense. (Mind where you step) When would a lie be worth the accompanying dissonance? Definitely not to indulge the delusion of our Habbie ‘friend’, but one lie to escape? That’s different. One extra note of dissonance to get out of Hell, get out of the Force Catcher, run to a friendly Tether and explain the whole situation? It seems easy. We could work off the dissonance, and no one reasonable would blame us for it.
Of course, that whole scenario assumes Mariah believes that one lie and would choose to take a major risk based on the one statement.
But, if she were willing to risk letting us go free based only on a single lie—
And thought track one converges onto thought track two. Which is: Mariah has a quota, and for a very risky kind of target. Based on any number of her rants, she doesn’t like being on the corporeal, which is full of stupid heaven-born angels who don’t understand the value of Science and the need for test subjects of all kinds. She’s waited a long time for the opportunity to keep one of these specimens for herself. If she’s willing to risk letting us go free based on a simple promise of good behavior, then it’s even more likely she’d just bring us to her boss to meet quota that much sooner.
So really, any scam convincing enough to get Mariah to bring us along to the corporeal is highly likely to end with us either as a pile of corrosive goop or a pile of Discord. Are we desperate to get out? Generally, yes. Are we so desperate as to risk not getting out as a Kyriotate? We want to say ‘never’.
“You’ll stay safe and sound right here. Don’t worry, you should be disguised well enough, so long as you remember to be quiet. I’ll be back once I get quota. Don’t miss me too much.”
There’s a click from the far side of the room, like a light switch turning off. Except for the scratching of the grates and the whirr of a computer, everything goes silent.
A blessed (heavenly) sense of being left alone for a while.
Or so we think.