Post by Deleted on Sept 26, 2007 9:07:48 GMT -5
OOC: The big reference in this roleplay comes from a prior piece found here (wfigs.proboards48.com/index.cgi?board=houseshows&action=display&thread=1183488124) "The One Where Pierce Takes The Bait"
It isn't necessary to read it, but for those that do, THIS RP will make a bit more sense.
Good luck, Brotha Thunda.
>=)
Welcome back, The Devil greeted with false warmth when his cerebral roommate returned. His voice oozed dull expectance and wearied impatience, as if he had been waiting for the return a long time. The sense of sham saturating their mind suddenly increased exponentially. I was beginning to worry about you.
The Deville would have responded, but even in his mind he couldn't find his voice, because his focus was entirely on the images filtering through to him by means of his own stolen eyes. A darkened alcove at the entrance to a hallway and the foot of a staircase leading up flooded his vision, with a quaint living room off to his left with decidedly Victorian decoration. An icicle stabbed his heart with the realization that the furnishings were in stark contrast to the outside of the home, twisted when it truly sunk in where he was. The eyes lingered a moment, on a finely painted portrait mounted above the marble fireplace, depicting a regal looking man in a suit, a beautiful woman in an old-fashioned dress, and a small child of about five with an unruly mass of blonde hair and a familiar half-smile.
And welcome home. Satan's sardonic laughter was punctuated by an explosion of thunder that rattled the windows and made Pierce aware of the rain drumming mournfully against the house. The storm had broken.
You will not do this, The Deville growled, a knowing authority in his voice that had been lacking since he lost direct control of his life.
Satan's laughter grew more amused as he soundlessly ascended the first carpeted step. His voice absolutely dripped with delight, pleased that even now The Deville's spirit remained uncrushed. Ooooh, back to threatening me, are you? Or is this the groveling again?
Neither, Pierce grated. I'm just letting you know. One way or another, it ends here.
The Devil didn't respond right away, climbing a few more stairs as he shook Pierce's head ruefully. I really am going to miss you, Piercy my dear, he said seriously after a moment, and not for the first time.
Pierce was growing tired of hearing it, tired of the whole mess. I won't miss you, Lucy my dear, he mocked, and Satan -- Lucifer -- chuckled. In fact, once you're gone, I'm going to desecrate even the memory.
The chuckling gave way to a sigh. You're too young to be this bitter, Pierce. You need to lighten up. Reaching the landing at the top of the stairs, Satan stopped and began rummaging through pants pockets. And I know just the thing to help you.
Pierce cringed as the crack pipe materialized in his hand, though with rage instead of fear or loathing this time. The debilitating effects of the last hit had long since worn away, but the unmistakable need for more, ingrained in his brain and body if not his mind, made his blood itch with shameful desire. Half the rage came from that craving, from the sensations The Devil allowed to skitter across their barrier.
Will you run again? Satan asked idly. Or will you stay and try to overcome it, knowing that if you leave again, I'll murder her in your absence?
Feeling the pipe enter his mouth, and the cold feel of the lighter in the hand he could not control, The Deville snapped. Though it was a burning fury to rival the hottest fires of Hell, his voice was like ice crackling. This is my body. My mind. My life. You do not belong here. You have no power here.
For the first time, Pierce felt a genuine stab of fear not his own. What are you doing? Satan tried to demand harshly, but his voice cracked, spoiling the effect.
I'm. Taking. Over.
The Deville's body went rigid, shaking, as two indomitable wills battled for control and supremacy. The crack pipe fell from his hand and bounced down the stairs, the gentle thuds of the collisions lost in the reverie of the storm. After an agonizing moment that seemed to last forever, the body followed, falling straight back with the grace of an Olympic diver. His head, with his mouth grinning peacefully, was the first thing to hit the stairs as he tumbled down, and not even the storm could swallow the sound of his neck snapping.
Jubilant laughter spilled from Deville as he felt the familiar warmth and emptiness of Hell pushing in at him from all sides. Kneeling on something flat, a platform that swayed with his movement, he felt tears of purest joy streaming down his face. He had done it. He couldn't quite discern how in his euphoric state, but something inside of him had risen up against the reality Satan had created, denying it and dismissing it in one fell swoop, and the balance of control shifted. For one instant, The Deville knew that he was in charge, and in that split second of confusion from The Devil, he had wrestled control back. Not complete control -- Satan wasn't abandoning the fight -- but enough to tilt his body backward, enough to put an end to Satan's murderous schemes. Enough to save his mother's life.
For Deville, that was all that had mattered. That was all that mattered still. He had died, gleefully, so his mother would live.
And now . . . Now it was time for him and Satan to have it out once and for all.
Grinning at the prospect of exacting revenge on the beast who had sought to destroy his soul, Deville opened his eyes and stood. And just like the last time he had found himself in a strange place, the details around him chased all sense of victory from his mind, replaced again by an abominable sense of dread and doom.
Impenetrable blackness stretched interminably outward, closed unbearably inward, hiding and obscuring whatever else might have been there. With a sinking feeling, The Deville discovered that he knew there was no whatever else. It was just him and the suffocating darkness. And vertical bars seemingly made of kryptonite. Spinning around in a panic, arms outstretched, touching each bar in turn, he turned a full three times before crumpling with the admission that he was trapped in a cage. He jumped up, arms raised high, and found that all the bars curved and joined in a point directly above him. His cage, suspended in the middle of nowhere by nothing tangible, wobbled as he landed soundlessly and muttered a despondent curse.
He clamped his eyes shut, cocooning himself in a darkness that was somehow lighter than what surrounded him, and imagined that the bars were not there, that he was not in a cage. But it did no good. Opening his eyes let the pure absence of light flood back in, and he didn't need to reach out to know the cage remained undisturbed.
He was trapped, perhaps for eternity, in a cell he wouldn't even be able to lay down in. The only thing that kept him from screaming with impotent frustration was the knowledge that at least his mother was safe. At least ensnared in limbo, The Devil couldn't use his body to carry out his deepest fears.
"Pierce."
Even without sight, without sense of direction, Deville knew the voice had come from behind him, and his heart leapt up in his chest as he spun around. Even in his predicament, perhaps because of it, the voice was comforting. It wasn't Satan.
Glowing white and seeming to float in the darkness that could not be air, an apparition of light regarded him with somber eyes that mirrored his own. Pierce had to squint at the sharp contrast between purest light and dark, but the joyous tears began flowing once more when recognition settled in. "Father!" he cried, slamming hard into the bars, stretching an arm between two of them in a desperate attempt to touch someone he loved. Straining for every inch, for every millimeter, his fingers reached only half the distance.
"Pierce," his father intoned solemnly, "you can't stay here."
"I know," Deville wailed, coming as close to whining as he had in twenty years. "Get me out of this cage!"
The senior Deville frowned. "I can't. Letting you out here would do no good even if I could. You need to go back, Pierce. You must stop him."
Blinking, confused, Pierce realized there were unshed tears in his father's eyes. "What?" he croaked, legs threatening to buckle. "But I did! I seized control, father, and murdered us both!" He wished he could force his voice to sound confident. Seeing one of those tears roll onto his father's cheek, he wished he could believe what he was saying. When he continued, it was barely a squeak, full of doubt. "He can't hurt mother now."
"Yes he can." His father floated forward, taking Pierce's hand in his own. "He's there right now, as you, stalking ever closer." Swallowing, he too seemed to be having trouble keeping his voice steady. "Please, Pierce. Save her."
Pierce gave the warm hand a comforting squeeze, steeling his backbone. When he spoke again, his voice held all the emotion of the dead. "I will." His eyes burned into his father's. "I will take control again, but this time I will burn Satan out of me completely before I succumb to death." It wasn't confidence in his voice, or faith, it was simple truth. Truth his father twisted with a shake of his head.
"That won't work; not twice. Satan will be expecting you to try it again, and he will be prepared. He is more powerful than you imagine." It was his turn to give Pierce's hand a squeeze. "You must hurry," he warned forlornly, his glow beginning to dim. "Or you will be too late."
"Wait!" Pierce shouted, watching his father turning ephemeral, feeling his hand losing solidity, turning to mist. "How can I save her? Father! Wait!" His father was just a shadow now. Another moment and the darkness had swallowed him. "No! Father! How?!"
"Remember what I told you last time." The voice came from everywhere at once, though very quietly, fading with each word. "Remember. Put your . . ." It trailed off into nothing, leaving Pierce with the haunting echo of silence ringing in his ears.
"FATHER!"
There was no response, but the blackness seemed to shake with laughter.
He couldn't remember much about that last conversation with his father, the only one they had while both were men. He was so overcome with happiness at finding his father in anything other than a picture or a memory, the details had blurred together in one jumbled mass of elation. The only thing that came to mind was a stern warning not to let the voice take over, not to let The Devil become more than a voice, but that ship had already sailed.
Telling himself he'd swim out and commandeer it if necessary, Pierce clenched his fists and closed his eyes, locking every ounce of concentration on being back in his body, on reclaiming what was his.
When The Deville returned this time, it was not a mere re-emergence of his mind in the back of Satan's. This time he launched everything he had, every last fiber of his will, into occupying both his body and mind, denying even the possibility that The Devil might have any control. He told himself he knew his life was his, but his father's words, though he doubted them, saying it would not work twice, tickled the edge of his consciousness. Trying to ignore it but failing, he slammed full force into himself.
Laughing, The Devil swatted the assault aside like a nagging insect, easily exploiting the uncertainty and pushing Deville back into his dark corner. A transparent wall slid firmly in place. Deville howled as he launched himself at it, screaming that it was his life, not Satan's, but he may as well have been trying to topple a mountain with a dull spoon.
That was pretty good, The Devil allowed with a mental nod. I didn't think you had it in you.
The Deville didn't respond, trying to keep all of his attention on continuing the assault with ever-increasing zeal. But his mind was a panicked stallion, trying to race every way at once. Every path seemed to lead to doubt and disaster.
It won't happen again, of course, Satan went on conversationally, moving Deville's body mechanically down the hallway on the upper floor. All of the lights were off, meaning his mother was asleep, but the darkness wasn't the reason for Satan's languid approach. He saw better in pitch black than most could at high noon. No, his lack of hurry was so that he could torture Pierce, so he could savor every precious drop of terror. But good show nonetheless.
You're dead, Deville seethed, trying to make it a statement of fact instead of an empty threat.
No, Satan laughed. That's mommy dearest.
Thunder rumbled malevolently, shaking the house, and Deville cursed the storm. Without it, his mother would have heard him falling down the stairs and known there was an intruder. Perhaps the police would be on their way. Not that they would do any good, Deville knew, and almost scolded himself for the thought. Even if they arrived in time and shot him dead, it would only be a temporary solution; The Devil would simply return and try again.
Strangely, it occurred to Pierce how much this experience must have changed him, wishing for the police. Lecturing himself to stay focused, he pushed the thought from his mind, tried to come up with something that could actually help.
The police, he panted. They'll be on you after this; on me. Your cover might not get blown, but you won't be able to use my body to much effect from a cell. It was desperate and paper-thin, but it was all he could think of. He waited, not daring to move, as the silence stretched.
Satan finally snorted. You know as well as I that covering up our involvement is easily accomplished. Deville did know that, but when you didn't have a hand to play, you had two choices: bluff or fold. He was not prepared to fold. And even if I didn't bother covering it up, the police can't do anything to me, even locked in your pathetically limited body as I am.
Beyond that, he continued richly, what ever gave you the impression I'm trying to save your reputation? I don't care if a million atrocities are laid at your feet, or if you're mentioned in the same breath as Genghis Kahn, Judas, or Hitler once I'm through. I wreak chaos, fool, not order. Your body isn't my first or only vessel, and it assuredly won't be the last.
They were standing in the doorway to his mother's room now, filling it like a plague. She lay serenely on the bed, with the thick down comforter pulled up under her armpits. Her chest rose and fell with the soft, even breathing of deep sleep, her hands folded over top in a pose Pierce did not want to think about. He tried to scream out a warning, tried to wake her, but it only echoed vainly inside his own head.
Satan let the moment stretch. Look at her, he whispered, almost reverently. Sleeping peacefully. A dark cloud swirled over Pierce's corner of their mind, and when The Devil spoke again, reverence had been replaced by malevolence. For the last time. He cackled. Forever.
No! The Deville screamed, renewing his feeble attack, reaching along the barrier, searching for a crack or a hole or anything he might be able to slip through. It was as smooth as a lake of bulletproof glass.
Satan took a hesitant step into the room, enjoying the anticipation.
Pierce began sobbing, doubling up his efforts, feeling more and more helpless the harder he railed against The Lord of Darkness. It truly was hopeless. His mind began gibbering, on the brink of giving up. If only he could remember what his father had told him. If only he had listened to him in the first place. If only he wasn't so greedy, wanting more from life than any man had a right. If only he had let himself die that first time, his mother would have had a chance.
Mother, he bawled, no longer caring about concealing his thoughts. It was too late for that. I-- I'm sorry. Mother, I'm so sorry! He cursed himself for stuttering, for finding the words odd. He was always the one killing, always the one in charge; trying to save someone was foreign to him, a concept beyond his realm of experience. Feeling vulnerable and powerless, having to apologize for failure was as alien and inconceivable to him as dry water.
Was this how his numerous victims had felt, cowering as he toyed with them before the kill, knowing there was no hope but clinging desperately to life on the off-chance it might be hiding somewhere? Was this how they felt as he laughed with the doom he wrought, as if the entire Universe was a vacuum created solely to suck them in and torture them, to mock them? Did they all feel that it would have been better if they had never existed? I'm sorry! he wailed, willing his voice to reach the peaks of Heaven as well as the depths of Hell. If they had felt a hundredth of what Deville was feeling, he hoped they heard. He hoped it wasn't too late for them to accept.
If they felt even a tenth of what Pierce was feeling, watching his mother and damnation growing steadily closer, he couldn't help but feel that maybe he deserved this. As punishment for what he'd done, for those he'd killed, for those he'd made watch, terrified, as he put their families under the knife. But no matter what he had done, no matter what evil he had committed, his mother didn't deserve this. Not for giving birth to him, not for trying to steer him away from that sadistic anarchy.
I'm sorry, mom! he screamed in the soundproof booth of his mind as he loomed over her, right at the side of the bed, with Satan guiding his hands ever-so-slowly, ever-so-patiently towards her supple neck. Oh God, I'm sorry.
Satan barked a sudden laugh at the invocation of that name, and cursed Deville for a dozen different types of fool, all the while bending slowly forward.
Father, Pierce cried, knowing he had failed him. Forgive me. I just couldn't remember. I could never live up to you. Please forgive me. His hands hovered just over his mother's throat now, and she stirred, smacking her lips. Please don't let her wake up, The Deville begged. Please don't let her watch me kill her. When she resumed her contented breathing, though, it was no relief.
At the end of his rope, Deville reached desperately for the memory that eluded him, for his salvation. For his mother's last hope. It remained as amorphous as ever.
Father!
Only an inch now between his hands and her throat.
Help me!
Half an inch.
Help me!
Contact.
Dear God, help me! Please!
A benevolent light suddenly filled his sight, and he felt weightless, as if floating, or being caressed in the sheltering hands of a giant. A small gasp squeaked from his throat as he almost collapsed on top of his mother, every inch of his body cold and tingling with relief. With great care he drew his hands backward, not daring to believe what had happened, what was happening.
Satan was gone. Actually gone. Not hiding in some dark recess of his mind, not hiding in the shadows like the fabled Sword of Damocles. Just gone. Purged from his mind by a power greater than himself, a flooding rush of honesty and integrity and forgiveness, an avalanche of light barreling down and burying the dark mountain that had threatened to crush him.
The Deville might have laughed if he weren't crying and shaking so hard.
His father's parting words from their first meeting in limbo had come back to him, and now they echoed proudly, pulsing with the sense of salvation coursing through his veins.
"Save yourself, my son. Put your faith elsewhere, Pierce.
"Please."
And the Thunder had ceased.
On December 31, 1888, the prominent suspect in the Jack The Ripper murders, Montague John Druitt, was found floating on top of a river. He had apparently committed suicide. To everyone’s relief, the murders ceased.
That is until March 1889, when another signature death took its toll on a sixth victim.
They had let their guard down.
They thought it was over.
They hoped it was over.
Much like you hope it’s over.
Much like you pray that you can get away with your shady victory at Survival of the Fittest without having to deal with me again, you let your guard down.
This final FDS, Thunder, is your March 1889.
Your wake up call.
Your demise.
You’ll press forth to Scars & Stripes with a shot at Obo’s WFWF Championship.
But after FDS, everyone will know you don’t deserve it.
It isn't necessary to read it, but for those that do, THIS RP will make a bit more sense.
Good luck, Brotha Thunda.
>=)
Welcome back, The Devil greeted with false warmth when his cerebral roommate returned. His voice oozed dull expectance and wearied impatience, as if he had been waiting for the return a long time. The sense of sham saturating their mind suddenly increased exponentially. I was beginning to worry about you.
The Deville would have responded, but even in his mind he couldn't find his voice, because his focus was entirely on the images filtering through to him by means of his own stolen eyes. A darkened alcove at the entrance to a hallway and the foot of a staircase leading up flooded his vision, with a quaint living room off to his left with decidedly Victorian decoration. An icicle stabbed his heart with the realization that the furnishings were in stark contrast to the outside of the home, twisted when it truly sunk in where he was. The eyes lingered a moment, on a finely painted portrait mounted above the marble fireplace, depicting a regal looking man in a suit, a beautiful woman in an old-fashioned dress, and a small child of about five with an unruly mass of blonde hair and a familiar half-smile.
And welcome home. Satan's sardonic laughter was punctuated by an explosion of thunder that rattled the windows and made Pierce aware of the rain drumming mournfully against the house. The storm had broken.
You will not do this, The Deville growled, a knowing authority in his voice that had been lacking since he lost direct control of his life.
Satan's laughter grew more amused as he soundlessly ascended the first carpeted step. His voice absolutely dripped with delight, pleased that even now The Deville's spirit remained uncrushed. Ooooh, back to threatening me, are you? Or is this the groveling again?
Neither, Pierce grated. I'm just letting you know. One way or another, it ends here.
The Devil didn't respond right away, climbing a few more stairs as he shook Pierce's head ruefully. I really am going to miss you, Piercy my dear, he said seriously after a moment, and not for the first time.
Pierce was growing tired of hearing it, tired of the whole mess. I won't miss you, Lucy my dear, he mocked, and Satan -- Lucifer -- chuckled. In fact, once you're gone, I'm going to desecrate even the memory.
The chuckling gave way to a sigh. You're too young to be this bitter, Pierce. You need to lighten up. Reaching the landing at the top of the stairs, Satan stopped and began rummaging through pants pockets. And I know just the thing to help you.
Pierce cringed as the crack pipe materialized in his hand, though with rage instead of fear or loathing this time. The debilitating effects of the last hit had long since worn away, but the unmistakable need for more, ingrained in his brain and body if not his mind, made his blood itch with shameful desire. Half the rage came from that craving, from the sensations The Devil allowed to skitter across their barrier.
Will you run again? Satan asked idly. Or will you stay and try to overcome it, knowing that if you leave again, I'll murder her in your absence?
Feeling the pipe enter his mouth, and the cold feel of the lighter in the hand he could not control, The Deville snapped. Though it was a burning fury to rival the hottest fires of Hell, his voice was like ice crackling. This is my body. My mind. My life. You do not belong here. You have no power here.
For the first time, Pierce felt a genuine stab of fear not his own. What are you doing? Satan tried to demand harshly, but his voice cracked, spoiling the effect.
I'm. Taking. Over.
The Deville's body went rigid, shaking, as two indomitable wills battled for control and supremacy. The crack pipe fell from his hand and bounced down the stairs, the gentle thuds of the collisions lost in the reverie of the storm. After an agonizing moment that seemed to last forever, the body followed, falling straight back with the grace of an Olympic diver. His head, with his mouth grinning peacefully, was the first thing to hit the stairs as he tumbled down, and not even the storm could swallow the sound of his neck snapping.
~><>...<><~
Jubilant laughter spilled from Deville as he felt the familiar warmth and emptiness of Hell pushing in at him from all sides. Kneeling on something flat, a platform that swayed with his movement, he felt tears of purest joy streaming down his face. He had done it. He couldn't quite discern how in his euphoric state, but something inside of him had risen up against the reality Satan had created, denying it and dismissing it in one fell swoop, and the balance of control shifted. For one instant, The Deville knew that he was in charge, and in that split second of confusion from The Devil, he had wrestled control back. Not complete control -- Satan wasn't abandoning the fight -- but enough to tilt his body backward, enough to put an end to Satan's murderous schemes. Enough to save his mother's life.
For Deville, that was all that had mattered. That was all that mattered still. He had died, gleefully, so his mother would live.
And now . . . Now it was time for him and Satan to have it out once and for all.
Grinning at the prospect of exacting revenge on the beast who had sought to destroy his soul, Deville opened his eyes and stood. And just like the last time he had found himself in a strange place, the details around him chased all sense of victory from his mind, replaced again by an abominable sense of dread and doom.
Impenetrable blackness stretched interminably outward, closed unbearably inward, hiding and obscuring whatever else might have been there. With a sinking feeling, The Deville discovered that he knew there was no whatever else. It was just him and the suffocating darkness. And vertical bars seemingly made of kryptonite. Spinning around in a panic, arms outstretched, touching each bar in turn, he turned a full three times before crumpling with the admission that he was trapped in a cage. He jumped up, arms raised high, and found that all the bars curved and joined in a point directly above him. His cage, suspended in the middle of nowhere by nothing tangible, wobbled as he landed soundlessly and muttered a despondent curse.
He clamped his eyes shut, cocooning himself in a darkness that was somehow lighter than what surrounded him, and imagined that the bars were not there, that he was not in a cage. But it did no good. Opening his eyes let the pure absence of light flood back in, and he didn't need to reach out to know the cage remained undisturbed.
He was trapped, perhaps for eternity, in a cell he wouldn't even be able to lay down in. The only thing that kept him from screaming with impotent frustration was the knowledge that at least his mother was safe. At least ensnared in limbo, The Devil couldn't use his body to carry out his deepest fears.
"Pierce."
Even without sight, without sense of direction, Deville knew the voice had come from behind him, and his heart leapt up in his chest as he spun around. Even in his predicament, perhaps because of it, the voice was comforting. It wasn't Satan.
Glowing white and seeming to float in the darkness that could not be air, an apparition of light regarded him with somber eyes that mirrored his own. Pierce had to squint at the sharp contrast between purest light and dark, but the joyous tears began flowing once more when recognition settled in. "Father!" he cried, slamming hard into the bars, stretching an arm between two of them in a desperate attempt to touch someone he loved. Straining for every inch, for every millimeter, his fingers reached only half the distance.
"Pierce," his father intoned solemnly, "you can't stay here."
"I know," Deville wailed, coming as close to whining as he had in twenty years. "Get me out of this cage!"
The senior Deville frowned. "I can't. Letting you out here would do no good even if I could. You need to go back, Pierce. You must stop him."
Blinking, confused, Pierce realized there were unshed tears in his father's eyes. "What?" he croaked, legs threatening to buckle. "But I did! I seized control, father, and murdered us both!" He wished he could force his voice to sound confident. Seeing one of those tears roll onto his father's cheek, he wished he could believe what he was saying. When he continued, it was barely a squeak, full of doubt. "He can't hurt mother now."
"Yes he can." His father floated forward, taking Pierce's hand in his own. "He's there right now, as you, stalking ever closer." Swallowing, he too seemed to be having trouble keeping his voice steady. "Please, Pierce. Save her."
Pierce gave the warm hand a comforting squeeze, steeling his backbone. When he spoke again, his voice held all the emotion of the dead. "I will." His eyes burned into his father's. "I will take control again, but this time I will burn Satan out of me completely before I succumb to death." It wasn't confidence in his voice, or faith, it was simple truth. Truth his father twisted with a shake of his head.
"That won't work; not twice. Satan will be expecting you to try it again, and he will be prepared. He is more powerful than you imagine." It was his turn to give Pierce's hand a squeeze. "You must hurry," he warned forlornly, his glow beginning to dim. "Or you will be too late."
"Wait!" Pierce shouted, watching his father turning ephemeral, feeling his hand losing solidity, turning to mist. "How can I save her? Father! Wait!" His father was just a shadow now. Another moment and the darkness had swallowed him. "No! Father! How?!"
"Remember what I told you last time." The voice came from everywhere at once, though very quietly, fading with each word. "Remember. Put your . . ." It trailed off into nothing, leaving Pierce with the haunting echo of silence ringing in his ears.
"FATHER!"
There was no response, but the blackness seemed to shake with laughter.
He couldn't remember much about that last conversation with his father, the only one they had while both were men. He was so overcome with happiness at finding his father in anything other than a picture or a memory, the details had blurred together in one jumbled mass of elation. The only thing that came to mind was a stern warning not to let the voice take over, not to let The Devil become more than a voice, but that ship had already sailed.
Telling himself he'd swim out and commandeer it if necessary, Pierce clenched his fists and closed his eyes, locking every ounce of concentration on being back in his body, on reclaiming what was his.
~><>...<><~
When The Deville returned this time, it was not a mere re-emergence of his mind in the back of Satan's. This time he launched everything he had, every last fiber of his will, into occupying both his body and mind, denying even the possibility that The Devil might have any control. He told himself he knew his life was his, but his father's words, though he doubted them, saying it would not work twice, tickled the edge of his consciousness. Trying to ignore it but failing, he slammed full force into himself.
Laughing, The Devil swatted the assault aside like a nagging insect, easily exploiting the uncertainty and pushing Deville back into his dark corner. A transparent wall slid firmly in place. Deville howled as he launched himself at it, screaming that it was his life, not Satan's, but he may as well have been trying to topple a mountain with a dull spoon.
That was pretty good, The Devil allowed with a mental nod. I didn't think you had it in you.
The Deville didn't respond, trying to keep all of his attention on continuing the assault with ever-increasing zeal. But his mind was a panicked stallion, trying to race every way at once. Every path seemed to lead to doubt and disaster.
It won't happen again, of course, Satan went on conversationally, moving Deville's body mechanically down the hallway on the upper floor. All of the lights were off, meaning his mother was asleep, but the darkness wasn't the reason for Satan's languid approach. He saw better in pitch black than most could at high noon. No, his lack of hurry was so that he could torture Pierce, so he could savor every precious drop of terror. But good show nonetheless.
You're dead, Deville seethed, trying to make it a statement of fact instead of an empty threat.
No, Satan laughed. That's mommy dearest.
Thunder rumbled malevolently, shaking the house, and Deville cursed the storm. Without it, his mother would have heard him falling down the stairs and known there was an intruder. Perhaps the police would be on their way. Not that they would do any good, Deville knew, and almost scolded himself for the thought. Even if they arrived in time and shot him dead, it would only be a temporary solution; The Devil would simply return and try again.
Strangely, it occurred to Pierce how much this experience must have changed him, wishing for the police. Lecturing himself to stay focused, he pushed the thought from his mind, tried to come up with something that could actually help.
The police, he panted. They'll be on you after this; on me. Your cover might not get blown, but you won't be able to use my body to much effect from a cell. It was desperate and paper-thin, but it was all he could think of. He waited, not daring to move, as the silence stretched.
Satan finally snorted. You know as well as I that covering up our involvement is easily accomplished. Deville did know that, but when you didn't have a hand to play, you had two choices: bluff or fold. He was not prepared to fold. And even if I didn't bother covering it up, the police can't do anything to me, even locked in your pathetically limited body as I am.
Beyond that, he continued richly, what ever gave you the impression I'm trying to save your reputation? I don't care if a million atrocities are laid at your feet, or if you're mentioned in the same breath as Genghis Kahn, Judas, or Hitler once I'm through. I wreak chaos, fool, not order. Your body isn't my first or only vessel, and it assuredly won't be the last.
They were standing in the doorway to his mother's room now, filling it like a plague. She lay serenely on the bed, with the thick down comforter pulled up under her armpits. Her chest rose and fell with the soft, even breathing of deep sleep, her hands folded over top in a pose Pierce did not want to think about. He tried to scream out a warning, tried to wake her, but it only echoed vainly inside his own head.
Satan let the moment stretch. Look at her, he whispered, almost reverently. Sleeping peacefully. A dark cloud swirled over Pierce's corner of their mind, and when The Devil spoke again, reverence had been replaced by malevolence. For the last time. He cackled. Forever.
No! The Deville screamed, renewing his feeble attack, reaching along the barrier, searching for a crack or a hole or anything he might be able to slip through. It was as smooth as a lake of bulletproof glass.
Satan took a hesitant step into the room, enjoying the anticipation.
Pierce began sobbing, doubling up his efforts, feeling more and more helpless the harder he railed against The Lord of Darkness. It truly was hopeless. His mind began gibbering, on the brink of giving up. If only he could remember what his father had told him. If only he had listened to him in the first place. If only he wasn't so greedy, wanting more from life than any man had a right. If only he had let himself die that first time, his mother would have had a chance.
Mother, he bawled, no longer caring about concealing his thoughts. It was too late for that. I-- I'm sorry. Mother, I'm so sorry! He cursed himself for stuttering, for finding the words odd. He was always the one killing, always the one in charge; trying to save someone was foreign to him, a concept beyond his realm of experience. Feeling vulnerable and powerless, having to apologize for failure was as alien and inconceivable to him as dry water.
Was this how his numerous victims had felt, cowering as he toyed with them before the kill, knowing there was no hope but clinging desperately to life on the off-chance it might be hiding somewhere? Was this how they felt as he laughed with the doom he wrought, as if the entire Universe was a vacuum created solely to suck them in and torture them, to mock them? Did they all feel that it would have been better if they had never existed? I'm sorry! he wailed, willing his voice to reach the peaks of Heaven as well as the depths of Hell. If they had felt a hundredth of what Deville was feeling, he hoped they heard. He hoped it wasn't too late for them to accept.
If they felt even a tenth of what Pierce was feeling, watching his mother and damnation growing steadily closer, he couldn't help but feel that maybe he deserved this. As punishment for what he'd done, for those he'd killed, for those he'd made watch, terrified, as he put their families under the knife. But no matter what he had done, no matter what evil he had committed, his mother didn't deserve this. Not for giving birth to him, not for trying to steer him away from that sadistic anarchy.
I'm sorry, mom! he screamed in the soundproof booth of his mind as he loomed over her, right at the side of the bed, with Satan guiding his hands ever-so-slowly, ever-so-patiently towards her supple neck. Oh God, I'm sorry.
Satan barked a sudden laugh at the invocation of that name, and cursed Deville for a dozen different types of fool, all the while bending slowly forward.
Father, Pierce cried, knowing he had failed him. Forgive me. I just couldn't remember. I could never live up to you. Please forgive me. His hands hovered just over his mother's throat now, and she stirred, smacking her lips. Please don't let her wake up, The Deville begged. Please don't let her watch me kill her. When she resumed her contented breathing, though, it was no relief.
At the end of his rope, Deville reached desperately for the memory that eluded him, for his salvation. For his mother's last hope. It remained as amorphous as ever.
Father!
Only an inch now between his hands and her throat.
Help me!
Half an inch.
Help me!
Contact.
Dear God, help me! Please!
A benevolent light suddenly filled his sight, and he felt weightless, as if floating, or being caressed in the sheltering hands of a giant. A small gasp squeaked from his throat as he almost collapsed on top of his mother, every inch of his body cold and tingling with relief. With great care he drew his hands backward, not daring to believe what had happened, what was happening.
Satan was gone. Actually gone. Not hiding in some dark recess of his mind, not hiding in the shadows like the fabled Sword of Damocles. Just gone. Purged from his mind by a power greater than himself, a flooding rush of honesty and integrity and forgiveness, an avalanche of light barreling down and burying the dark mountain that had threatened to crush him.
The Deville might have laughed if he weren't crying and shaking so hard.
His father's parting words from their first meeting in limbo had come back to him, and now they echoed proudly, pulsing with the sense of salvation coursing through his veins.
"Save yourself, my son. Put your faith elsewhere, Pierce.
"Please."
And the Thunder had ceased.
>=)(=<>=)(=<
Prologue
Prologue
On December 31, 1888, the prominent suspect in the Jack The Ripper murders, Montague John Druitt, was found floating on top of a river. He had apparently committed suicide. To everyone’s relief, the murders ceased.
That is until March 1889, when another signature death took its toll on a sixth victim.
They had let their guard down.
They thought it was over.
They hoped it was over.
Much like you hope it’s over.
Much like you pray that you can get away with your shady victory at Survival of the Fittest without having to deal with me again, you let your guard down.
This final FDS, Thunder, is your March 1889.
Your wake up call.
Your demise.
You’ll press forth to Scars & Stripes with a shot at Obo’s WFWF Championship.
But after FDS, everyone will know you don’t deserve it.
er 
