Chapter Text
Tap Tap Tap
My father always told me that only the dead have seen the end of war. My father was unfortunately wrong.
I was as dead as the rest of everyone down in this pit, and yet everywhere I went, there was nothing but strife, conflict, every bit of hatred being poured out like it was dedicated to the ones lost in battles fought long ago. Today will be no different. Today 15 armed men in a convoy made to protect some spoiled Imp brat is going to be shown how 7.62 by 54 millimeter can shred through men like paper, and they best hope they don't resist long enough for the cost of the ammunition to outweigh the contract reward.
Tap Tap Tap
The morning shine of Wrath's numerous volcanoes gleamed over my Altyn's visor, blinding me, whether it be through spite for my actions down here, or perhaps as a constant reminder by the overseers of Heaven that they pushed every last inhabitant down here so long ago - or at least that's what that drunk hound told me so long ago in that seedy bar. I lower the visor, allowing me to get a better view of the highway, as dead as the concrete itself. Barely anyone is up at this hour, so civilian interference shouldn't be a problem. The last thing I need is a civilian to get caught in the crossfire, makes the rest of us look unprofessional.
Unprofessionalism? In Hell? Who would've thought of such a concept?
Tap Tap Tap
Lifting my tired being off the recliner, I stare across the apartment, dishes were still in the sink, a table looked to be ready for a dinner that never came. Echoes of laughter, cheer, many emotions I felt in my old life - but unlike that, I was at least a human, not a sad parody of life that mimics my people. Even from here I could smell the rot of the Styx's fluid emanating from the sink, poor thing had been abandoned by the demons that once dwelled here, probably Imps based off the photographs on the walls, looked to be a family, happy as can be.
That happiness was not meant to be down here. Otherwise they would still be emanating their joy, instead of being God knows where down here.
I slap the now corroded sink, its pipe flying across the room before landing itself in the wall. The ever present memory of its usage now forgotten by the rest of Hell.
Forgotten by all, except by me, the sad armored louse.
That soon will dissipate, much like other such demonic events down here.
My white whale appeared over the horizon, with the intel being correct as the bore sight itself. That fat oaf was right for once, he could've added that it would've taken a few days for his little vans to show up but where's the fun in that? Sometimes watching the walls peel away while contemplating your numerous life choices is what a man like me needs!
I prepared myself, breathing in the rancid air, LMG mounted to the rotted hole in the wall, three armored vehicles shouldn’t be too much for the old machine - nor the little bits of potassium underneath the depreciated road.
The engines of those armored monstrosities screamed louder and louder, my implement of red painting sitting on the window seal in that ruined apartment waiting for the right moment to brush my target’s contracted workers into the road itself. And once they were successfully close enough to the point of no return, a click was heard from the detonator, and like a symphony of a tune extremely common down here in this hole, the ground shook, with rocks and debris alongside various shrapnel flying across the highway, not enough to collapse it, but enough to make a pothole look like a minor nuisance.
A flurry of bullets soon followed the tune of the explosives, the lightly armored guards desperately tried their hardest to take shelter behind the car while straddling the spoiled brat behind the bodies. Screams, orders, anything that can be classified as a voice were drowned out by the screaming of that beautiful machine gun tearing through their convoy like paper.
Once the final round was exhausted, a reload was reciprocated for its efforts and I took a running leap towards the highway of death, breaking the wall of my encampment as I crashed through towards the objective, landing onto the side of the road, the weight of this juggernaut armor causing the a cloud of debris to fly through the air for a second time. A few of the demons still remained, many of them grasping on wounds far too grievous for their regeneration to mend all while rubbing their eyes from the amount of dust and grime in the air. Before they could even ready their weapons, they were already made short work of through the actions of the LMG, with their arms and legs being blown off, with the sole Hellhound shock trooper's jaw being blown into pieces while grasping at its ruined face, a saddening display for such a large imposing creature. It's shock turned to anger upon seeing me, desperately trying to rush at me with his shotgun in hand, it proved little use when met with a rush of bullets from the LMG that turned the hound into a shriveling mess of guts and fur.
The security team being dealt with, I locked my position towards the Imp I was paid to capture, his arm bent out of place thanks to the explosive surprise set earlier, it’ll be the customer’s problem to deal with this injury.
“What the fuck are you? Some sort of sicko?” The small red creature sputtered. “Do you have any idea who my friends are? They’ll hang you from your entrails with you ALIVE! You brimstone whore I'll-.”
If I wasn’t paid extra I would cut the tongue out of this crimson midget and force him to eat it, fortunately for him, the money was too good. So I compromised with a swift bash to the back of his head with my beautiful weapon to make lugging his pitiful excuse of a Hellborn easier for the both of us. Though chances are the customer would do far worse to him than anything my mind could conjure on a full stomach.
The walk to the extraction point was one of the more relaxing excursions I’ve had in a little while, considering the volatile nature of Wrath Circle. No one was going to mess with a heavily armored man with an LMG on one side of his person, and a red tinted breathing paperweight on the other side, at best I hope to get is a weird stare, at worst, perhaps a stabbing for having a perfectly good collection of still functioning imp organs on me.
Many of the butcherers and executioners were still long asleep from dredging in the blood of their victims, or whatever can be classified as a victim in this hellfire infused region. The menial Imp and Hellhound workers are probably still preparing to go to work in the numerous bullet factories around the area, or simply giving good wishes to their families, a horrifyingly human trait I learned from many of the conversations overheard in the whiskey hotels littered around this realm. Shaking the thought, I continue down the more urban road through the collection of apartments and stores getting closer and closer towards my contact, taking in the views and sounds of people preparing for another hard day. I still found it remarkable how these creatures have enough compassion to fall in love, have children, and let them hear of their tall tales while having enough energy to butcher and maim anything else with little to no regard. Its almost as if they taunt me with the sounds with the joy of kin, how far have I fallen to feel envy towards the happiness of literal demons?
Just as I felt a sense of ease and calm, that feeling was yanked away as I felt the hard hitting heated blast against my back, I dropped the still unconscious bastard as I tried my hardest to pull myself off the ground. Readying my weapon, I try to spot the oppressor as I rush for cover, only to be met with another concussive blast to my chest while seeing my would be killer.
On the rooftops lies my adversary with a sniper rifle, intently scoped in, whether to kill me and steal my gear, to steal my target and get paid for it, or realistically both. The choice did not matter, I was going to make sure this dirty long barreled bastard got what he so longed for, a grenade.
Using one hand to provide suppressing fire towards my adversary and the other reaching for the grenade, the subsequent sniper rifle shots were inaccurate as they were heated, cars were going off, windows were being blown in numerous pieces, the walls being cracked open like an egg, everything on this street was in the crossfire, everything but me. Once the pin was pulled, a bit of dopamine reached my brain as the small cling of the pin hitting the ground was heard on my tired ears, and quickly faded by my swift throw towards the base of the roof of the long barreled terror.
At first there was silence, then the swiftness of footsteps, followed by the imminent explosion of the haphazardly put together explosive I had gifted the assassin. I saw as he landed face first into some poor bastard’s parked car, if he hadn’t died then, he sure as hell wished he did once I grabbed his small frame. I pulled him off the car and smashed him back first into the pavement, a small crack being heard in the process, hopefully not being anything important, I had quite the questions in the two minutes I had first met him. Instead of trying to fight back, his bleeding hand reached towards the side of his head, talking into the headset he had, it was then I realized that this individual was clad in gear befitting a high ranking mercenary, the camo, the small body armor, even the headset looked to be properly invested in. It did little to help him today. A merc of his price range should've at least used a higher caliber to breach the ballistic plating, rather than relying on concussive blasts.
“Come on, you can’t leave me like this! I followed your orders…” The Imp muttered as he spat out bits of glass and blood from his mouth, “I know you can hear me on this damn frequency…”
Grabbing the headset, I held it to my helmet, hoping to hear any communication between the possible second assailant I would have to kill today, but was met with silence, just as he was. Reaching for his collar, I began by interrogation, “Were you here for the Imp, or did you just want to kill me?”
“Kill you? No…she wouldn’t want that… Makes sense…” He smiled at me for a second, before fear quickly made itself known across his face.
“How does it make sense, and who is she?” Impatience soon left me kneeling over the cretin. I should bring him to a dark alley and beat him until he talks like the little shit he is.
But a mercenary like him? Barely twenty, poor thing is nothing more than a conscript in this terrible war we call Hell.
"Obviously she needed me for bait… check the PDA … left pocket …"
“How do I know it's not a kill switch for the two of us?” My fist curled, lucky bastard has an out.
“You don't…”
He was right, I didn’t know, but I could sure as hell take a suicide blast even from this range, but it would cost a fortune to get the armored repaired enough to compensate. Curiosity did kill the cat after all, but I’ll make sure this red cat who tried to kill me dies first.
Reaching into the left shirt pocket, I uncovered the personnel digital assistant to oversee his clarifications while he continued to spit out more and more blood, whenever it be from his close encounter with my grenade’s shrapnel or falling 2 stories onto the haphazardly put together convertible was as uncertain as my understanding of his motives. And then the mission designation hit me with its digital light.
CURRENT DIRECTIVE
ALLOW CAPTURE OF SUBJECT ALPHA FROM THE MERC
RENDEZVOUS WITH MERC TO SEIZE ALPHA VIA ANY MEANS
RECONTACT BROKER TO PROVIDE ALPHA AT HALF COST OF ORIGINAL CONTRACT
ESTABLISH RELATIONSHIP WITH BROKER FOR FURTHER COOPERATION IN FUTURE
A tale as old as time, send in two parties to deal with each other, and then kill the winner to steal his work. Been a while since the Sultan screwed me over out of a payment by having me deal with unknown combatants, all the more reason to cut ties with that fat pig of a man.
“Recontact broker? I’m assuming Sultan put you up to this?”
The Imp was still wheezing, looking up in shock, horror, or at least a combination of the two, with desperation in his eyes.
“Wait wait wait… That wasn’t the mission description, she changed the parameters to..." He began coughing all over me, his eyes shaking for a second, his death soon imminent - excuses, excuses, excuses, excuses rang out across my mind, by the time he finally finished his words I was already moving myself, "...make me look bad - you have to believ-”
Losing my patience from the ensuing battle that left my armor punctured along with hoping to show his “friend” of what I could do if they continued their pursuit, I discharged numerous rounds into his right leg, or what was once his right leg, as it had been blown into numerous large red chunks, he screamed out in pain, numerous profanities leaving his mouth as he began to drag himself away only to be met with the stock of my PKM. What was once a coughing of blood soon turned into the wheezing of his face fragments as each subsequent bashing of his head was met with more and more Ichor. Never losing myself to the display of ferocity was far more difficult than ensuring that each strike with my rifle was powerful enough to crack his head open. The screams then dimmed after the 2nd bash as did the motion of his limbs just as his own horns began to fall off from his skull, soon fading into a bloody memory. By the end of our interaction he had more to do with the concrete than any living creature on this mortal plane.
Dripping with his blood, I let the LMG subside onto my chest with the sling, and let it straddle closely as I picked up the still unconscious bounty target. By the time he was over my shoulder I had noticed a small crowd of Imps, Hellhounds, and other species of the Wrath circle had gathered along the building that I gifted my grenade to. How much of the interaction they saw between the sniper and I did not matter, their eyes had told me I had long overstayed my welcome. Maybe they were angry at the gunfire I had given that interrupted that morning, or maybe it was the grenade that probably woke up the entire neighborhood, or maybe it was the fact that the cremators would soon visit the Imp's corpse and leave that pungent smell in the air. The point is I hoped that his partner that abandoned him had seen what I was willing to do, and thoroughly retreated to prevent the same fate from occurring on their person.
As I passed the crowd towards the objective I had noticed their staring, some of them of fear of seeing one of their fellow Hellspawn be reduced to mush, some of hostility for causing such a disturbance with the gunshots, but one stare had caught my curiosity. A little hellhound girl, seemingly the breed of a guard dog from a world forever closed off to me, but still a little girl all the same, she had the stare of indifference, of someone who saw this on the regular, and grew to live with it. A trait that I, unfortunately, concurred with. Understandable for me, but for someone barely old enough to hold a rifle? I question why I had a sense of morality, I didn't lose myself to the display of violence neither did I let him suffer long, I even didn't have to excuse myself for doing such a thing, he was the one who open fired upon me first, maybe the grenade was too much, perhaps using the LMG to cut him down would've been the more humane option, but is it really humane to kill a man faster if it lead to him being unrecognizable by those who saw his fate? I had to kill him, the little girl knew it, he knew it, I knew it, it had to be done, chances are if he had the advantage and actually pierced the armor to deal sizeable damage and finally kill me then so bet it. Why should his death be stared at and not the rest of the others who met a far worse fate down here? Was I supposed to let him finish his sentence? Should I let him explain why he attacked me in the first place? Or maybe I should've just shot him, rather than splatter him across the sidewalk, running in circles with my thinking now, many jobs in the past had interferences with others wanting to take advantage of the situation, this one was no different so why was I thinking about this Imp who had equipment far too expensive for someone of his stupid actions?
Shaking the thought for the time being, I continue to walk down the street towards the alleyway. I spot the driver, who looks to be a shark person, possibly from the Gluttony circle, smoking a cigarette with one hand, and twiddling his keys with the other. His eyes meet mine, uninterested in neither the fountain of blood on my person nor the unconscious Imp on my shoulder and proceeds to open the trunk of the car to allow entry for the cargo.
“Pulemyot, right? You’re late,” He floundered the cigarette across his jawed mouth, soon making way to a frown.
“I got sidetracked by a bandit.”
“Did you do it from around the corner or something? I could hear the racket all the way from here,” He raised his arms before the two of us moved to the back of the car, where the package was to be placed.
“No, that was someone trying to steal my bounty, how did you even know it was me making noise and not some other demon?”
“Considering the blood that's on you along with the video of you beating the absolute shit out of some red bellied monkey, that doesn't leave anyone else in mind.”
Someone was recording the entire scene, perhaps it can be used as a teaching tool of not what to do as a combatant, similar to the execution video tapes shown to us back in training before being sent out to the mountains. Those cold dusty Caucasus mountains feel almost like a terrible hazy memory, with the blood still seeping through my hands.
He hopped a short way into the air, swiping the Imp from my shoulders, he then grabbed some duct tape and began to wrap the small creature to the cargo container. The Imp's seating arrangement is probably going to be the second worst thing that's going to happen to him today.
“It would be easier to just tie a bag over his head, why don’t you do that?”
“His little mommy is going to pay a ton more if she sees him all taped up like that - that, and I like the way Imp skin feels, how it squirms under my nails.” The sick fuck then began to wipe his hands before returning back to tying the demon inside the trunk.
“Just make sure to tie his hands as well.”
"I was getting to that,” His smile soon dissipated, as his sight was turned towards the broken arm. He looked towards me - anger in his raspy voice, “What the hell did you do to my cargo?”
“Explosives stopped the convoy in place, some of the shrapnel must’ve punctured the vehicle he was in and hit him in the arm. The regen should take care of the rest,” Gazing upon the shoulder that had returned to it's previous position on the expensive looking jacket of the Imp. Such clothing cannot possibly compare to the nobility of the Goetia or even the Overlords, but it looked custom tailored to him, and him alone.
A ransom would soon put the spending to the test.
“At least he ain't bleeding, well, yet anyway.” The smile of the shark man soon returned, before placing the now exhausted tape roll into his jacket.
Once he was finally done managing his prisoner, he locked the trunk to prevent any unneeded complications from arising, before giving me one last stare as he tosses the cigarette to the floor.
“You know the rules about getting paid?” His scaled brow raised.
“You’re the driver, and you don’t know when and who I’ll get contacted by.” The flow from my mouth was burnt into my brain at this point. Still didn't stop the Imp and Hellhound spirit mercs from asking, dragging the rest of us less than honest mercs across the mud.
“Finally glad one of you thick skulled mercs finally knows.” He swiftly entered the vehicle, roaring to life. I let the car reverse out of the alleyway before going down the road faster than the speeding bullets I am so accustomed to letting discharge. Knowing the job is done, I flip open the hood of the Altyn, and retreat down the street, hoping to recuperate anywhere with a hard enough bed. Alone with my thoughts once again, I stared longingly at the large hole in the sky as the sounds of gunfire, explosions, and other wartime musicals echoed across the Styx.
The rest of the day was tense, but ultimately uneventful. I had expected that partner of that sniper to eventually find and finish the work her partner had failed to complete, but so far, complete silence, even after I stripped out of my gear in some dingy motel where the sunlight dares not extend over in this little corner of Wrath. I’ll give those snipers some credit, they did enough damage with those concussive blasts to put a sizeable dent in the chest, both in my armor and my person, along with making the armor plates fracture upon feeling the grasp of my hand as I tried to replace them. Hours passed as I continually plucked pieces of debris, bullet shavings, and Imp residue off using the interrogation pliers on the armor that protected me for the years I’ve been here. I continually dug into my chest hoping to pick out the bullet fragments from the blast and the few armed guards that survived long enough to take a shot at me, each subsequent dig hurting for a second, before being numbed by the regen. My meditation session was being honed with the low quality VOX branded machine continually blared out infomercials, with the odd news story here and there, such as continual destability in the Gluttony ring thanks to the inhabitants eating the very foundation of buildings in their delusions, didn't help that the rest of the inhabitants were either too drunk to help rebuild or continued to serve their own delusions of pleasure. After the reporter was torn limb from limb by the ensuing inhabitants of Gluttony, another reporter took his place and soon detailed the continued clashes between Imp and Hellhound populace in Pride layer, with some Overlord sponsoring the entire operation by selling weapons to both sides. Business as usual in this pit.
Finally, the broadcast featured a special talking point about the continued efforts of some royalty party trying to convince another Goetia faction to join forces in one united union, at the cost of playing second fiddle. From what I gathered from underworld politics and its close proximity to the mercenary business, it's not enough for someone to get a piece, they want the biggest juiciest succulent piece all for themself, willing to exert themselves and their own legacy to death out of stubbornness alone just to cause a larger headache for the other factions.
“One of the royal families of Ars Goetia, had this to say about the offer.”
The Succubi broadcaster’s camera then shifted towards one of the tall avian royals within a large conference chamber, one of which had a pristine dress, fitting for an elegant matriarch such as herself, her headpiece being made out of a metal as rare as a decent meal down here, and those eyes, piercing and vivid as a nuclear fire, and I could’ve sworn she was staring at me through the screen. But perhaps I was simply too tired to think that, and just as that stare faded her beak moved, a voice came fourth, elegant as it was primal.
“To allow ourselves to be managed by those dirty barbarians is an insult far greater than the excuse an ex husband could conjure. We, Ars Goetia, are above such petty unions, and such, would rather allow ourselves to be managed by us and ONLY us.”
Just as she uttered that sentence, a cry was overheard from the atrium, a slightly taller Goetia, based on what seemed to be a Canary cried out over the insult.
“Your ex husband led a bunch of dirty hedonistic mercenaries to attack your own property, and were only stopped when your own father had to step in to prevent him from kicking in your own brother’s skull. A foul excuse for royalty when a literal war is going on your own front lawn.”
Clearly the feathered woman was outraged by this comment, worse things have been uttered in bars, but to be questioned with the large hell populace watching in their own homes? Clearly this is going to turn from an information driven news broadcast to a bad comedy play.
“Oh I’m sure you would know all about your father getting involved in your business, considering he dragged you out of a bloody Succubi ‘Bachelor’ club in nothing but your BIRTHDAY SUIT.” Screeching as the feathers on her person rose in defiance. “But I’m quite sure you wouldn’t let such a ‘foul excuse’ go through the grand Serinus grasp!”
“My Kingdom would never let their head patriarch of the house have an affair with half the servants under your command, alongside some blood thirsty mercenary. But I am still quite sure someone as intelligent as you would NEVER let such an event go unnoticed, it would surely keep you up the entirety of the night with all that racket!”
The bickering of the bird people eventually caused a nearby interjection of what seemed to be a peacock as white as the Arctic itself, bound in some sort of light blue regalia, his demeanor far more solitary than the two current aggressors, his hand reaching out of his coat, extending towards the swan woman.
“Dearest sister, our conflicts lie with outside belligerents, perhaps we can save your rage for another time and place, and not against our potential allies.”
She looked down for but a moment, until acquiescing to her brother’s request. The broadcast went on as normal, as if those petty outbursts never happened, all while going on about possible alliances and relations with neighboring Goetia parties with their own equally confusing agendas. Perhaps there is a business to be had with both parties, stockpiling blackmail against both sides and getting paid all the same, might have to ask the Sultan for such an arrangement, if he doesn’t already send the other assassin after me during the long night.
The subsequent shower in this equally grimy bathroom concluded as I washed off any possible residue gathered from the mission today, all things considered, it went well enough, no civilian casualties and went through the supplies and ammo I was prepared to lose, thus siphoning any possible losses for the repairs on my combat armor. Looking towards the mirror, a large pink bruise on the side of my grey back and chest where that sniper hit me, no pain was gathered when pressure was applied, but a coating of envygel could solve the issue by tomorrow, the numerous scars and cuts from battles long fought over the years were a different matter all together. Washing off any residue sweat was also easy enough, having to look at the battered mug of a face I still inherit even after my fall from the mortal plane was the difficult part, it was almost as if I was looking at a walking talking corpse, fortunately with none of the rot except the dead grey pupils.
My dog tags clanged around my neck as I put on the tank top I woke up with alongside the shorts to allow ease of access when having to equip the armor again in the morning, but for now rest and recuperation was required, especially with an important business call with the Sultan about my pay for the less than honest work today. Once the grenade trap was set by the motel door alongside my bestest friend being maintained for future encounters we might face together, I began to focus more on today’s events in the heavily ramshackle together journal.
Hello Sister, Today was a difficult day…