Chapter Text
When Mariah finishes telling us her story, she goes back to her keyboard and restarts her short bursts of typing. Our reaction doesn’t seem to interest her at all. Not that she’s willing to show at least.
This is for the best, when most of our minds want to focus on puzzling out what truths she’s told us, what lies she’s told us, and what she hasn’t told us at all. Certainly it means we have more scraps to incorporate into our mental collage.
What she’s told us: That she was once the best intern at a prestigious lab. Some very lurid descriptions of a captured and soon-to-be vivisected (Mariah cares about the difference between vivisection and dissection) Kyriotate that we would prefer not to consider too deeply. A very glossed-over description of an incident that resulted in an inconvenient resonance-breaking Discord (not broken enough, in our informed opinion) leading to the resulting demotion and reassignment here to serve as the Damp Mop Djinn’s assistant.
What she hasn’t told us but might if we asked: What happened to that Kyriotate. We’ve chosen not to ask. There’s enough for our minds to not think about without adding that to the list.
What she hasn’t told us, won’t tell us because she’s a Habbalite, but that we’ve picked up on anyway: The whole process hurt. The cut off from her resonance. Her sudden fall from promising young researcher to disposable tool. The resulting social upheaval. She elided over what happened with her Prince (not Archangel), but her voice cracked on the one sentence mentioning him. Just a little bit. If sounds weren’t all we have, we might not have caught it.
Our conclusion: This fucked-up little Habbie needs help. Our help, specifically.
—
“Another quota?” we ask when we start hearing the characteristic sounds of Mariah preparing for another trip to the Corporeal.
There’s a short pause and fabric-rustling sounds as Mariah exchanges one outfit for another. “It’s an emergency trip,” she says at last. “Tizzy was yelling about it. Apparently someone—” She cuts off. We [the two of us] seem to have reached an unspoken mutual agreement. Mariah doesn’t get too detailed about the work she does to capture our Choirmates or the eventual fates said Choirmates come to once down in Hell (worse than this, we’re assured), and we don’t get too hostile at Mariah about an assignment she has little to no choice about.
In return, we retain amicability and Mariah continues not to turn us over to an unpleasant demise. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. Symbiosis, if you will.
(We can feel our minds starting an argument in the background. Amongst Kyriotates, ‘symbiosis’ is one of those words with implications.)
“Anyway,” Mariah continues, “I’ll be gone for a bit.” We hear the sounds of drawer and cabinet locks engaging, starting from near the door and ending right next to us. Yes, they will be broken in a matter of days as Mariah coworkers start their traditional scavenging, but she locks everything down anyway.
Usually, here is where Mariah would give us one last resonance hit, and leave.
There’s another step this time. “What station?”
“Huh?”
“For the radio. What station do you want?” We hear a click and some radio static. “To keep you entertained.”
We consider this. Entertained? No. Slightly less bored? Maybe. “How about Disco?”
Mariah sighs, but the static resolves into actual music. “You have strange tastes.”
(We don’t get people’s weird grudges against the genre. It’s just dance music. What’s wrong with that?)
We wait for the final step of her ritual where Mariah burns all the Essence she can afford into resonating us. It takes a while and deep breath on Mariah’s part, but the Essence does go, and what she fills us with is worry. It’s a low-grade emotion and thus, it will gnaw at us for days.
Yeah, Mariah’s resonance might be broken, but it’s certainly not broken enough.
—
The DJs in Hell are beyond obnoxious and have a nasty habit of cutting off songs in the middle of the final chorus, but the music does, in fact, help with the boredom. This doesn’t make our time alone actually fun, but the radio keeps us occupied while we wait to implement the observation phase of our newly decided upon strategy.
DJ Magic Mik has started and ended its morning show (Hell may not have mornings, but Media sure as hell doesn’t let that stop it from having morning shows) about three or four times when the first scavenger comes in. It’s a Shedite by sound, and it’s here alone, which is typical for demons who aren’t looking for an opportunity to scheme privately. We can hear it stick and peel across the floor, and then open one of Mariah’s locked cabinets. It must have been here before, as it seems to have found what it was looking for first try.
A set of demonlings come in next, just after Magic Mik signs off and Galdreth the Slobbering and its sidekick Fluffy take over. It’s a flock of three this time, which is a typical number for these groupings. These specific ones either haven’t mastered the art of undoing locks, or they’re just here for the easy rewards (a pack of sticky notes and few thumbtacks that Mariah apparently left out) before they leave. We make a note, even if we don’t see much significance in tracking them.
The observation stage of our strategy looks very much like what we’re accustomed to doing in that we must remain very silent, but it’s a strategy nonetheless. It’s probably a better (and safer!) use of our time than practicing echolocation.
(We still do, just only when we can be sure the room is empty.)
A few DJ Magic Miks later, the door opens again. On the radio, Chantal the Commercial Chanteuse performs the jingles for the hourly sponsors. The one for the carpet company is obnoxiously catchy, never mind that we don’t have any sort of home here, nor would carpeting here help our situation. For one thing, it would dampen the sound.
Still, we find ourself trying not to hum along.
(A side effect of all this radio play: A rapidly growing grudge against the Media.)
What comes in is a set of demons this time, the better to overhear actual chatter. The specific content of their conversation isn’t worth paying close attention to. Their petty schemes aren’t immediately alarming. We do note identifying details: their audible motion, their location as they open and close drawers, names or details associated with their side projects.
(We do our very, very best to not provide commentary on said projects. At least, not out loud. For example, as something of an expert in how bodies are formed and fit together, there are some places in a vessel where high-powered proton beams really, really should not be implanted.)
We also note when they talk about the items they’ve found, be it an extra screwdriver or a pile of bolts or a set of calipers. We may not know exactly what a digital transistor or a flux capacitor is nor could we identify them by sight or sound, but we can remember that they were searched for and possibly taken.
It almost reminds us some of the work we did back when we were on the corporeal and able to roam freely: Find a specific human and help them with a practical aspect of their life. Back then, our purpose was to give them the space and assistance they needed to focus on a creative endeavor. This time, we have a more pragmatic goal in mind.
This goes on for a while. Various solos, pairs, and flocks come in, rummage around, and leave again.
Eventually, the radio suddenly goes silent in the middle of a Helltongue cover of Dancing Queen. There’s one demon in the room who moves with actual footsteps and no other identifying sounds. We spend a minute wondering what happened. Did they just turn the radio off for some reason? Did they steal the radio itself or some major component? Did they somehow manage to set off an extremely localized EMP that took out just the radio? (We can still hear the computer humming in the background) Any of those are possible, given our available information. Not that it matters, the effect is the same in the end.
Bye bye, DJ Magic Mik. We will miss your timekeeping. We will not, however, miss you.
—
“I’m back.”
It’s been a relatively short trip. Only one message from mother came in before Mariah’s return. Emergency run indeed. We (briefly and vaguely) wonder how many more Kyriotates are now missing and who, if anyone, will miss them.
(We can’t think of that too deeply.)
“You’re back,” we say, as is now our traditional greeting. We could almost say “Welcome back” and mean it, but wouldn’t that just make her suspicious?
We already plan to introduce her to a new behavior today, and from there a new concept. It’s probably best to take things slow.
What follows are the traditional noises of Mariah’s return. She unlocks the few places still locked and changes out of her heavy, wet clothing and into something (presumably) clean and dry. The long silent pauses after might indicate that Mariah is observing her surroundings and taking mental inventory of what’s gone missing in her absence. We imagine it does, anyway. Imagination not being a substitute for actionable evidence, the relevant mind waits to see what she says.
The most obvious bit of information. The radio is off.
“Of course they took the power supply.” Mariah sounds mostly resigned to this as she puts the radio back into place. “I tried building anti-theft drones early on. Of course, the first time I left, someone salvaged those for parts too.”
“Why not booby traps?” we ask. If there’s one security protocol Creation and Technology have in common, it’s an appreciation for ingenious traps.
Mariah sighs. “I tried that once. Turns out, it’s against company policy to set traps in what is still technically an employee supply room. Even on a cupboard designated for personal belongings. I wish you could do something to stop them.”
We [Mariah and I both] know that’s impossible. We [I] don’t even try to justify our inaction.
“I know, I know, security concerns.” Mariah fills in the silence with our exact reason. “Getting caught is bad for both of us, but if I could come back and have at least something in the place where I left it…”
Of course, we can’t help Mariah with that exactly. That’s why we implemented our other plan.
When we hear her scrounging through a cupboard, on the same wall as us, near the door, we check our mental reference.
“Balseraph. Works on proton-beam implant technology in his spare time.”
Then, we hear Mariah open a drawer on the opposite side near the middle of the room.
“Shedite. Something about genetic engineering and carnivorous plants.”
Her next stop is a lower cupboard, almost directly across from our corner.
“Are you looking for the calipers? If so, it’s the Habbalite that sounds like a wind chime with all the piercings. If not…maybe a Shedite again? Not the carnivorous plant one, a different one. I heard it mutter something about its prototype for the Lightsaber Expo.”
Mariah stands up and walks over. We hear the wobble of a notepad being picked up, and the slide of a writing instrument. “Huh. You little eavesdropper.”
No, we can’t hear her thinking, but we can hear her taking notes. Her pencil is too hard for the paper. “What else can you recall?”
“Mostly demonlings taking office supplies. Sticky notes and the like.”
Mariah writes some more, and when the writing stops, there’s no more noise except the slow tap of a shoe against the floor. We picture her looking at the compiled information. Is she merely planning her retrieval operation? Or will she reach the deeper conclusion we’ve set her up to find? Despite her delusions of divinity and bad career choices, we know Mariah isn’t stupid. She’s exactly as smart as we are, we think, and even smarter than us within her area of focus.
Part of her focus right now is monitoring the behavior of her pet Kyriotate. Or, it should be anyway. With demons, there’s not much of an overlap between ‘should’ and ‘is’.
Mariah should notice that our behavior is new. This is the first time we’ve demonstrated the use of our listening abilities for surveillance as well as communication. Certainly, this the first time we’ve cooperated with her in a matter beyond our mutual interest of not-getting-caught. New actions should make her suspicious. Doubly so, because it’s Hell. Triply so, because we’re her captive. Quadruply so, because there’s no visible benefit to us.
“Why are you doing this?” Mariah asks. “It’s not going to get you anything.”
The next step of the plan is one we can’t easily back away from once taken. As such, we’ve debated the will-we-won’t-we of the matter throughout Mariah’s whole absence. We reached a rough consensus, though the conclusion remained far from unanimous. We brace ourself, metaphorically, to see if Mariah will accept the concept we’re about to propose to her.
“It’s a Kyriotate thing,” we say, with zero apologies in our main voice, “We’re naturally inclined to be helpful to our hosts. And since no actual hosts are available—this being Hell and all—you’re the closest substitute we have.”
This time, when Mariah goes silent, we feel like holding a breath (despite being at least two removes away from needing to breathe). It’s like the moment before pulling up a carved block and seeing the first print. Will the result be beautiful or a disaster? Probably the second. But if it is a disaster, maybe it’s one that can be fixed with careful work.
“Do you really think of me like one of your hosts?” Mariah asks, not quite accusing yet.
This is where the practice in Helltongue has helped us. We still find figures of speech in the infernal language slippery, but so long as the premises are solid and the conclusion sincerely meant, we feel safe enough from dissonance to answer. “In a manner of speaking, you are hosting me, even if this is Hell and your vessel isn’t directly involved. So, it makes for a useful metaphor.”
Mariah slowly taps that pencil on her pad of paper. There’s no rhythm to it that we can hear. Perhaps it reflects the thoughts in her head. We hear her pacing across the room with her Habbie feet, Djinn shuffle variety. The silence stretches out.
“Kira, do you really believe I’m so weak and broken that I need a Kyriotate’s help?” This time her tone is definitely accusatory.
But the question must be for herself because Mariah stomps out of the room without giving us an opportunity to answer.
Okay, so this is likely a disaster. What can we do to fix it?
—
The closer we [Mariah and I] get to symbiosis in our social interactions, the more a Kyriotate-host analogy makes sense to us.
Sure, the hosting would be metaphorical only, and we’re not literally sliding our forces into Mariah and sending her mind out to the Marches, but the benefits and trade-offs are similar to what we find with an actual hosting situation. Mariah can do things and go places we can’t. We can give her assistance and perspectives she can’t access otherwise. It’s an honest proposal that offers Mariah exactly what we’re willing to give her.
But all honesty in Hell is a gamble. We knew we were taking a risk to speak about it so openly.
Calling Mariah a host pins down what is otherwise a messy and complicated relationship. It’s neither friendship nor is it entirely adversarial. It implies a duty towards Mariah without subservience. It allows us room to guide Mariah’s behavior without entirely co-opting free will. It implies that we consider her well-being important even if (and we plan to keep this part deliberately silent for as long as possible) we also mean to guide her towards the biggest risk she will ever take.
No, we’re not being entirely altruistic here.
Furthermore, a Kyriotate-host relationship is inherently asymmetrical, and—ethical codes and dissonance conditions aside—the power dynamic rarely favors the host. We [me, but also Kyriotates in general] are able to assist our hosts so well is because we do generally have more forces. Or we have access to abilities not given to corporeal-bound beings. Or even just because after a decade or two, we can accumulate more corporeal experience than most mortals could ever hope to have, once we count our time in multiple bodies.
A Habbalite like Mariah could easily see our open approach to a Kyriotate-host relationship as an implication of weakness, which is near the top of the list for Habbalah pet peeves. And Mariah—bent as she is—absolutely fits that stereotype.
We don’t blame Mariah for being angry. We’re more surprised, actually, that she took the time to think it through first.
—
The door code beeps, and Mariah’s footsteps stomp back in. A whole bunch of items clatter down unceremoniously on a distant counter (computer side of the room, closer to the door than to us). Drawers and cabinet doors open and slam shut in turn. We can tell by location, she’s returning the stolen components to their usual spots.
The time away might have done nothing to calm Mariah’s frenzy (or is it Frenzy?), but she’s clearly willing to put our information to use.
The plurality of us are optimists and choose to see this as a good sign.
The minority hear the intermittent pacing and the sub-verbal mutters that she tries to hide from us, and those remind the optimists not to get too hopeful. We wonder if she’s just now realized how closely we listen to her.
We resolve not to speak until she does.
“Well?” Mariah addresses us at last. She sounds calmer now, so maybe it was a case of the capital ‘F’ Frenzies and not her own emotions.
“Well, what?”
“Do you think I’m really so weak that I need to be a Kyriotate’s host?”
We see the needle we need to thread, a narrow conversational path through a small opening that maybe, maybe gets us the outcome we want.
“It’s not about strength or weakness,” we say, because it’s true. “It’s about mutual benefit. You’re gone for months at a time, and when you’re out people come in here for many reasons. To steal things, to gossip, to make petty schemes where they don’t think anyone will find out about it. You can benefit from that information.”
“So, what do you get out of it, if it’s about mutual benefit?”
This is the line that rides on the edge of dissonance—not quite stepping over, but close enough that some forces start to feel uneasy. “It’s something I can do for however long I’m here.”
(Another, mostly-selfish reason we like the Kyriotate-host analogy: it implies our relationship with Mariah is temporary. Even our longer-term host relationships have to end, eventually. Hazel moved to France. Charlie found a home with humans ready to pamper him. Sylvia’s children graduated and moved out. If Mariah becomes another kind of host, our time with her will surely end as well.)
(Right?)
Mariah hasn’t responded to that yet, so we take this opportunity to continue. “It’s in our nature to want to help. Kyriotates, I mean. The hosts we take, all of our viewpoints and bodies, what are they for, if not to help someone who can make use of it?”
“I told you, I’m not weak—”
We choose to interrupt before Mariah storms back out in another one of her tantrums. “Helping you out is half of it. The other half is: we interact with our world through our hosts. You, Mariah, have more freedom to act here than we do. You have more context about this place. The more of your abilities you share with us, the more use we’ll be to you.”
There. That’s the core of our offer—or the version of it we’re willing to volunteer. A quid pro quo. We scratch her back; she grooms our butterflies.
It’s still not a unanimous decision. Some of us are doing grimly smug I-told-you-sos at the rest of us as Mariah hesitates. Others still don’t think this Habbie deserves our consideration. If she gets burnt out and soul-killed, well, that will teach her that playing stupid games wins her stupid prizes.
(Although, we can’t remember the last time we refused to help someone who could use it simply because they didn’t deserve our assistance. Maybe the help we were willing to give wasn’t the exact help they wanted, but we still did it and left them better off.)
However, the plurality won. Enough of us saw this as our best possible approach to override the very legitimate objections of the others. Is it a safe approach? Not at all, but what would be down here? It’s the one most likely to achieve the result we want. And, some of us look (metaphorically) at Mariah and see (again, metaphorically) a demon who doesn’t quite deserve Hell—at least not her specific position within it—and doesn’t quite fit in either. Those ones do sincerely believe Mariah would be a happier person if she came up and not just better one.
The longer Mariah stays silent, the more deeply aware we are of how easy it is for our so-called best possible approach to end badly.
“You do pity me, don’t you?” Mariah says. Her voice is cross, but she sits down in front of us. Her nails click against the edges of our case. The taps are slow and hard—angry, but also thoughtful. “You shouldn’t. I’m stronger than you are, and your fate is still in my hands. I could just pass you over to Tizzy at anytime or leave you somewhere for a colleague to find. Boom. Game over. You end up as a dead specimen like every other one I capture. No matter what you say, I’m the one in control of this situation.”
We actually don’t say anything. We don’t need to. Nothing in Mariah’s words sounds like refusal. She wants to accept our proposition. Her rant now, that’s all about re-framing our words into a context her Habbie pride will let her accept.
“But,” Mariah reaches her conclusion at last, “if it motivates you to be less useless, I suppose I can play host for you.”
Good. That’s all we can hope for from her right now.