Chapter Text
No point in getting florid here, if we had one word to sum up life in the catcher while Mariah is gone, it would be: boring.
Boredom is one of those concepts we previously looked down upon, similar to how we feel about books without images and the kind of Judges who jump to prejudge without bothering to understand context. Unlike the first, which we understand as a completely personal quirk, or the second, which is simply an annoyance of being a Creationer still working directly for our Boss, we thought boredom was a simple enough thing for everybody to avoid. We always had something to do, and when we didn’t, we could almost always make something to do. And in the rare cases we couldn’t even manage that, we could bird-hop somewhere else until we found someone in need of a bit of help. And there’s always someone when we looked hard enough.
Now we’re just…here. All our forces are clustered together when they’d rather be spread over a city. A neighborhood. A house at least. Our forces—our minds, it’s not a one to one correspondence—don’t exactly bicker like too many family members trapped in a too small car on an interminable roadtrip, but we’re all getting weary of the lack of anything not ‘us’ to experience and perceive. We still have multiple viewpoints, but realistically our view right now only faces two directions: inward and outward.
When Mariah’s here, it’s easier to focus our attention outward. We are a being occupying a space, and that Habbie also occupies the same relative space. The more of us who focus on her, the fewer of us there are (proportionally, if not strictly by number of minds) to turn our attention inward. Now that she’s gone, more of us trend towards introspection, how we got here, what can we do, what we should even focus on if all we can do now is think.
Eventually, our foremost minds consider the concept of Limbo, which we’ve never thought about before on any meaningful level. Limbo is a sort of nothingness place where Outcasts and Heartless Renegades go in lieu of Trauma when they lose their vessel. They stay there until they can gather up enough essence to build themselves a new body. There’s some fancy metaphysical details about essence stockpiles, Discord and the like, but, really, for a reliever already heart-set on becoming a Kyriotate, only three bits of the lecture actually stuck: One, this is the most mundane exception to the rule that only Superiors can make vessels; two, people outside Limbo can send essence and messages and help those who are trapped inside get out; and three, by virtue of our intended (usually vessel-free) Choir, we would never go there, ever, even if by some (then unimaginable) circumstance we ever became Outcast. Only the tiniest portion of our thoughts ever actually considered what Limbo might be like, what would it be to exist in pure nothingness. Why would it be relevant, except maybe as a not-so-fun thought experiment?
Except, we are here in an albeit impure nothingness, and we’re finding the concept of Limbo to be overwhelmingly relevant to our current situation.
Granted, the experience of being captive in Hell courtesy of a force catcher will never be exactly the same as a vessel-bound celestial trapped in Limbo, but none of us think it’s a bad analogy either. Both places are very quiet with not much to do and way too much time to contemplate past mistakes. (We should have noticed. We should have turned back when we could.) We are admittedly a little jealous of Limbo residents who get daily essence and regular escape opportunities, even if that blankness is even more isolating what we face here.
Our minds get into a lively disagreement of whether Limbo or this is preferable. On one hand, Limbo is safer. No one can go into Limbo and drag you [hypothetical Limbo-eligible celestial] out for experimentation and force dismemberment. On the other hand, this environment is at least a bit more varied. We have more opportunity for outward observation, which makes Tartarus more interesting, even if it’s just this tiny corner of it. So what if the wrong kind of notice at the wrong time will make our Hellside visit more painful? We’re at least in a place. That has to be an improvement, right?
Okay, no, we’re not convinced, even as we cling to every outward observation we can make.
—
Even with Mariah gone, this room still has a narrative. Noises still leak into here, even when the room is empty: the omnipresent vent scratches, announcements over a PA system, various mechanical noises, distant screams. It’s a perfect aural sketch of Tartarus. And, as it turns out, this room that Mariah uses as her workspace is empty a lot less often than we might have previously guessed.
With Mariah here, we might have mistaken this room for a private space. With Mariah gone, we observe an entirely different environment, in which privacy is not a major feature.
In general, privacy is not a common commodity on either side of the War. However, we’re discovering how the lack of privacy in Hell is almost—but not entirely—unlike that found in Heaven.
Heaven’s lack of privacy is—personal is probably the best approximation of how we would describe it. Something a human (or a demon) might consider part of their inner-self—their emotions, deeds, or relationships, example—are visible to specific choirs. To an Elohite, how we feel and how we might react to a given action are as much a part of our celestial appearance as mist and golden orange butterflies. In the way that some birds can see ultraviolet colors that humans can’t, Elohim can see emotional states. Having been raised in Heaven, we’re not even sure we would classify it as a lack of privacy. It’s just normal. Mercurians, Malakim, and Seraphim are the same way, just about different aspects.
On the other hand, Heaven has plenty of private spaces. Nosy Judges and wandering Windies aside, private areas tend to stay reasonably private. People tend to respect the desire to be left alone or to have a personal conversation in a closed group. We have a workshop in Heaven hidden in Halls of Creation where we store our Heart and our celestial-side arts and crafts projects, and we prefer it remain undisturbed while we’re downstairs. Our Archangel’s cathedral accommodates our desire for privacy, and only someone who loves us and knows us well will find that place without our guidance.
Hell does not work that way. It’s lack of privacy mostly directs outward towards the environment. The room we’re stored in (and we don’t know if we should call it a workshop, office, lab or something else) is not at all private. The door does require some kind of beeping code to open, but the code itself isn’t uncommon knowledge. And that’s not even counting the demonlings who have other ways in.
Those are the first to show up when it’s clear Mariah won’t be coming back for a while. No one actually gives the unfledged imps and gremlins the door code. Instead, they come from above via the ventilation system, and skitter through the room at various heights. They’re easily-identified and inconsequential little critters if annoying as all get out. We hear, rather than see, the mess they make.
Then it’s the full-fledged demons who make their appearances. We keep our focus turned outward by trying to identify each Band by sound and movement.
Balseraphs, Djinn, and Shedim are the easiest to pick out. Balseraphs slither, and there’s at least one that makes a small rattle noises when it moves or gestures. Djinn make the widest range of movement noises—scratching claws and footsteps too heavy for any demonling, the skittering of crab-like legs, the damp mop thump—but there’s a consistent sullenness to how those motions get expressed. The appendages, of whatever form, never quite make it all the way off the ground. Shedim make sticky wet noises, which makes sense as they’re all piles of goop and slime that slosh about and peel off the floor. We swear we can hear their stench. Possibly they leave actual slime trails that Mariah’s going to have to mop up when she gets back.
Impudites, Habbalah, and Lilim are more challenging to tell apart, as their celestial forms are all humanoid. Of these, Impudites are slightly more distinct on account of the wings. When we listen closely, they beat against the air like the skin of a drum. Habbalah and Lilim are virtually identical. The sound of metal clinking can be a Lilim’s Geases or a Habbie’s body modifications. (Fingernails aside, Mariah doesn’t have any independently noisy body modifications, but at least one Habbie here does.) We have to work backwards from overheard conversations to identify the band. Is it bargaining or discussion of Needs? Lilim. Discussion of strength, weakness and punishment? Habbalite.
If there’s any actual difference in motion: Habbalah generally move more crisply, feet always hitting the ground as deliberate action. (Mariah’s shuffle seems to be an outlier here: a Djinn’s shuffle produced by a humanoid form.) Lilim steps are more likely to be accompanied by the click-clack of high heels. But that’s more speculation than positive identification. Lilim can wear more practical footwear and have crisp steps, and at least one Habbie here walks around in heeled shoes of some kind.
We haven’t heard anything we can positively identify as a Calabite yet. This doesn’t surprise us. Even in Heaven, Vapula’s disregard for Calabim is well-known. There are no Calabim of Technology, and we don’t expect to hear any from other Words this deep into Tartarus. What’s a little more surprising is the lack of damned human souls. Some of the conversations, mostly involving at least one Impudite, mention human souls ‘stored’ on some of the less-secured floors. So, it’s likely the human souls are just never allowed in this area.
Regardless of Band or nature, the activities in the room fall into a few categories. Whispered conversations, the sounds of drawers and cabinets opening and closing, the shuffling of papers. Fingers on a keyboard. If Mariah has anything in Hell she can successfully hide away while she’s gone, we’re not aware of it.
(Given how narrow our awareness is, we’re not ruling it out.)
This includes us.
—
We’re amused the first time someone picks us up—or tries to, anyway—and then jumps back as though shocked. Honest Helltongue obscenities follow. For a split-second, it takes effort to not laugh out loud. And then the wary, terrified parts of us (most of us) perk up. With Mariah here, discovery felt like a distant, mutual threat. Alone, we feel a metaphorical pressure weighing down on us. Mariah said she disguised us. We’re left wondering: How effective is this alleged disguise? Will the other demons just walk on by?
It seems effective enough, though the examinations get closer than we’d prefer.
We seem to be stored in a device of some kind. It’s approximately the size of a breadbox, which in Tartarus is not a device that stores baked goods, but nonetheless has a shape and dimension similar to the corporeal object of the same name. Within the device, there’s no visible sign of us [the force catcher we’re stored in], based on the list of notable components we here getting called out. There’s apparently a speaker, a microphone, and some kind of magnetic tape deck. An electrical field is set to shock anyone who touches it for too long. Hence all the jumping back.
Most demons who bother voicing their conclusion for us to hear assume we’re a combination battery and recording device for Mariah’s research notes. Battery would explain any possible essence picked up by the Impudites and their glasses, while the recording device serves as a plausible explanation for the safeguard set around us. Of course Mariah would account for the lack of Privacy here.
Still, every time someone approaches us, we brace for the incoming discovery. And every time they walk away, we’re a little less certain how we’re going to stay undiscovered until Mariah comes back.
—
When we are not terrified, we are bored. And we are getting a little bored of being terrified of the exact same set of possibilities day after interminable day. A new kind of fear might be a novelty.
We hear a chorus of screams carry through the vents. It might be from many people screaming in unison or a single multi-part voice. Whatever the source, it’s not a happy scream.
No, no part of our hive is stupid enough to remedy the boredom. Yet.
—
We’ve stopped paying attention to the four beeps and the door unlocking. Too many people come through to make note of individuals any more, so it’s easier to just stay completely quiet all the time.
The medium-light shuffle of human footsteps, however, cause us to perk up. We know the sound and shape Mariah’s movements. No one quite shuffles on two feet the way that she does.
It’s her.
We stay silent until we hear the signal.
She sighs, softly enough we wonder if she knows we can hear it. A box is set down next to us, hard components clinking against each other. Finally, the signal tap hits against the case where we’re kept. Making noise is now deemed an acceptable risk. (Not safe, never safe, this is Hell)
“I’m back, Kira.”
To say “Welcome back” would be—possibly dissonant. To say we missed her with any connotation of affection would be definitely dissonant. We can’t say we’re happy to see her. Mariah back means minds full of emotions that are not ours and speaking around the ego of a young demon who is convinced to the very core of her Heart that she’s truly an angel, and to do it without saying anything that could even be remotely construed as a lie.
And Mariah back means that a number of other Kyriotates have been captured in force catchers and then presumably delivered to that Damp Mop Djinn, unless Mariah is stupid enough to try and keep two of us. Nothing good will happen to those others.
But Mariah back means we can finally engage with something outside of our minds, and not just listen and guess at what’s in the environment around us.
“You’re back.” We say as her echo.
“Did you miss me?” The voice goes saccharine like it did the first time we met. It carries the silent threat like the wrong answer will flood us with emotions.
About two-thirds of us don’t, for multiple reasons. The third of us who do misses the relative freedom of action we have when Mariah’s here more than it does the little demon herself. The most accurate description is that we’re divided…but do we really want to see how a Vapulan would interpret that statement? Possibly, it would involve literal dissection. Or is it vivisection? In either case, it’s not a distinction we care about, though we imagine Mariah might have opinions. “It’s complicated.”
No dissonance, so at least that’s a true enough statement.
The room falls into an uncomfortable silence as the Habbalite outside the box decides whether to resonate us or not.
She chooses not, this time. “Complicated.” It’s her turn to echo us. “Is it because you were bored while I was gone?”
We make a startled squeak.
“Technology Habbalite,” she explains, as though she expects us to catch on to the deeper meaning. We quickly review what we’ve learned about Vapulans, both as abstract enemies back in class, and as real live examples in this immersive environment. Technology…right. Their servitors get artifacts. Habbies get—what is it?—mood rings that show them the current emotion of whoever’s closest to them.
Mariah can see more of us than we thought. We hand that bit off thought to another background portion of us to consider.
Her knuckle hits our case again, and we can hear a bit of metal hitting against the plastic. It reads as a contemplative gesture. “Can you access the other components?”
“No, I’m not one of Lightning’s. Don’t have the attunement either.”And if we did, would it make a difference? Probably not. If we could leave here and possess literally anything else, we’d be gone.
Fingernails click against the plastic, a drawn out sort of contemplation this time. “Too bad. It might make you less bored.”
“Why does it matter if we’re bored?” we ask. If our boredom matters, shouldn’t she have thought of this before trying to keep us [any Kyriotate, really] as a pet? But then we think of the understimulated cats and dogs we encounter all the time; humans don’t necessarily consider mental stimulation or enrichment as part of animal care. We can’t imagine Mariah thought about that closely either when she made the choice to keep us.
Are we an understimulated pet, just a lab rat that our Habbie happened to take a shine to? Until she decides to experiment on us, maybe.
“Boredom is a useless emotion. Everything else has some kind of purpose at least. Fear means you won’t do anything stupid. Anything else that’s strong enough, I can amplify it and test you for weakness. With boredom, you might take stupid risks just to make it go away.”
We ponder that and conclude that she’s not as wrong as we’d like her to be. How long could she stay gone before anything is better than waiting. “You’re a Habbalite; you could just make our boredom go away with resonance.”
Silence fills the office. We brace for whatever she wants to throw at us. We probably won’t resist.
“Resonance is overrated” Mariah says at last. We wonder what’s hidden in that statement. Fingers slide over the case in a caress, a slide of something soft over hard plastic. “And it won’t help while I’m away.”
Maybe that’s it. Mariah needs a form of control that will stick, even when we’re unsupervised. A resonance that lasts days at the most doesn’t help when she’s gone for possibly months at a time.
“Do you want to know, Kira, what exactly you’re a part of? Should I tell you anyway, just to keep you entertained for a little bit and hopefully explain why trying to escape would be a bad idea?”
“Sure,” we say, perfect truth and no unintended details given. Yes, evil genius, explain how the big scary trap works. That won’t go badly for you at all.