Chapter Text
Mariah has been less-than-talkative since she verbally accepted our offer of a metaphorical Kyriotate-host relationship—not in an angry sense like she has been before, just distracted. We hear the noise of her pencil—too hard and scratchy for our preferences, a 4H where an HB would draw more smoothly without sacrificing precision, going across thin paper.
“What are you doing?” We ask.
“Not now.” If she makes an accompanying gesture, she doesn’t do it audibly. Communication with us is not her priority.
We’ve never heard her like this, not even the time the Damp Mop Djinn brought in three large boxes of somethings to repair and told Mariah to have them ready by the next day. This is a deeper focus, the sort of flow we normally love to see in our hosts where it’s a sign that the little gestures and adjustments we’ve made have taken root. With Mariah, our feelings are more complicated. We don’t know what (or if) we encouraged in her, but with a Punisher, we are reasonably sure the end result won’t be pleasant.
We tune into those pencil scratches. They don’t sound like writing. We’ve heard her write a couple times, all short strokes and quick, sharp motions, these marks take longer to make, and sound smoother, at least until we hear her start erasing. Mark-making. Mark-reduction. Rinse and repeat until Mariah suddenly pauses.
We recognize the process, even by sound, from our previous life. Mariah is drawing out plans to make something. That’s good, right?
We should be encouraging this, right? We are Creation after all.
“Measurements. Can’t do this without measurements.” Mariah says authoritatively, to herself, mostly.
“Measurements for what?”
Mariah ignores us. No, she’s not ignoring us; she simply doesn’t bother to answer. We hear her hands make contact with the box. We hear the interaction of mechanical pieces we can neither name nor visualize. Buttons press, gears shift, and the sound of ambient noise gets slightly louder like the barrier between us and the rest of existence has fallen, at least temporarily. Then, there’s more scratching (writing, this time) on her paper.
Oh, she’s measuring us.
Our curiosity moves from idle interest to paranoia. There is, based on a calculation we just made up, a 93.2 percent chance of this hurting. We [most of our minds] re-evaluate whether we should encourage this.
“Mariah? Why are you measuring us?”
The ambient noise fades back to its usual level as Mariah locks the case up again. “I told you. I’m the one in control. You’ll find out when you need to find out.” She pauses, and starts again, sounding very much like a snotty teenager. “Or, when you can figure it out.”
Her answer does not soothe our worries one bit. But, hey, at least she answered us this time.
—
Mariah’s work continues, intermittently interrupted by the Damp Mop Djinn and a seemingly endless list of chores. Fix this. Type that. Arrange catering for the Interpersonal Robotics Seminar. Shred these documents.
We don’t know if the Damp Mop Djinn deliberately piles extra chores on Mariah now that she seems engrossed in a project or if it just happens to be a busy time here. Based on reputation, we could easily see the former being the case, even if the latter is more likely.
(Hell runs on deliberate malice, that we’ve observed. It also runs on powerful demons paying little mind to the condition of their underlings, especially when other deadlines loom.)
But at some point, Mariah’s design process does reach its conclusion. She pushes her chair back and gets up with a little hop that could almost be adorable were it not also ominous. Her hands clap down on the table.
“I’ll need to go on a supply run!”
Cabinets and drawers open and close.
“I wonder if I can get away with solder, or if I have to braze. If I can get a hold of the right kind of torch…I think Siya has one…and a cutting tool at least. At least no one took my drill…”
Occasionally, Mariah makes pencil scratches on her paper. Inventory? Writing down a list of components to salvage? Considering the pros and cons of soldering versus brazing?
“Be right back.” Mariah rushes out of the room, oddly spirited.
Whatever she’s designed, she must be eager to make it.
—
Mariah returns with a crate full of jangling things and approximately the same level of eager energy as before. No, she still doesn’t bother to tell us what’s going on—or even speak to us, in general. But she does the turn on the radio, and the background noise prevents the room from being too silent. It’s the Techsynth station by the way, so we’re unsure if this is an improvement. (It’s probably preferable to the Disco station though. The ‘music’ might be worse, but its lack of morning shows or demonically catchy jingles makes up for a lot.)
She get back into her flow, and we’re left to figure out what she could possibly be building.
There’s an obvious answer, of course, but Mariah is a Vapulan, and Vapulans are almost as bad as going at with the obvious answers as Creationers are. So, there’s an unlikely but not entirely non-existent chance that she’s building a super-charged prism that’ll burn this place down the first time she shines a light through it. Or maybe a gun that shoots radioactive silicate projectiles. Or I don’t know, she’s formulating the chemical composition of a new pigment derived from the dust of ground-up force catchers.
We entertain ourself with speculation before moving on to contemplate the mundane and obvious possibility: Mariah is designing a new cage for us. What other reason would she have to take our [the crystal we’re trapped in’s] measurements?
Oh, plenty of others for sure. Maybe she just wants a nice necklace. We’ve seen some jewelry-making processes that, with a little more recklessness, could qualify as Technological enough for any Vapulan. It might explain the need for soldering supplies.
But where would she wear it? Everyone knows Mariah works with force catchers. Wearing one openly would catch attention, and not the good kind. And that’s assuming no one can tell the difference between a filled and empty catcher.
Anyway, a new cage is the likeliest possibility. The problem with that conclusion is: We can’t figure out why Mariah would feel the need to design that. We haven’t attempted to escape. Other people haven’t become more curious over what they have by now written off as just a personal item. And if Mariah were the type to tinker around with a previous project for no reason whatsoever, she would have already made modifications before this point. And she hasn’t until now.
Until we made the host comparison and—
Oh!
(She’s a Habbalite, Raye, what did we expect?)
Oh.
(Of course, the answer is obvious when we look at it from that angle.)
Oh, fuck.
(We hope we’re wrong. Please let us be wrong.)
(We are probably not wrong.)
One thing we’ll say about Mariah, she certainly commits to a concept.
—
We’ll admit this, we were never the most attentive student in our classes, at least not when the subject seemed mostly-irrelevant, which, for a Kyriotate-to-be like we were at the time, included any information on demons more in-depth than “Here’s how to quickly identify the kinds of demons you’re most likely meet on the corporeal, here’s how their resonance can fuck you up if you get too close, and here’s how to successfully avoid them.”
(Kyriotates—and future Kyriotates—not scheduled to obtain their own vessels do not get placed in the demon-hunting classes. The Advanced Aerial Surveillance course usually covers the level of demon-tracking us civilians need to know. At least it did when we took it.)
We do remember that a relevant lecture existed. We even attended it. Part of the basic education on demons included guest lectures by those who had recently redeemed. We remember the Elohite who came to class that day, not even a decade out of Hell, and who had (presumably, still has) striking amber-colored eyes. The content of the lecture itself? That we remember only vaguely. We were too busy drawing everyone’s wings and the backs of their heads to really catch too much of the details.
(This was before we fledged and mastered the concept of multi-tasking.)
Mariah has gone silent again. Still no talking. No more sketching. No more building. The radio, however, still blares out its noise and at full-volume now. On the corporeal, we would start to wonder about hearing damage.
Anyway, one of the topics we vaguely remember being covered in that lecture was the very peculiar Habbie habit of celestial body modification. Not that celestials of all types don’t decorate their true forms. We do, some more than others. And not just clothing, but also piercings and tattoos. We remember our mother used to get henna painted on her scales before the artist who assisted her moved service into Fire. Habbalah, however, are unique in how far they traditionally take that concept.
We have to strain to pay attention to anything beyond the music, for example, the sounds of items being set down on the table in front of us and plugged into a power source.
For Habbalah, the desire to decorate their forms borders on compulsion, and the decorations themselves (piercings and tattoos usually but not always) could be extreme enough to border on self-mutilation.
A high-pitched whine and whirr start up. We catch it only because it’s so close by. It stops just as suddenly. A tool of some kind, being tested?
The Elohite from the lecture had a long explanation for the modification of their celestial forms was an almost universal habit among Habbalah, but essentially, the modifications serve as a coping mechanism. A Habbie who feels weak or feels as though it has lost control of its surroundings will apply decorations to themselves as a method to prove or regain their agency. That was one of the reasons the newly-redeemed Elohite gave anyway.
(Is that what we did? If so, does that give us the power to STOP it?)
(Is that why Mariah hasn’t told us? So we wouldn’t try to talk her out of it?)
We hear another tool being tested, it’s a briefer, more buzzy than whirring.
What Habbalah did with their celestial forms seemed like an odd detail to cover in a lecture aimed towards angels being trained for corporeal work. Who in that room would ever get close enough to a Habbie’s celestial form to even care about those tendencies?
Us, apparently.
(Immersion learning at its most effective here, folks.)
We hear the sound of a deep breath. To a corporeally-adjusted celestial like Mariah (presumably) and us, breath in celestial form becomes another expression of body language. This sound in particular is a sharp inhale, a brace against upcoming unpleasantness.
The first tool comes on again. Turns back off. Mariah exhales. Paces over to the door. There’s a click of an actual mechanical lock engaging. No one will walk in on Mariah and interrupt that way. She turns around. Paces back towards us. And stops.
Fabric rustles. The cabinet directly across from us opens. Mariah pops off the cap of the marker. We cant hear what surface she’s drawing on, but we have a guess (please let us be wrong). The marker cap goes back on.
And then, we’re back to that same sharp inhale. We hear the high-pitched whirr again, and this time it stays on, and changes tenor as some part of the tool makes contact with something—or someone. (We are definitely not wrong, not about this.) It sounds a bit like a power saw cutting. Mariah lets out one brief yelp—and then goes silent except for some suppressed whimpers.
Celestial forms are not literal bodies. Mariah’s celestial body is no more literal flesh and blood than ours is primarily condensed water vapor. This is not a comfort.
The cutting happens in fits and starts. Mariah does a little, takes these deep, gulping breaths like the ones used to modulate panic, and starts again. Each time, there’s that one brief outcry (blending so perfectly with the music playing to the point where we wonder if that speaks to the genre’s origin) and a steely, somehow scarier silence as she works.
The radio only masks her noises from those outside the room. We hear everything. We can’t block the noises out.
The concept of celestial pain has always been a bit abstract to us. We never felt any pain growing up in Heaven, and we’ve never been in celestial combat to experience it that way. While Hell has certainly done its job to make celestial pain more immediately relevant to us, so far Mariah’s found descriptions of it more useful as a threat than as a reality. Vague threats and disturbing stories of worse can work perpetually to keep us in compliance. Actually following through can only work so many times before there’s no more Kyriotate left for it to work on. So while we didn’t disbelieve, exactly, the celestial pain in front of us is visceral beyond anything we’ve ever experienced in Hell or otherwise.
(For once, we’re glad we can’t see from inside here. Or smell.)
Finally, there’s one last cry and the first tool goes quiet. It clatters against the floor as Mariah does her best to regulate her breathing. Her hands press against the table, like she’s bracing her weight.
We want to think she’s done. She’s not, of course. This is just a lull, while Mariah picks up whatever she’s been making. We feel like we should be able to hear more of what’s happening, little give away thumps or components contacting each other as Mariah fits her creation to her body. There are a few adjustments, with some manual tool. Briefer, thankfully. Less painful? We hope so.
The second automatic tool starts up. Stops. Starts and stops. It reminds us of someone drilling into a block of wood. All of that eight times in slightly different locations.
(It’s not as bad as the first one. As if that makes anything about this okay.)
(It doesn’t.)
The drilling stops and stays stopped. There are still more noises that the music doesn’t drown out, but none of them come from Mariah crying out. As song after song plays on and no more of that happens, we allow ourselves to relax. Slightly.
(We’re not breathing. Especially not when we’re confined to a silicate prison without access to a true celestial body. But it’s almost like letting out a breath.)
We don’t relax for too long. Mariah sits down in front of us and starts the unlocking sequence of our cage again. All of our minds were so focused on what Mariah was doing to herself (understandably so) that we forgot one small fact, one very small, very vital fact.
Mariah isn’t done with her project yet. This involves us too.
—
“Kira, let’s talk.”
The radio is back down to its normal volume, and it appears as though Mariah is finally ready to speak to us. Of course, now we’re not sure we’re ready to speak to her. What just happened is completely alien to us. Minds are still scurrying about trying to piece together that—whatever it is we just observed with Mariah with that one half-remembered lecture given over a century ago.
“Ahh!” Mariah says, as though she just realized something. “Please, don’t be scared for a bit.”
Disturbance comes from a few notes of essence being spent and suddenly we’re feeling…fine. Calm, even. Like we [Mariah and I] can just talk about this like two fully-fledged celestials and like maybe we should. It’s not that sickly artificial relief she tried to pin on us back when she first explained the arrangement. We don’t feel anything at all in particular except the sense that what just happened is somehow fine and normal (It’s not, we know this intellectually. We just temporarily aren’t feeling the emotional repercussions of that knowledge). We feel like everything is fine and ordinary and manageable. We haven’t felt like this since…since before we were trapped.
Does she mean to help us? Is this helping us?
This is new. The only positive emotion she’s ever attempted to resonate us with has been Love, and that one we’ve always bounced.
“So, what do we need to talk about? Your—” we can’t come up with a neutral-sounding, non-dissonant word. “—what you just did?”
(We are speaking very calmly. Like we watched Mariah do a cool skateboard trick, instead of something horrifying.)
Mariah sighs. “My new body modification, yes.” We feel ourselves being picked up and moved.
“Why?”
“A divine whim brought about by your suggestion.” She does sound a touch smug here when she answers. This is a Habbalite who has regained control over her surroundings, while she delays a Kyriotate’s impending panic attack. “You made a good point. The more context you have, the more useful you’ll be when you overhear things. You know how to stay quiet and you know better than to escape. So when I’m here in Hell and not otherwise occupied, there’s no reason to keep you locked up. And maybe you’ll be less bored this way.”
Her voice is very close, like her mouth is right next to us. Mariah is probably holding us right up to her face. We wonder what she sees when she looks into our crystal. Is it just an ordinary looking gemstone? Or is there some evidence of us in there?
(Yes, let’s distract our minds with completely useless speculation. That sounds like a good plan.)
“I’m not bored.”
“No. You were petrified right now, and you’ll probably be scared again once the Calmness wears off. But I meant in general.” Her voice goes higher, not in pitch, but in a point-of-origin sense, as she lowers us down. “Anyway, no one else really pays attention to body mods, so I thought of that as a way to carry around your catcher and keep it sufficiently hidden. Think of it like you using me as a host. It’s not that different right? Except that I still have control of my body.”
She says this as though she sees no reason for us to be horrified. Not by the concept she just presented to us. Not from what we just witnessed when the radio was turned up. We’re not yet, not anymore. Though once her Resonance wears off, we surely will be.
We [as represented by the force catcher] click into a setting built and measured especially for us. There’s the sound of something else closing and latching into place. Ambient sounds are a touch quieter than they were a second ago, but not as muffled as our usual cage makes them.
“How’s that?” The voice comes from around us and a bit above us. Actually, it’s a nearly two-hundred seventy degree wall of sound that surrounds us from every direction but what we’ll call directly in front of us. We’re probably embedded somewhere inside Mariah. Sternum maybe, where a human body’s clavicles would meet. “It’s just like having a host, isn’t it?”
(It’s not! It’s so not!)
“There are differences,” we say. For one, we have never had to physically hurt a host before to ride around in it. And the idea of doing so is—it’s not us. It’s not any kind of Kyriotate thing.
We want to object. We want to say “This is worse than our usual cage. Put us back,” because parts of us hate the very idea of this so much. But, we can’t say that without dissonance because when Mariah moves about the room to clean up her mess we move with her. And it is better. We savor how the echoes change and how our kinesthetic sense has use again. When Mariah goes to pick up that tool she dropped on the floor earlier (not thinking about how it was most recently used) we can sense ourself getting lower as well.
Despite ourself, the new sensation makes us a little giddy.
Then, Mariah takes us over to the door.
“Can you stay quiet, Kira? Unless I give the signal it’s okay.” We hear the usual sequence of taps, from the sound of her fingertip hitting some hard bit of plastic just outside of us.
We hum against her, the way we might try to communicate in the Angelic language while inhabiting a corporeal form. Complex statements might be out, but through testing out a few tones, we find that simple ideas (“Yes,” “No,” “Huh?” “What the ever-loving fuck?”) seem to be relatively straightforward.
We hum yes.
“Good.” We hear the lock she engaged earlier reverse, and the sound of a door handle being pushed down, not from across the room as is by now familiar to us, but immediately from below. Because when Mariah leaves this time, we go out with her.
Our world has been so small and dark in the several months (years?) we’ve spent captured. It’s consisted of only one stone, one room, one demon, but now, finally, as Mariah steps out and the door closes behind her we can sense our world getting a touch bigger and we can see (Metaphorically, of course; we’re still completely blind) a thin sliver of light.