A battle of heroic proportions. Yarya nearly getting killed. His pre-teen cousin, who had accidentally sent him here in the first place, just in. The appearance of a mother-fucking A half-pack of Ferals getting mostly slaughtered in broad daylight. Surely this was the straw that would tear the camel’s taint forcing the neighborhood to lose its collective shit.
Zebryl had already carried Yarya indoors and gotten her to bed. Robin could only shuffle into the house in a foggy malaise wondering what to do. Treat his wound? Check on Betty? Find the goth wereSkunk that slunk indoors during the fight? None of those things felt particularly important.
Robin sat down on the couch and wondered if fabric should be labeled with blood absorbency metrics. The red sack seemed able to take a lot of his blood without becoming oversaturated. The Santa vest, not so much.
Staring blankly about the room, he noticed an orthopedic shoe peeking out from behind the kitchen counter. Betty’s foot wasn’t moving and he heard no breathing. Robin groaned slowly to his feet. He had no free hand hand to push up with as one was busy pressing the bag to his wound and the other was limp and useless from the wereWolf’s claw wound.
Shuffling into the kitchen he found Betty curled in the fetal position on the floor, penciled eyebrows frozen high on her forehead. Her once carefully crafted hairdo frizzed and coming apart like a windblown bird nest. She was face-empty dead. Soul-departed passed on. Gone to a farm upstate. Robin figured he should cry, but wasn’t a good enough actor to shed tears on demand. He’d always had to cheat with eyedrops. He just stood there staring at Betty’s corpse as she stared right back. He felt as vacant as she looked.
“That’s the look of abject fear, mister, and the smell of self-pissed-pants,” said a female voice from inside the pantry. A pale, goth girl with a white stripe down the middle of her shoulder-length black hair emerged with a box of crackers in hand. The wereSkunk. She popped a handful of the fake-cheese-encrusted squares into her mouth. If they were flavorless to her, she didn’t seem to care. She poked one black-booted toe into Betty’s thigh. “Yep, Fear-death. You can tell by the look on the face. Did you know her? Do you have her Fear
“Listen, I don’t care if they taste like piss biscuits, you need to get out of here.”
The skunk girl’s eyes lit up. She nearly smiled. “Are you releasing me?”
“Don’t say another word, boy.” Zebryl sauntered into the kitchen stopping directly in front of the Feral. Robin had not realized how short she was; the devil towered over her and she gulped audibly.
“Why not?” Robin retorted hotly, resenting being told what to do.
“Because, Robin, she is now our Captive
Well, that was unexpected. The girl noisily smacked another mouthful of crackers as she clearly recognized no further violence would ensue. Somehow she was now their hostage. Hopefully this world didn’t condone slavery or some other inhumane bullshit in regards to ‘the enemy’. Robin was already concerned his sense of right and wrong was being pushed to the breaking point. The last thing he needed was the siblings expecting him to torture the skunk-girl.
Zebryl grinned wickedly. “I see by the confused countenance that you are, yet again, ignorant of reality.”
The skunk girl, perhaps nervously, crammed another handful of crackers in her mouth proceeding to talk and chew simultaneously. “Yeah. Mister Hot and Horny here is right, noob.” Crumbs carelessly fell from her mouth onto Betty getting caught in the weave of her cardigan. “I voluntarily entered your HomeBase
“Or your buddies come back and tear the house down to fetch you,” Robin said.
She shrugged. “Or that.”
“Or we convert her.” Zebryl glanced down at Betty, seeming to notice her for the first time. “Oh, dear. That’s too bad. Yaritzya’s pet appears to have expired. I suppose that’s inevitable given her indulgent display of extreme faith out there. Let that be a warning, Robin. Do not worship blindly. In fact, it is best not to worship at all as no one here is interested in giving back.”
“What do you mean by that?” Was Zebryl insinuating Betty’s death was the angel’s fault?
Zebryl turned narrowed eyes to Robin. “She was clearly intoxicated by the archangel’s potency, Robin. We all felt the effects of Raflili’s presence. I was hard the whole time we fought. Celestial allure is difficult to resist, for the small folk anyway. You and I are made of better stuff and have no need for blind devotion.”
Robin wanted to laugh, or scoff, or react to that ridiculous statement, but he was insensate from it all. “Huh,” was all he finally mustered.
The skunk girl pushed passed them to head into the living room. “Yeah, that dude is like, one of the most powerful people in all BigBad City. He’s like, a Supreme
“It seems, my smelly little friend, your fate is now tied to ours,” Zebryl pointed out. “If the angels return, you’ll die right along with us.”
The girl appeared thoroughly nonplussed. She flopped onto the couch and jammed her hand back into the cracker box. “Or maybe I’ll convert to the yellows and help them eradicate your little elder-cottage here.”
While the two supernatural creatures debated, Robin continued to stare at Betty. He’d never actually seen a dead body before. His grandparents had all been cremated and no other funeral he had attended had been open-casket. It was surreal. She had been alive and breathing half an hour ago when he’d shoved her in the house. Was there some sort of delayed effect to angelic rapture? Was he at risk of succumbing to it at some point? He didn’t feel metaphysically compromised, at least. His shoulder had stopped bleeding, mostly. His emotions felt shelved, waiting to be taken down later when he was capable of dusting them off and studying them.
“What should we do with Betty’s body?” he asked of the other room.
“Normally, I’d say eat her,” the wereSkunk stated plainly. “But she’s obviously been used up of all her Resources
Adopting a business-like air, Zebryl said, “Just dump it in the trash. I’ll go burn the bodies in the yard as our little dumpster isn’t big enough for more than one corpse.”
That was preposterous. They should have a funeral or something. Her children would have to be notified. They couldn’t just casually chuck her in the bin like week-old pizza. There were other potential issues too, like inheritance of the property. They’d have to deal with Betty’s family at some point.
“Just burn her too,” Robin sighed.
“Very well.” The incubus lifted her off the kitchen floor with ease and disappeared out the burned hole of a front door.
“At least he’s efficient,” the goth girl said. “I’m StinkPew, bee-tee-dubs.”
Robin’s befuddled mind took a moment to translate ‘bee-tee-dubs’ into texting parlance and then translated it again for his Gen X brain into ‘by the way’. “Oh. Nice. I’m Robin.”
“Yeah, I heard the devil call you that. So, got anything tastier than crackers around here or do you wanna send me out on the hunt?”
? ? ? ? ?
The next two days were dreary in mood and weather alike. Clouds blanketed the skies providing rain to cleanse the city’s facade but not Robin’s mindset. He moped around the house hour after hour accomplishing next to nothing except cleaning his outfit. Despite the number of house occupants remaining unchanged, the place felt decidedly different — empty and soulless without Betty’s caring heart to fill it. The same could not be said for things outside the house.
Shockingly, the neighborhood seemed blissfully unaffected by the epic throw-down, aside from roofers and city electricians coming through affecting repairs. Neighbors could be overheard chalking the whole thing up to a violent and sudden storm. Several citing those sorts of things happened with regularity, though usually not out here in the burbs. It seemed many of the street’s residents had moved out here to get away from the constant mayhem in BigBad City proper.
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Between resting and consuming six of his remaining ten ResolveHome BaseInfernalResolve
Zebryl disappeared from the premises several times eventually returning with FearResourcesFlesh
Shape-changing into her human/skunk anthropomorphic form, the girl gyrated awkwardly (later claiming it was dancing) at receiving proper nourishment and thanked the incubus for his generosity. “I really appreciate this, Mister Zebryl. I know it’s not your jam, getting meat off the plainFolk. It shows you really care for those in your Warren
Zebryl responded as if correcting a small child. “We’re a
StinkPew glowered beneath her black and white bangs. She didn’t appear to like being admonished. “Fine. But I’m not gonna kill by Fear. That’s indecent and crass. Making people shake and piss themselves until they croak is just rude.”
“Oh, but tearing the meat off their bones is so much more humane?” Robin snapped.
Both the wereSkunk and the incubus looked puzzled. Zebryl thoughtfully stroked one head horn. “We’re not talking about killing , Robin, if that’s what you mean by ‘humane’. The plainFolk are for feeding upon.”
“Yeah,” StinkPew added. “You Mysticlook like plainFolk — at least we Ferals
“You’d do best to save your moralistic, sensibilities for your own kind,” Zebryl remarked. “Or better yet, focus all that concern on this Cabal
Robin huffed off to the bedroom not wanting to debate any further. Those unnatural monsters would never understand what is was like to be human. To be normal and not special. He didn’t have wings and super strength. Betty couldn’t change into a fluffy poodle-person. The dumb ass neighbor couple couldn’t invoke awe and wonder with the simple flutter of feathery wings. Yes, they were just plain people. Even with a couple tiny spell-like powers, Robin himself was nothing special. If he were being honest, he hadn’t been anything special back home either.
His parents had doted on his older sister. was a doctor. went to other countries to help cure diseases. was on the board of different charities. Only once did Robin feel like he measured up in his parent’s eyes; that one time he won a regional monologue contest fifteen years ago. He’d never told them the specifics, but there had only been four other competitors and three of them had been high schoolers. Maybe he had made the event sound bigger and more important than it actually was, but Mom and Dad weren’t good enough at pretending so he believed they had been genuinely happy for him. Even for himself, he finally felt like he had gotten a modicum of recognition for his decades of dedicated work. Sure, it was a cheesy plastic trophy but it was something that lasted longer than the fleeting applause at the end of a show.
With frustration, he picked up the esoteric walkie-talkie which hadn’t worked since first appearing. It didn’t even give off static when he turned it on. He chucked it into the red sack Zebryl had handed him during the fight where it promptly vanished. Hopefully, if Dana called again, the bag would ding.
He flopped onto the bed and took out the Instruction Manual and finally asked it about the big bag. He’d been too tired and then too depressed to investigate it until now, though he had laundered it so his crusty blood no longer caked it.
Congratulations! Your off-the-rack Christmas ‘couture’ now includes a second piece of Equipment.
“Fuck me, of course. It’s a Santa Sack, isn’t it?” Robin groaned. “What’s next? A sleigh and eight tiny wereReindeer?” He knew he had just officially named the bag as his Santa Sack
Who knows, you despondent deliverer of desired delights. The former resident of this house, now your Infernal Home Base, was busy making you this nice carry-all before she kicked the bucket. The power imbued in this Hell House has crafted the item into more than an Ace-tier accoutrement by upgrading your starting satchel.
Your Santa Sack operates under similar principals — as it is capable of holding more than its physical size belies — but now it will also create gifts for those you deem Naughty or Nice.
“Okay… how does that work?”
Well, if you’d bothered to check your Skill deck, you’d have discovered a new Spell card. Naughty and Nice Talk.
Also, you still haven’t upgraded any Skills or Attributes with the Experience Dots you’ve earned. Maybe you should stop being such a droopy dingo and upgrade yourself. The future isn’t gonna hand-hold you through life, so you should better prepare to meet it.
“Fine, I’ll do my dots for krys-sake.” He snapped the book shut and summoned his Attribute and Skill decks from the Santa Sack. The new spell skill was, indeed, called Naughty and Nice Talk:
MAGIC SKILL: [d4 ? d4 ? d6]
Associated Attribute: Any
Casting Time: Slow (10 minutes)
Range: Touch
Amount of Effect: Tiny (singular item)
Duration: Fleeting *
This spell, must be used in conjunction with your Santa Sack.
Infuse one or more Attribute cards with this spell to pull forth a gift. If you talk nice, it’ll be something helpful for an ally. If you talk naughty, it’ll be something detrimental to a foe.
* note: You can make a gift last longer than fleeting if you expend additional Attribute cards to summon it. Spending 12 Attribute cards will make the item permanent, but be warned, you might blow your wad and Impair one or more Attributes from the strain of being such a giving goose.
Well, that seemed pretty cool and surprisingly open ended. He’d have to experiment with it a few times before committing to improving it with Experience DotsSkillsDotCharmzingZapSkills
He riffled through his AttributeEssenceImpedimentDotsImpedimentDotEssenceImpediment
Tired, Robin stretched out on the bed intending to take a nap. He had ordered a new new front door using Betty’s credit card and it had arrived that morning. As the one thing he had measurably accomplished since the fight, he’d gotten it installed after breakfast with no help from any of the supernatural residents in the house. He closed his eyes but was haunted once again by the memory of Betty’s dead face.
Every aspect of her visage had resembled a drag queen rendition of abject terror. His mind compared that to the pure awe and reverence her sweet old face had displayed upon seeing Raflili descending from the sky. If, as Zebryl claimed, the old woman had died of too much faith, he would have expected her to look serene, or at least more at peace.
StinkPew’s words jangled in his ears. She had said, as a Feral, she didn’t want to scare people to death leaving them covered in their own piss. Betty’s pants had, indeed, been soaked. Had one of the devils killed Betty for a quick snack and was lying about it?
No, wait. Not that he could entirely trust his recollection of exact timing of events during the fight, but he knew he had shoved Betty inside the house Yarya had made her explosive exit. Yeah, he was sure of that because he hadn't wanted Betty getting burned by the wreckage of the front door frame. He thought StinkPew had dashed into the house before all that, but he wasn’t positive about that detail.
If StinkPew had killed Betty while the rest of them were still outside, the old woman would have been torn to pieces and the kitchen left a bloody mess. That left… no. Zebryl? Had the incubus fed on Betty before wading out into the fray? Surely not. He knew how much Robin cared for her. Surely he wouldn’t have eaten Betty. But she looked terrorized. And Zebryl undoubtedly cared infinitely more for his sister than any NPC. No matter how thoughtful the devil might be in bed, he certainly would not hesitate to consume the only Fear
Robin was left feeling drenched in the stink of suspicion and more than a little betrayed. He had really hoped Zebryl wasn’t so… devilish? So wicked? Was he truly so evil as to use Robin for fun? devil, ?
The bedroom window had been left wide open to let in fresh, cool air. Robin’s imagination had the house starting to smell like corpse, but really he just wanted to vent the place and give it an air of cleanliness. Every time StinkPew shifted to her half-skunk form, her natural defense glands emitted a near-touchable stench, almost a physical cloud of stankVaporNo Peek-a Boo wards only worked effectively if the windows remained shut.
Out on the sidewalk, a gaggle of screaming children scampered past the house. With no real parenting experience, it was hard for Robin to judge if their shrieks were fear or just the irritating squeals of little fuck-nuggets at play.
One phrase did catch his attention amidst their shrill squawking, “Dead man walking! Dead man walking!”