Chapter Text
When Mariah returns to deliver her half of the traditional greeting, she’s in good spirits, and why wouldn’t she be? Unlike her last outing, there’s no tight deadline or a sense of impending doom looming. Her hunt was successful; another quota was filled, and she now gets to spend some time in the company of her pet Kyriotate and only friend (us).
That is, she’s in good spirits until we fail to complete our half of the ritual, and instead say: “We need to talk.”
Her voice immediately loses its bubble. “What’s going on?”
We’ve taken plenty of time to mentally sketch out the most likely overarching scheme of one pinched-voiced Free Lilim and taken surprisingly little time to debate whether to tell Mariah of them. Sure, we have that one nagging self who wouldn’t mind our captor falling to the Game—sees it as just revenge and our most likely route to freedom, even—but the overwhelming majority of us prefer to warn her for a myriad of reasons.
“Remember that one Free Lilim you bumped into on the way to deliver your report to the Field Testing department? The one who offered to mail it out, so you wouldn’t have to go in person while you were under Bandmate Resonance?”
“Choirmate resonance, but, yes, I remember.”
“Well, that run-in wasn’t an accident. That Lilim is out to get a hook on you.”
“Lilim are always after hooks. So what?”
We sigh with three or four mouths. There’s ambiguity ahead in this conversation, and we lack the skills in either Helltongue or Angelic to do better than muddle through those knowledge gaps. We know a few basic facts. The rest is reasonable speculation based on past overheard conversations from the Game, a resulting guess at what will be asked of Mariah should a hook get set, and—more importantly—what her chances of surviving it might be.
We start with a fact. “The ‘so-what’ is that she’s under pressure to get that hook on you by the time the next the Game audit arrives.”
“Oh? Huh. Well. Tizzy usually keeps the Game off my back, and if she won’t this time, then I’ll cope. They’ve gotten a bit antsy about the Discord before, but there’s only so much a minor hook can get out of me.”
Wait. Mariah is acting way too casual about this. Shouldn’t she be more paranoid? It’s the Game. They’re like Judgment, but worse.
(Judgment at least has to follow the rules it sets for the rest of Heaven, and more besides. Even actual Angels know that the Game is just one giant loophole.)
“Except this same Lilim also worked out an arrangement with some middle manager looking to get rid of a demonling intern once it fledges. There’s a replacement for you all lined up. Do you really want to count on your supervisor’s protection to get you out of this?”
Mariah taps her nails on the table, one after another in presumable contemplation. Are we getting through to her? Or is she just looking to deflect? “Who says I’ll need it? If I’m stuck with a minor hook, I’ll just deal with it. What’s the point of worring about it? It’s just one more test to face.”
Deflection it is. Spare us the Habbalite obsession with tests and strength.
“Maybe you should worry. Do you have any idea how they’re going to use that Geas? Because I have a guess, if you want to hear it.”
“Sure, give me your hypothesis.”
“They’re going to use you to get into the secured area. You know, the place where my Choirmates are, along with other Heavenly Angels? The place that’s officially off-limits to the Game? And when that happens, who do you think is going to end up caught between your Prince—”
“Archangel.”
“Between your Superior and the Game. And Mariah, that Geas won’t be a one and done situation.” We are not drawing this picture out clearly enough, but maybe a bit of second-hand experience might help. “I have (not had, Cole deserves the present tense up until our forces dissolve and beyond) a friend up in Heaven who was put through a similar situation. That one little task they give turns into blackmail material which they’ll use to push you into a more serious betrayal. And so on until there’s no escape. Either your Pri—(Now is not the time for divinity arguments!)—Superior catches you in flagrant betrayal, or the blackmail itself leads you into a situation you can’t survive.”
Mariah taps her nails for a few seconds—in a thoughtful sequence rather than an adamant unison. “That’s a lot to conclude from a few overheard conversations. You’re not even sure, are you? Your tones would be different if you were. More precise. Less speculative.”
Language continues to not be our native medium. Maybe this conversation would have gone better if we had the skills to lay out a convincing formal argument. Maybe we should have taken oratory classes—or even just read a few books on rhetoric in our spare time.
(Our Destiny sister is going to be so smug if we ever admit that to her.)
We decide to skip the attempt to rephrase. If Mariah won’t take the core of our argument seriously, then saying it fancier won’t help us get through to her. “It’s a logical enough conclusion. More importantly, if you don’t want to get caught up in a cycle of blackmail, then you need to make your escape before that Lilim gets that initial hook.”
“Oh. Is that what this is about?” The chair scoots out, and Mariah’s footsteps shuffle out a pace across the room. Her mind is working overtime, and not in the direction we hoped it would. “You want me to run away and take you with me.” Her voice approaches us again, accusatory. “What happened to waiting until I was ready?”
“I am willing to wait until you’re ready. The machinations of your fellow demons, on the other hand, don’t give a damn about your schedule.”
(Damn? Should we be using ‘damn’ here? Or is ‘bless’ the more accurate expression?)
Mariah sighs, like we’re the one being less than sensible here. “First of all, I’m an angel. Second, there’s always machinations down here in Hell, exactly zero of which have gotten me killed yet. Stop being so paranoid.”
(We are being sensible—above and beyond the usual Creationer standards, even.)
“Would you at least pick up a pair of sunglasses, or tinted goggles, or just something that covers your eyes? A Lilim is out to get a Geas on you, and let’s just both agree it wouldn’t be a good thing to just let her.”
Mariah scoffs. “I’ll be fine. I’m not an idiot.” Her footsteps shuffle away from us. “Anyway, I’m heading out to take care of some errands. See if you can avoid fabricating another conspiracy while I’m out.” The door opens and slams shut behind Mariah.
We’re frustrated all to Hell—but not back—and this time we don’t even have Mariah’s resonance to blame. This is all old-fashioned angel-to-demon social interaction here. Or perhaps it’s a just a variation on a typical but particularly annoying Kyriotate-host issue. We are trying to be helpful. Mariah is not letting us be helpful. No matter how much we wish it were otherwise, we can’t help everyone we’d like to. Sometimes, we’re the wrong angel for the job.
(We are the only angel for this job, unfortunately.)
(Fortunately.)
Sometimes, our host just doesn’t want to be saved.
That principle might especially apply to demons.
—
While Mariah’s out, we try to look at the issue from her perspective. Maybe if we can understand her reluctance, we’ll find a way to be more convincing.
Most of us think Mariah shouldn’t need convincing. Even without the threat of Game blackmail swinging over her head, her life in Hell sucks anyway. More than that, it promises to be short. No matter how clever (or lucky) Mariah has been, someday Heaven will catch up to her again, and what are the chances that the next group will let her get off with only Trauma to show for the run-in?
(Not to mention, having had experience with both Heaven and Hell firsthand now, we consider Heaven the better choice by far.)
From (most of) our perspectives, Mariah should already have one foot out the door, even if it’s just to go Renegade. She should be asking us for our help. Instead, we’re practically begging her to take the danger ahead seriously to no avail.
Why?
You’ve trusted our judgment before, Mariah, why are you being stubborn with us now?
—
Mariah returns to the room in a much better mood. We wish we could say the same. The third of us who are doing better are balanced out by the just-under-half of us who are doing worse. She bounces towards the table. “Guess what I picked up?” The bubble has returned to her voice.
“A pair of decent sunglasses?” Oh, wouldn’t it be lovely to have some sign she’s taking our warning seriously.
“Even better! A ticket to one of the Robot Wars semi-finals! And it’s a good seat! Not one of the nosebleeds.”
This is not what we need right now.
“I thought we could go together! You wouldn’t even need your own ticket! It’ll be fun! You’ve been stuck in here for weeks. No wonder you’re getting paranoid.”
On one hand, Robot Wars does sound like the kind of relatively harmless break in the monotony we’d normally be all for. On the other hand, the Game is set up to corner our Habbie, and she needs to pay attention to that very real danger. On the other, other hand, we don’t exactly have the power to lock Mariah in here with us until she understands that simple fact.
(And if we did, would that even help?)
And then another thought occurs to us. Robot Wars is a big event here. At least a quarter of the conversations we’ve overheard while Mariah was out involved demons talking about their entries. A significant portion of the rest involved finding ways of sneaking in without paying the exorbitant ticket prices.
“How much did you pay for this ticket? Do you owe anyone for it?” Please, please tell us she didn’t get Geas-hooked just to have a night out.
Mariah rapidly clicks her nails on the table like she’s not the one being stubborn right now. “Relax, no Lilim were involved with the procurement of this ticket.”
This seems suspicious. “So then, how did you get it?”
“Apparently the tournament entrance fee covers the cost of a ticket for the those who lose the preliminary round. I traded an Impudite most of my Essence and a pair of calipers for his comp ticket. Semi-final C usually has all the least-popular categories, anyway, so tickets tend to run cheaper the others.”
We’re still skeptical, but we shove that thought off to less-occupied minds, so we can focus on what really matters: convincing Mariah to get out of here. “Don’t you get it, the Game will be after you. And you want to watch robots battle each other?”
“Oh sure, why not? The Game will arrive at the same time whether I go or not. Knowing the kinds of bribes they usually ask for, I’ll probably just have to upgrade their Will Shackles in between Tizzy’s jobs.”
(Did her voice just waver? Or are we hearing things?)
We ignore it. “So, what would it take to get you to believe that is not what is going on and that maybe you should be looking towards an exit?”
Mariah hesitates, almost like she’s taking our question seriously. “I need evidence.”
“But I’ve passed on the evidence I have. If you don’t believe that, then I don’t know how else I could prove it without just letting for you to fall into that Lilim’s trap.”
“Not that kind of evidence. Show me why I should leave.”
Oh.
That’s the perspective we missed. We mistook Mariah’s logical-sounding disbelief for actual logic and—more importantly—actual disbelief. We have experience debating (mostly recreationally) with Elohim, and we’ve presented the arguments that could possibly convince one of them. But Mariah isn’t an Elohite. (Yet.) She doesn’t want the logical argument. She wants the emotional one that will push her into acting.
“Shouldn’t your survival be good enough reason? What do you even have here that’s worth getting tangled up in the Game for?”
We [both] know the answer to this. We [I] wish we didn’t. We know one thing we could say to get Mariah to leave and take us with her, if she believed us. If we could say so truthfully. If we could force ourselves to lie and take the note of dissonance, just for this.
(Maybe the dissonance would be worth it, for the right result.)
“I like what I have right here.” Mariah emphatically taps a nail twice on the box that keeps us imprisoned. “You can’t blame me for wanting to keep what little I have here for as long as I can.”
(Oh yes, we absolutely can.)
(We are so tired of trying to befriend someone who sees us as a possession.)
“Nothing lasts forever,” we say, and barely keep the bitterness out of that singular voice. Why should we hide it? Mariah can look down at her her little ring and see our true feelings broadcast anytime she cares to. “So, why put yourself at risk?”
“You keep telling me it’s my choice. Well, you don’t have to like what I choose. And I don’t expect you to understand my reasoning. I forget Heaven angels don’t have the same divine whims we Habbalah are blessed with.”
(No, we don’t, thank God.)
After some silence, Mariah says, “I did pick up some blessed sunglasses while I was out, if that makes you feel better.”
We’re not sure if it does.
—
Given the option between a night out at the robot fights and moping around in an empty supply closet, we’ve chosen the robot fight. The ticket is already paid for, so we might as well take Mariah up on her offer and enjoy the break in monotony.
(And maybe, if we tag along, she’ll be more apt to listen to us later.)
“So, why is this the cheap semi-final?” We ask once the noise on the ground floor hits that level where the source of our voice gets lost in the crowd.
Mariah makes a heroic effort to answer as she squeezes her way through the packed lobby. “The divisions matched up—ooof—for this semi-final are more specialized. Ah—watch it! Everyone only really cares—Ah! Out of my way!—about the winner of the main championship. And since no bot from either the aquatic or the field-approved—ah!—divisions ever makes it past the first finale round, only the real enthusiasts—bless it!—care about those categories, unless their bots are competing in them.”
“Still seems pretty popular.”
“Cheap tickets. Ow—and you should see what it’s like the other nights. Tonight, there’s only about—ah—a 10% chance of trampling.”
Our minds boggle at that. We know what the usual crowds can be like on an ordinary day. What Mariah fights her way through now is a whole different level of magnitude, and then somehow there’s a level of crowd beyond that? Is max crowd size something Technology even wants to innovate? Shouldn’t that be a Media thing?
(Not that we haven’t seen some truly impressive crowds in Heaven. They just tend to be—less aggressive.)
“The other battles here—ow!—are part of the Tandem Team showdowns, ahh!—and those are always exciting—watch where you’re going!—but all of the big name champions are solo bots.” Mariah slows down, and the crowd around us settles into a singular—but still noisy—order. Mariah continues on with her explanation. “Even casual fans will know about Beepo Beepboop or Rocket Dan. But Doctor Jay Kill and Mystery Hide have won the Tandem Team Showdown the last three years running, and no one even gives a shit about them. Their semi-final matches last year weren’t even televised! I had to tune into the radio.”
(We vaguely remember this. At least, we remember the brief period without the Techsynth blaring on in the background.)
“Your ticket.” The gruff voice lacks affect. So, probably a Djinn, or something that’ll approach a Djinn once it fledges.
Mariah shows something to Gruff Voice. It’s too noisy to figure out what.
“Section H. Row 12. You’ll be in the splash zone. One Essence for a poncho.”
Mariah sighs. An Essence is spent and a poncho is handed over. She then walks through a turnstile (a series of clicks) and then clarifies her decision for our sake. “The ponchos look stupid, and my seat is barely in the splash zone, but I get enough unfortunate liquids on me as it is just dropping back to my Heart. Besides, I like this shirt.”
“So, you’ll wear the poncho to maybe avoid getting splashed, but you left the sunglasses behind?” Yes, we [Mariah and I] argued about that while she was getting changed earlier. She had the time to change from one button up shirt to (we presume) a fancier button-up shirt which is what she now covers with a stupid-looking (her words) poncho of crinkly plastic, but she didn’t have any time to grab her shades on the way out.
“That? I told you, sunglasses look suspicious indoors.”
“Why bother buying a pair in the first place, if you’re not going to use them?”
“Because—” Whatever immediate answer comes to mind, Mariah discards. “Because I might as well be prepared? I’ll put them on when I plan on running into a Lilim.” Mariah steps aside to pause while other ticket-holders (and gate-jumpers) moves past her. “Huh. I’m short on Essence. Looks like I’ll have to skip the concessions.”
“Are these concessions anything like the cafeteria food?”
“Basically a saltier and greasier version of it, yes.”
“Doesn’t sound like much of a loss.”
“It’s not, really. The drinks aren’t bad though. The sugar and caffeine more than make up for the mouthfeel and the taste.”
“Mouthfeel is not a concept that should apply to beverages.”
(Seriously, what is with demons and their beverages? Can’t a liquid just be a liquid?)
Mariah neither agrees nor argues with our statement. Instead, she shuffles her way towards the seats and shoos away the demonling pack camped out there. Around, us we hear the sounds of spectators. They’re a grumbling, grumpy bunch—not what we’d expect to hear at a sporting event.
“This is supposed to be fun, right?” We ask, suddenly wary.
“This is the section reserved for the losers of the preliminaries. I hear things can get…personal.”
“Have you ever entered one of these?”
Mariah scoffs. “By the time I was good enough technician to build devices from scratch, I spent the time between Tizzy’s repair jobs on a more important project.” One of her nails taps at the spot in her chest just in front of us. Yes, we get it. “But it seems like anyone else here with even the remotest interest in robots or fame has. Do they have robot battles in—where you’re from? Big tournaments like this or even just underground one-on-one matches.”
We actually don’t know. Heaven is as large and complex and infinite as Hell—maybe even more so for us, who have actually seen more variations of Heaven than we will ever (hopefully) see of Hell—but we’ve never actually attended or heard of any robot battle tournaments. But we also have a hard time imagining them not existing. If enough angels (or blessed souls) were interested in dueling robots, someone would set something up. Surely.
“I don’t know of any off-hand, but—”
We cut our answer off at the sound of tinkling metal. By this point, we can immediately identify Wind Chime Habbie (we know his body mods aren’t wind chimes, but the designation has officially stuck) and we know enough about his social life to identify the probable owner of the humanish footsteps following not far behind him.
Uh oh. We hum enough of a warning that Mariah merely stiffens rather than goes into a fully-fledged flinch when the two Habbies decide to make their presence known to her.
“Oh, hi! Fancy meeting you here! I guess you’re the one Jeff sold his ticket too.” Not-Wind-Chime-Habbie has a chirpy, acidic voice, and she takes the seat to the far side of Mariah.
“Nice poncho.” Wind Chime takes the near side, effectively sandwiching Mariah between them. Even without having eavesdropped on the other two’s social dynamic (they have sex), this move is a power play as obvious as overt resonance use would be. “Afraid of getting a little toxic sludge on you?”
“Excuse me for wanting to keep my clothes clean. Some of us don’t have access to the Laundry Imps.” Mariah voice contains a hint of an eye-roll that belies her body’s trembles around us. She was not expecting these two Habbies to show up nor is she happy to see them.
(Neither are we. Kyriotate-host co-dependence is never cute, but her fellow Fake Angels can get the fuck away from her.)
“Look at you being all practical and focused. You’re such a workaholic, it’s a wonder you even made it down here.” The plastic rustles on the shoulder opposite Chirpy, and we think that Habbie has actually put an arm around Mariah.
“Relax and enjoy this a little bit. These are going to be great fights. Judy the Judge Slayer will absolutely avenge Smitey for us.”
“You entered…Smitey into the Field-approved division? Do either of you even have vessels?”
“It’s Smitetheweak,” Chirpy snaps back—though way too gently compared to her usual manner with Mariah. “And corporeal efficacy doesn’t actually matter. Field-approved is just a catchy name for the C-tier bots.”
“And ours is B-tier at least!” Wind Chime adds.
We make a snorting hum that could almost be laughter. Mariah has more corporeal qualifications than either of these two, and while neither of her Bandmates will admit it, they know it too.
Mariah quickly picks up on that fact and the slight social shift it provides. Her trembling has gone down—not stopped, just stabilized to a level slightly below nervous prey animal—as she realizes that she has the social standing to play the Habbalite Arrogance game with them. “Maybe the functional difference between a Hell-based bot and a bot that can actually do Corporeal work doesn’t matter this year, but I hear qualifications next year will require an Earth-based demo for that category. All the good Techs are already doing it. Did you see the Earth-side demo footage with Spearendipity?” She snaps her fingers. “Now, that was impressive.”
Chirpy almost growls at that. (We wonder if that’s ol’ Smitey’s first round opponent, there.) Wind Chime doesn’t actually say “later” to the increasingly irate Habbie, but the extra crinkle when his hand lands Chirpy’s wrist conveys the same message.
“Spearendipity is a hack.” Wind Chime says smoothly over anything Chirpy might have said. “It only won because it was lucky.”
Usually, these two Habbalah would have Mariah on her hands and knees in the grip of some debilitating emotion by now. The fact that they haven’t yet, even with (possibly deliberate) provocation on Mariah’s part tells a story. They are on good behavior right now. That worries us. Habbies (demons in general) only do that when given sufficient reason.
We need to figure out why before Mariah gets hurt.
—
Despite the fact that everything in Hell is inherently terrible, the event itself would be perfectly fine, enjoyable even, were it not for our added company. The announcers—one impossibly perky Impudite from Media and an equally enthusiastic Balseraph of Technology—provide a detailed running commentary that describes the action almost vividly enough to make up for our visual impairment.
(We wonder if they do the radio broadcast. Probably not. Talent like that is wasted in Hell.)
Mariah, under the pretense of demonstrating her superior knowledge of Corporeal mechanics and Robot Wars to our unwanted companions, fills in the missing pieces—mostly spiels on obscure historical rulings and pointed critiques of the Balseraph’s technical assessments.
(That said, we’re still not sure what happened during that last bout between Synthetic Cyanide and the Junkyard Jackal or how that toxic mist qualifies as Corporeally plausible. Maybe that’s where the obscure historical rulings factor in.)
“Bullshit! That’s bullshit!” Mariah makes a crinkly push against the Habbies as she tries to stand. “There’s no way that would work on Earth. Show us the data! Show us the data!”
In her excitement, she’s stopped trembling. Has she forgotten that she’s a target? Or that she’s surrounded by demons (denizens of Hell) who surely mean her harm, even if neither of us have figured out exactly how yet?
The battle between Judy the Judge Slayer and Spearendipity is an especially fun one to listen in on. Mariah’s voice is particularly animated while she discusses the footage of her favorite—how the retractable spears are actually a clever engineering trick that provides offensive power while also maintaining distance between it and Judy’s circular sawblades. Clearly, she’s having some much-needed fun, and she could not have picked a more perfect way to annoy the other Punishers if she tried. Any Elohite would be proud. Those of us who aren’t irritated with Mariah ourselves are delighted.
(Well, for some definition of delighted. Let’s not get carried away.)
A series of clicks and radio static sounds out from Wind Chime’s approximate waist level. They would be easy to miss over the spectators’ jeers unless the one paying attention had developed pinpoint listening skills, which we have. We draw more of our focus away from Spearendipity’s dramatic deathblow and towards Mariah’s unwanted companions.
Why are they here?
(To see the fights.)
Yes, but to sit with Mariah specifically?
(Their tickets were in this section.)
Yes, but split up? With Mariah between them?
We hone in on the sounds Mariah’s poncho makes and the motions they imply. One Habbalite has been holding her down with a camaraderie-imitating gesture. Another Habbalite rests a hand atop first one's, adding an occasional extra rustle whenever the first one seems ready to drop the act in response to Mariah’s provocations. All the while, Mariah seems oblivious to the subtle communication going on literally behind her back—understandably so as she tries to enjoy the fights and ignore the unwanted contact. But we catch it.
Clicks, no static. Wind Chime sent a response.
That can’t be good, especially considering recent context. Whatever has these two here glued to Mariah’s side involves a third demon (at least) elsewhere, doing something or having done something that requires signals.
(We hope it’s not the Lilim.)
We hum our own improvised signal to Mariah, and pray she catches on to our vibrations before we have to make too much noise.
Mariah’s posture changes slightly but immediately. She doesn’t quite know how to interpret our signal, nor can we clarify right now, but she’s understands that we sent her one, and hopefully that’s enough for her to reach the logical conclusion regarding at least one source of danger.
The hostility from either of other Punishers doesn’t come in all at once. It starts out as a lack of mollification from Wind Chime to Chirpy whenever Mariah fires a verbal shot. Chirpy’s tone gradually takes on a more acidic quality as her replies gradually fall in line with expected demonic norms.
Okay, so that signal Wind Chime received wasn’t a sign to act, but a sign that an act could be dropped.
It’s during the middle of a Tandem Team match (Gremlin Grinder and IMP-ervious versus 02-Hero and Hero-01) that Chirpy’s composure finally breaks. By now, it’s clear to everyone who cares that Mariah deliberately cheers for the opposite teams, and there’s nothing innocent about her remarks on IMP-ervious’ clear defense deficiencies.
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” Chirpy/Acidic finally drops the last pretense of a friendly facade. “And stop cheering for the losers!”
(Not all of Mariah’s picks have won, but most of them have.)
(Not the point.)
“I have every right to cheer for whichever bots I want.” Mariah snaps back. She tries for arrogance, but the tremble has returned, and it leaks to her voice.
Acidic is having none of it. There’s some soft crinkling around Mariah’s shoulders and then a sudden thud as a hand presses down on Mariah’s sternum—exactly where Mariah keeps us.
“You have no right to act like you’re equal to us. You are a pathetic and broken little angel who should be left to a pack of feral Calabim.” The poncho crinkles more as her fingers feel out the edges of Mariah’s body mod. We resist the urge to hum out. Two layers of material separate Acidic from the mod that hides us—but we do not want her investigating further.
Mariah struggles back against Acidic, but to no avail. She doesn’t have the Celestial forces to throw her off, and we don’t have the ability to lend her our own.
(Hypothetically, if we broke out right now, we could even out the struggle between Mariah and the two Habbalah. Or, at least, we could until the actual Angel in Hell gets noticed, at which point, our presence becomes of negative help.)
“You’re a shame to the Choir.” Acidic’s voice has gone deadly soft. “And don’t think any fancy little body mod can save you from that fact.”
(Not for lack of trying.)
“No matter how much pain you can withstand, that Discord will keep you a Pitiful, worthless, excuse of an angel, and everyone knows it. Everyone sees it on you. So, stop pretending like your corporeal experience and mediocre repair skills mean anything more than imp shit, because all those do is keep you useful until you hit your final breaking point.”
Acidic eases up on the pressure, but she doesn’t take her hand off Mariah yet. We hear the Essence she pours into her next move—Resonance usage most likely. Mariah’s trembles grow worse. Whatever hit, hit her hard and deep. “Everyone knows you’re disposable. How long do you think it’ll be before someone decides to take the trash out? It won’t be too much longer, I bet.”
With a vicious laugh, Acidic turns her attention back to the action. Mariah is irrelevant to her now, just garbage for someone else to take care of. The participants for the next fight (Aquatic division, Barium Deep versus the Narwhal Containment Unit) are being brought out. Around us, we feel Mariah attempts to cope through whatever emotion Acidic threw at her, but her whole body shakes around us.
Mariah won’t cope. That certainty reverberates deep throughout our crystal. She barely registers the start of the next match; we can’t expect her think through anything further ahead than that. It’s up to us to figure out this situation for her.
What can we figure out?
Well, to start, we can figure out what we can’t figure out. We’re still blind and stuck in a singular location. We can divide our thought processes (one mind on the trembling, catatonic Mariah, one mind on each of the other Punishers, a third on the bout, and a few minds to spare for other matters), but not our presence. We don’t know who Wind Chime is in contact with (We can make guesses, but we can’t be usefully sure), or what the demon (assumed) on the other end does while Mariah is usefully elsewhere.
So, let’s focus on what we do know.
We know Mariah was sold a ticket to a well-publicized event that would take her out of her workroom at a known time and date. We know the Habbies showed up and then sat in seats on either side of Mariah when logic and social connections should suggest a different arrangement. Therefore, we can reasonably conclude that the Habbies are here (in part) to keep Mariah in a known location until preparations were met.
Mariah barely lasts into the start of the fight. One bot has gone under the liquid—or should anyway (Wind Chime chants “Submerge, Submerge”) while the other has done some kind of maneuver that sends a rain of that same liquid (we won’t assume it’s water) down a short distance from us. Mariah stands up and strides through the row like she’s not about to burst into uncontrollable sobs.
We half expect one of the Habbies to stop her, but Wind Chime remains transfixed on the match, and Acidic only snickers when Mariah stumbles past her.
Of course. Preparations have been met, and now it doesn’t matter to them when Mariah leaves. Except they prefer it to be sooner rather than later. Does it matter to them where she leaves to?
Maybe, maybe not. There might be a trap waiting for Mariah somewhere, or they could just be glad to be rid of her. Let’s assume the former. If there was a trap, where would it be? We follow our recreation of Mariah’s likely route out of here. It could be anywhere on the way: the concession stand, the cafeteria, the lobby with its mass of people, the elevator, the office floor. But the most likely answer is the most obvious.
When Mariah is resonated like this, where does she want to go? Somewhere private.
Back to her workroom.
Our minds snap into that united certainty we get when events in two locations merge into a single full composition. That’s where the trap is. We don’t know its nature, if the danger is immediate or delayed, but we do know that we can’t let Mariah go back until the resonance wears and she’s able to think clearly.
(Clearly by Habbalite standards, anyway.)
We hum out a warning while Mariah fights against the crowd to follow the expected route. Slow down. Listen to us. But what’s our small vibration in Mariah’s chest against the depth of this artificial Panic taking over her. We know the feeling from Mariah’s own weak resonance. What mush does she feel to get it from a Bandmate who is better (more effective) with her Resonance and who put Essence into making it stick.
No. Hums won’t work here.
“Please proceed to the outside.” We tune our voice to be more machine-like and switch our Helltongue cadence to mimic the one used by recorded intercom announcements. The ‘please’ is perhaps a touch too polite for one of the ever-present Security drones, but we do well enough that we’ll blend into the soundscape for anyone not already aware of us.
That misplaced voice of ours redirects Mariah’s panicked attention towards us. She comes to as complete a standstill as she can while the perpetual crowd pushes her this way and that. That’s fine. A temporary freeze suits the situation better than continued flight in the wrong direction.
“Details will be provided once a new location has been secured.”
Our Habbie starts to move again, a sharp turn into the flow of the crowd and away from the elevators. The sounds change as she leaves the indoors behind. Echoes dampen then diminish, and actual rain—likely the acid kind—patters down against the pavement.
(Good thing Mariah picked up a poncho.)
She freezes again.
Right. She’s still under effect of the resonance, for a few more minutes at least.
We decide on a different voice to mimic. Multiple voices, actually. One shifts from the brisk instruction of a building security drone to the cool affirmation of a self-help recording, while another chimes in with the slight background hiss of cassette tape playback.
(Mimicry itself isn’t inherently Dissonant. Good to know.)
“Breathe in 2, 3, 4. Hold, 2, 3, 4. Out 2, 3, 4.”
We repeat the instructions. This time, Mariah follows along, using those voluntary breaths to bring the rest of her form’s reactions under control. We keep repeating them until the trembling around us stops.
“Resonance wore,” Mariah mutters. “I’m fine now.”
We choose not to debate that last bit. “Please proceed to a safe location.”
“But you told me not to—”
We go back to the brisk instructional tone. It’s slightly out of place now, but hopefully not so much so that it draws outside attention to Mariah. “Please proceed to an uncompromised location. Details will be provided once a new location has been secured.”
“Understood.”
—
The safe place Mariah guides us to takes us into another building, up several flights of stairs, back outside, up a ladder of dubious stability, and finally to what we assume is an unused rooftop space. On most sides, we’re surrounded by industrial-grade grinds and clanks, while signs of traffic and habitation only occasionally waft up from below. Behind us are various indoor noises filtered through cinder block walls and barely perceptible even to us.
“Happy?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Now tell me, what the fuck was that about earlier?”
We summarize the situation in the arena as we understand it: the signals we picked up from Wind Chime, Chirpy keeping Mariah pinned down and then resonating her into a panic, the suspicion that a trap was set up in her workroom while she was out watching the fights.
Mariah sighs. “First the rumors you overheard while I was out, and now this. You are a paranoid menace, Kira. You know that, right?”
“One of us needs to be. And right now, it’s not you.”
Mariah slides down the wall into a sitting position. Her nails scratch circles atop a hard surface. We can’t tell the flavor of this silence, and right now, we wonder if an argument would be preferable.
(At least she’s sufficiently low on Essence that we don’t have to worry about her resonating us.)
“You’re probably right,” Mariah says at last. “There are probably a number of traps just waiting for me to walk into them. This is Hell, after all. The majority of its celestials are demons, and it’s not like my Choirmates are much better. It’s simply that I don’t care anymore. I’ve made up my mind.”
She pauses here for dramatic effect.
(It’s working.)
“I’m going to let the Game get me.”
(What? Why?)
“What?! Why?!”
“What do I have to lose? My lifespan has had a time limit ever since my research career ended. Remember what I told you about Tizzy’s assistants? How most of them only last two or three years. If it’s not a failure to meet quota that does me in, then it would be capture and Force disbandment from the Heaven Angels, which has already almost happened to me once. And Zarielle is right: I am a broken Habbalite. That’s obvious to anybody who gets close enough to see my Discord. There’s no test I can pass that’ll move me to a safer and more prestigious assignment.
(Not while she’s attached to Hell. But isn’t that what we’re trying to help her with?)
“So what if the Game wants to me to inform on Tizzy? Why shouldn’t I go along with it? She’s a horrible boss. She deserves the betrayal. Sure, I become the Game’s disposable pawn, but how is that a change from the status quo? At least this way, I can pass some of my suffering on to her.”
(She makes a point. What do we care if the Game makes life more difficult for the demons who run this place? Maybe we should be cheering that on. It’s the host who makes the choices, right?)
“It’ll be good for you too, Kira. I won’t betray you, even if the Game tortures me. I swear I won’t!” Her voice is thick with emotion, and we believe she actually intends this. “You’ll stay safe until someone opens that box and breaks your catcher. Then, you’ll be free of this place. Isn’t that what you’ve wan—”
“Stop that.” Our voices speak in a quavering unison even as the crystal’s structure locks us in place as firmly as ever. “We don’t want your sacrifice. We’ve never wanted it. We’ve never wanted you to suffer because of us. That’s—that’s not what we’re about.”
Mariah goes still. “Then what do you want from me, if not your freedom?”
“We do want our freedom. Hell is fucking terrible. It’s banal when it’s not actively horrific. Our every action puts us in danger of getting caught, and we’re not sure whether to credit God or Lucifer, but it’s only through some kind of miracle that nobody has found out about us yet.” We pause to give a multi-part sigh. “But even more than our freedom—we don’t want our presence here to have come to nothing. And if you sacrifice yourself with intention to save us—which isn’t even a guaranteed salvation—then that’s what will happen.”
“There’s no such thing as safety for me anymore, Kira. Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to tell me?”
“No such thing as safety, but there are risks you can survive. Risks that will lead you somewhere better. And I want that for you. And not just for you alone, but for…all the ways you might end up making the Symphony better.”
(Okay, our singular voice has returned.)
“But why? Why does it even matter to you? Why can’t you let me choose this and take the chance to save yourself?”
“Because I did those calculations a long time ago,” we say with false and bitter cheer. “Sure, if some hapless employee here with an engineering side hobby tries to scrap your device for parts, I might escape—if I’m lucky. But it’s just as likely that the Game will confiscate it as part of their investigation. Or maybe Tizzy’s next assistant will find me instead. What happens next in either of those scenarios? The Game tortures me until I either die or Fall. Your replacement finds me and hands me over as part of their quota, and you’ve been very, very vivid about what happens in some of those experiments.”
“But you’ll have—”
“If you sacrifice yourself, Mariah, then what good will my time here have done? Not a single bit. What if I do escape? What does this time in my life become except some terrible void in my history—months and years that could have been spent actually helping people instead of…I don’t know…making missing supply recovery a little easier for someone who winds up dead anyway?”
“You’ve done more than that.” Mariah says vehemently, “Without you I’d have—”
“And what good does any of that do, once you’ve sacrificed yourself on the altar of Infernal politics? Why is going out as a pawn of the Game preferable to trying for redemption? Or even just going out as a Renegade. At least then you’ve made a stand.”
Mariah hesitates. Her fingernails tap out the rhythm of her thoughts. “You know what my corporeal-side job is. Do you really think Heaven would show me mercy? They could just as easily let me burn up in a Tether without a second thought.”
“Yes.” We say without hesitation because this is a Truth that goes down the the very first Forces that Mother cohered together to form us. “If you repented, you would be forgiven. And if you walked into a divine tether with rescued angels in tow, that gesture alone would be…” We trail off to look for the right word. “Immense.”
“Everything we could want.” Another voice of ours chimes in.
“Worth more than our own freedom.” A third appends.
Mariah goes silent again and cedes the soundscape to the harsh whirrs and grinds of the machines around us and the shouts and traffic from the streets below. Above us, acidic (probably) rain hits against a ledge in a soft rhythm. It’s as soothing as we think Tartarus ever gets without the Habbalite resonance getting involved.
(We suppose intoxicating substances might help too, but it’s not like we have the ability find out.)
(Not that it would be a good idea if we could.)
Mariah sighs and stands up. When she speaks again, her voice is as perfectly composed as any Elohite’s might be in a neutral state. “I suppose the smartest thing for me to do in this situation would be to keep my options open for as long as possible. So, tell me, Kira. What is your plan to get us out of here?”