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”Heya! You sent for me,” said the Stork, never being able to resist the theatrics. The master did the bad-guy equivalent of raising a single eyebrow. It squinted its eyes in fury and bellowed. The force of its shout flung the Stork off his feet and head-first into the mud. He nearly broke his neck. He also nearly suffocated. In the end, he pulled his head out with a plop and bowed down low, knowing this wasn't a time for humor. He had heard stories about the master, bad stories, and that bellow had proved one of them; he didn't think for one second that the others weren't true.
Power and status radiated off of the master, much like the anger had from the demon, but this radiation caused the Stork to keep up a constant effort so that he wouldn't sink to his knees from the pure gravity of it.
”Get up,” came the terse order.
The Stork complied, using triple the effort it usually took him to get up. A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead, but he managed to maintain a neutral expression.
”Leave us.” This to the demon, who bowed low and walked backwards, only coming out of the bow once it was out of the archway. The master leaned its huge head onto a hand, and regarded the Stork for a long while. The Stork stared back, refusing to tremble, and got his first good look at the Lord of the Underworld. The Lord's sky-blue eyes glared at him from underneath strong brows. At first he thought it sported a full beard, but then realized it was fur. An ox's head, complete with two sharp horns and a nose-ring, stood upon a buff human body. You ever heard the term 'rippling muscle'? Well, that's how well shaped the Lord was. Oh, and it was also twelve feet tall.
”Halt Deston. Or should I say the Stork?” the Lord's voice boomed out.
The Stork licked his lips. ”I prefer the Stork.”
”The Stork it is then. You must be wondering why you've been summoned here when there's a perfectly good torturing sequence playing outside these walls.”
”Sure.”
”It's come to my attention that you've stirred things up in my empire. People used to only fear me and my demons, but now there's someone new. They speak of him with whispers, tell stories of him at Intervals. The Black Stork they call him; he eats the souls of infants and carries them away, where he has his way with the corpses. They are disgusted and terrified by this phenomenon, but these are disgusting folk, so deep down, they admire him. I will not have such a contestant to my power rambling free. Do you know anything about this, Stork? It is highly advisable you do tell me.” The accusation in the Lord's voice echoed off the walls and rebounded back at the Stork as he hung his head.
Definitely not looking too bright, he thought. He watched as the Lord's hand dropped down to caress the worn hilt of a notched broad-sword and gulped down a lump in his throat. The Purge it was called, for it could kill anyone and anything, even if it were already dead. It was not merely death; it was the end of existence. The Purge of mankind, the all-cure for the disease classified as a human being.
Honesty wouldn't hurt more than lying, so why not go out with style? He stared straight ahead, a sardonic smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. ”Yeah. That's me. The infamous baby-muncher.”
The Lord narrowed its eyes and leaned forward intently, pointing the terrible blade at him. ”You fail to defend your position, mortal.”
”I've nothing to hide or protect. I am what I am, and I am what they think,” stated the Stork in a voice that quivered only slightly.
The enormous bull's head snorted out a puff of smoke through its nostrils in rage, the gas curling upwards due to the ring. It smelt of decaying zombies and stand-still piss; the Stork gagged violently, the action drawing blood from his throat. It felt like his rib cage was exploding out of his chest, but the skin was stopping it, causing a pent-up pressure that threatened to rip him in two. He willed his skin to rip, to let the rib cage through, and pierce his mind too. He willed and he willed. He realized he was on his back, writhing, the gravity of the Lord's presence pushing down on his chest and his rib cage pushing out. He was sure he would simply pop like those little tea kettles any second now.
A blow came from nowhere, striking him hard in the solar plexus, driving the built-up pressure up and out of him. He rolled onto his stomach and vomited until nothing more came up, then saw his vomit and dry-wretched for a good while. The Stork collapsed into the ground, the mud welcoming him into its cool embrace. He smeared it all over his face, reveling in the refreshing contact. A rough hand caught his shoulder; he tried to resist it, wanting to get back down to where it was cool and safe, where he could curl up and be, but he was outmatched and manhandled into a sitting position. An object was jammed between his lips and he almost choked on the water that was being poured into his throat. Water, pure water. He gulped it down like a drowning man.
”Sorry 'bout the blow. Was the only way.”
The Stork mumbled something that vaguely resembled no problem, at least rhythm-wise. He looked up and into a pair of blue eyes. One of them winked at him and he could feel the grin he couldn't see. He put a hand on the man's shoulder and let himself be hauled up. He massaged his throbbing chest and cocked his head, the gears in his head churning wildly. The Lord was standing in front of him, leaning on the dreaded blade as if it were an ordinary stick. What's more, the strange bull's head reclined lower than his own, completely normal head.
”You...” said the Stork, frowning, ”but... No. But! No, no.” Then he had it. ”You're not the Lord of the Underworld, and there never was one in the first place. It's all a huge scam. And I doubt that head's real, either.”
The man-who-had-just-been-Satan shrugged and pulled off the bull's head, revealing jumbled fire-red hair, blue eyes and a mouth that had been permanently locked into a grin. He opened his mouth and the Stork still half-expected fumes to escape it. None did. It took him a while to realize he was being talked to. It was one thing realizing what he just had realized, it was a completely different matter to accept it. He watched the strange man in front of him smoothly move his mouth from syllable to syllable, weaving, molding meanings and ideas.
”-ou listening?”
The Stork looked up slowly and saw the exasperation in those crystalline eyes.
”I'm not doing this for fun, you know. This is stuff you'd best be knowing.”
”'Scuse me,” interrupted the Stork, ”but who the heck are you, then? And what are you doing playing Satan?”
”Not important. Not playing.” The nameless man waved his hand in a gesture that meant shut up when the Stork made to continue talking – it was particularly impressive as the man still held Purge in his hand. ”Look Deston, it's imperative
you understand this whole shenanigan before you spout out useless questions and waste our time. You might have all the time you want, but I'm a bit short on it, so if you'd please follow me.” He shouldered the deadly-to-dead blade and stomped off through the mud, bull's head under his arm. ”Wasn't a request, by the way.”
”Got it,” the Stork muttered and trudged off after not-Satan. He lead them past the throne, which was clearly not as huge as it had seemed before. It was imposing enough as it was and radiated the same power he had felt earlier. The Stork traced a three meter perimeter around it as the nameless man insisted on walking straight past it. When he a few moments later tried to recall what had been so imposing about that seat, he was shocked to realize he couldn't even remember what it looked like.
”Take a seat, Deston.”
”I prefer Stork.”
”Don't we all prefer what we've made of ourselves when it's thrown on the scales with what we were born with? To me, you're Deston, so get used to it. My place, my rules.”
The Stork sat down on a dark red recliner. Twisting corridors and hidden doors slowly faded from his memory, the way to this place erased from his mind. The room was dim and the Stork's sharp mind interpreted the sparse decorations and careful layout as an attempt to hide any high points of interest, dissolving the whole room into one box of indifference.
”Interesting place,” he commented, impressed.
A flash of gnarly teeth. ”Truly.”
The nameless man sat down opposite of the Stork on an identical recliner that he hadn't noticed before. The man propped the Purge up against his knees and lit a smoke, puffing on it experimentally. Apparently satisfied, he waved it in the air, encompassing the entire room in the vague circle.
”Been here since before my time. My predecessor had no clue who built it either. My guess is it's been here since before anything, just waiting. Waiting to fulfill its duty to the owner it knew would come by sooner or later. Such devotion you won't find in anything more animate than a recliner. An object knows what it is and is fine with it. With animation comes a sense of being more than what you are, something more than the sum of your parts. Animals have it, believe it or not, but are greatly out-shadowed by the greed of human kind, so we rarely even notice it.” He trailed off, waving the cigarette in front of his face, doodling obscure shapes with the burning tip.
The gears in the Stork's mind churned, but the cogs failed to fit snugly into their places, failed to create paths of dazzling brightness. They merely grew a layer of mud on them.
”What's that got to do with anything?” he asked.
The nameless man's eyes trailed the burning end and he murmured, ”Nothing.” The Stork rolled his eyes. He began to wonder what he was doing there in the first place when the man seemed to recall what the cigarette was for and sucked on the end that wasn't red.
”And everything,” he finished. ”You see, this cigarette was made to be lit up and smoked. Or do you object to that?” The Stork shook his head. The man continued. ”It was meant to do one thing. But if I were to do this (he sketched a burning skull into the air, where it hovered between them) I am going against its nature. If I were to charge you with it and burn your eye out, I'd still be going against its nature. If I threw it onto a highway, not that there are any here, and it would pollute the air – bam, same thing. Objects' wills are malleable; they can be molded parallel to your own interests. Humans aren't that simple. Animals too. But humans more so.”
”That's all very well and glee, but it's also common knowledge, common sense even. Of course an object is easier to persuade than a person. Where are you getting at with this?”
The nameless man shot him a look and his hand instinctively clasped the hilt of the sword. The Stork went very still and tense, ready to dart; his eyes roamed the room for a weapon but they seemed to come out of focus when he tried to look at something in closer detail. He clenched his fists all the same. The two men stared at each other for a long moment, completely still in a way only someone dead could be still. A finger at a time, the nameless man unclasped his fingers, and a finger at a time, the tension deflated. Both men felt slightly embarrassed but neither showed it. Both remained slightly more erect than before.
”You humans and your love for the endings. You fail to realize it's the journey that's infinitely more important than where you're going to. Now you listen. Now you listen and now you learn. Now you listen and you learn and you like it. Clear?”
“Yup.”
“I said listen, not speak.”
The Stork nearly said, “I know.” but stopped himself at the last second. He nodded yes. The nameless man was clearly pleased.
“You see,” he continued, as if the whole interlude had never happened. In fact, the Stork wasn't entirely sure it had. “a human cannot merely be told how something is or how you want it to be. They need to be told why. And even that isn't enough in some cases. Humans need to believe it is true, with their own senses. So you cannot just go find a human, tell him an orange is an apple, and expect him to believe it. The human has to come to that conclusion himself. Now, I've a question for you. How did you convince all those people you fucked dead infants?”
The Stork said nothing, simply stared.
The nameless man smiled. “You may speak.”
“I spread some rumors, spoke with the right people, acted crazy enough.” He shrugged. “No biggie.”
The man leaned forward intently and brought his fist down into his palm. “Exactly. Except it's definitely a 'biggie'. You gave them the paper with lots of small dots, but let them connect them and find the picture all by themselves. The beauty of what you did was that everyone got a slightly different picture.” The nameless man looked at the Stork curiously. “You know, I've had my eye on you for a while. Whether you know it or not, the fact remains that you have a talent. Most people wouldn't even notice it, the rest would over-look it as something menial, but the truth is that your talent is so strong that you can hide it effortlessly. That isn't some 'no biggie' task. You got a whole bunch of people, murders and sinners who are naturally suspicious of anything for that matter, to believe absurd fairy tales.”
The Stork shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He well knew the grandness of what he had done, but to hear it so bluntly stated seemed odd. He wasn't used to people noticing, let alone praising his work. The nameless man snuffed out the his cigarette on the blade of the Purge. He rested his chin in his hands and seemed to be weighing his words. The Stork waited more-or-less politely; he was starting to feel intrigued about this man. After a long moment, the man sighed and his shoulders slackened.
“I'm weary.” He truly sounded it. “I've held up this intricate web of rumors and stories in these hands for ages. I haven't spun anything new in a long while. I'm just...” The man focused his attention on a ring on his finger, twisting it idly. “Just so very tired of this all. Which is why I have a favor to ask of you.”
The Stork lifted a delicate eyebrow.
“I want you-” A pause for dramatic effect. “to take over for me.”
The Stork sputtered something that sounded like a string of curse words thrown into a blender with a wide array of question words. He took a deep breath and tried again, with no better result. He looked at the nameless man hopelessly.
“I know this is a lot to ask for, especially on such a short notice, but you have to understand, there's no-one better qualified for this burden than you. There are some perks to it as well, the most appealing most probably the one where you don't get killed four times a die.”
“But... but you're Satan for God's sake!”
“Lord's name. Vain. You know. Don't. The guy's got more power over this place than up there with the living, so I'd cut down on that. And this is the way it's always been. You were right when you said there was no Lord of the Underworld; there never has been one. It's just one huge, world-wide scam. You of all people should know, though, that where there is a belief, there is a truth.”
“So you're telling me that the mantle of the Lord of the Underworld is a trinket passed down from mentor to student?”
The nameless man smiled, clearly amused. “More or less. Yes.”
“And you are bestowing said mantle on me?”
Again a smile, quickly gone. “Affirmative.”
“Shit.” The Stork looked down at his hands, inspected them as if for the first time. They were elegant hands, hands meant for an artist. His art was stories. Stories grew on the backs of rumors, rumors flew on the wings of assumptions. Those hands planted the seed, toiled it, then let other people grow the plant that sprouted. It was what they were meant to be used for. They were good at it, too. He knew he could do this, he knew he had what it took to uphold this ancient secret. The question was, did he want it?
The Stork looked up at the nameless man, stared into those blue eyes.
“I'll do it,” he said.
The nameless man nodded and offered him the ox's head. The Stork accepted it gravely, sniffed it and looked questioningly at the man opposite him.
“You get used to the smell.”
The Stork closed his eyes and pulled on the mask. When he opened his eyes, everything seemed distant and unrelated to his existence. Maybe it was the tunnel-effect the eye-holes had on his vision, maybe it was some ancient magic inscribed into the head. Whatever it was, he liked it. He laughed a dark laugh, suddenly amused with the world in general.
“It suits you,” said the nameless man.
He offered the Stork the handle of the Purge. As his fingers closed on the hilt, he felt a tingling of power that ran down his spine. With it came the knowledge of what he had to do next. Calmly, the Stork ran the man opposite him through with the eerie blade. He watched, detached, as the area around the wound started to fade away, like the trailing smoke of a cigarette. Slowly, the man simply faded, erased from the fabric of time by the purging blade. Last to leave was the man's smile, which lingered in the air as a burning mark before being whisked away.
The Stork lowered his head in respect, all the while feeling the power of the mask, the power of all the belief embedded in that mask, surging through him. He had a job to do. He had the balance of the existence of man-kind to be upheld.
Hades lifted its head, brown, soulless eyes blazing with dancing colors. It also had some scores to settle. “Watch out my pretties, birdy's got a new set of claws.”
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