VII. Holy War

Dawn broke over New Liberty. The light of the sun cut through the hanging canopies of smog and touched the glimmering glass surface of the One World Bank. A handful of people below knew that it was for the last time.

Lucian Briggs stood a quarter mile away, standing on Ross Gibson's left, watching a television screen. All it showed was one of New Liberty's countless skyscrapers, light glinting off its reflective surface.

"Behold, gentlemen," said Robert Keyes. "Our first major blow. My organization has been organizing this for seven months. Fourteen operatives have died for this."

Keyes was holding a black box with a row of recessed buttons. "And now, it's time for vengeance."

Lucian held his breath as Keyes depressed the buttons, one after another.

After a few seconds, Lucian breathed again, reluctantly. Nothing had happened. Gibson hadn't moved.

"Is it going to--" he started to say before Gibson gestured towards the screen.

Lucian watched. Without warning, the center levels of the building's east side erupted into flames. The infrastructure collapsed, and the upper half of the building began to fall like a great tree. As the splintered building crashed to earth, three more charges detonated into the falling hulk, covering the entire block with flames. Lucian watched, transfixed, as the west side of the building's foundation exploded, sending the remaining half of the building in the opposite direction of the first. Like its counterpart, the lower section of the building exploded on impact. The camera pulled back; the entire block had been levelled.

"Impressive." said Gibson.

"It should be." said Keyes.

Lucian was simply horrified.

"Is this something you could duplicated?" asked Gibson.

"It would be difficult." said Keyes. "That was the most involved we've yet undertaken, and between this and the explosion downtown last week, security is going to be over the top for awhile."

"What if you had a prophet on your side?" asked Gibson.

"If I didn't believe in your abilities," said Keyes, "you wouldn't be in this room right now. And it's because of those same abilities that I want you to be a part of my organization."

Gibson paced across the room. "I'm not interested in joining you."

Keyes did a double take. "What?"

"These rebel cells aren't efficient, not against an enemy like Rehnquist. We need to unify the insurgent groups against their common enemy; create a coordinated plan of attack. As a dozen tiny rebel factions, we have no hope of success. As a single, large group, we can hurt Rehnquist."

"No one's ever been able to get the rebel cells together; their aims are too different."

"Just because it's never been done doesn't mean it's impossible." said Gibson. "And unlike everyone before us, I know how to do it."

"Really?" said Keyes. "This I must hear."

"It's a simple idea with a complex execution. Rehnquist kills anyone who he even suspects of being an insurgent. All we have to do is make it so that our soldiers aren't afraid of death."

Keyes and Lucian gave Gibson blank looks. In frustration, Gibson pounded a table with his fist.

"Religion! I speak to God, I can make sure that every one of our men who dies in battle goes to heaven! Gentlemen, a dedicated group of revolutionaries isn't enough, and it never has been. What we need is a Jihad!"

VI. Metamorphosis

Darrus left the brothel and stepped out into the veiled sunlight of the early afternoon. Winter's last gasp kept a chill under the canopies, but the weather was getting warmer. Soon the dubious pleasure of summer in New Liberty would come again.

Darrus should be headed back to Hell to check the Nexus for relevant information regarding escaped Nightmares, but a strange fancy had overtaken. It was made stranger by the fact that he hadn't experienced impulsive desires like this since he'd been alive. Darrus went through a door to the subterranean level and came out across the street from a quaint Italian bistro a quarter-mile away.

"Glad to see they're still in business." he said to himself.

Darrus' coat had many supernatural qualities, one of which was that it never ran out of 20 credit notes. Apparently money that was destroyed was recouped in Hell, making the notes legal tender. 20 credit notes wore out relatively quickly, so there was an effectively infinite supply. As such, the bistro hardly noticed when a tall man with long, graying hair sat by himself in the smoking section and paid all in twenties.

Darrus walked out of the bistro with a foreign expression on his face he had only worn once in recent memory--a smile. The sunshine hit his face, and a wave of euphoria washed over him. For the first time since he had been Darius Briggs, Darrus was happy.

The idea hit him like a ton of bricks. Something was wrong. He had been damned--while his role was significantly less unpleasant than the fate of most in Hell, he was not meant to actively enjoy it. Happiness was not an emotion to be experienced by those that hailed from the pit. He decided that he should immediately report back to Cankerworm.

Then he realized that he didn't want to. This was another shock. Darrus didn't have a complete set of free will. He shouldn't be able to bring himself to disobey. These revelations were disturbing. In the past two hours, he'd defied Hell, declined to return when he should have, and had felt human emotions. Something was very, very wrong.

"It's like I'm becoming human again..." he muttered. No one seemed to notice him. He grabbed a cigarette from his pocket and lit up, then realized something else. He'd been a smoker in life, but not after--he couldn't remember having smoked even once before being summoned by those teenagers earlier in the day. He didn't even know his coat could produce cigarettes--he'd had the lighter to summon hellfire, but the cigarettes were new. He'd simply accepted their presence without even thinking about it.

Darrus started walking, trying to clear his head, puffing on the mysterious cigarette as he went.

Something in him had changed. He tried tapping into the Nexus. Without an intermediary, it was difficult to make contact from Earth, but there didn't seem to be anything about a demon outgrowing his persona. So whatever had happened wasn't in the usual order of things. Darrus was able to narrow down the sources of interference to three events.

The first was being summoned by the teenagers. He'd never heard of demons being changed by interaction with humans, especially amateurs like those five. In fact, the change usually went the other way.

The second was that drifting between Earth and Hell had somehow affected him. It was normal to have a short jump outside of any type of reality when overwalking through doors--that was what made the experience so unpleasant for mortals--but Darrus frantic and damaged form hadn't outlined an exit, causing him to linger outside reality for considerably longer than the norm. Darrus knew this sort of thing had happened before; he recalled one case he'd learned from the Nexus involving a 14th century Witch Hunter severely wounding a demon on the run. The demon drifted like Darrus had for almost seventeen months before being summoned back into reality. No demon had memory of the space between worlds, probably because there was literally nothing there to remember. Contact with the Nexus was too sketchy for Darrus to determine if the change he was experiencing had its root in such an incident.

The final possibility was one that scared Darrus the most. It was possible that the change had been caused by being enveloped in the Fury's energy. If that was the case, there was no telling where the changes would stop. The thing that worried him most about this possibility was that the same thing could be happening to Szziszzigji. If the metamorphosis continued, there was no telling how power Szziszzigji could become--and without a demon to watch over him, he'd be without a leash, loose on Earth.

Darrus' introspection was interrupted when he noticed a flickering light in a doorway a block or so down the road. Specifically, he noticed it jump from that door to one directly in his path. He became wary; had Hell figured out what he had? Worse yet, had they decided that he was a loose cannon?

If so, the flicker he'd just seen would have been a Rhythm Blade, the chosen weapon of the Reavers, Hell's assassins--Darrus knew that Rhythm Blades had a beam of light constantly working across their surface. Darrus liked to hope the Reaver would try to restrain him first, but had no way of knowing. If it came down to a fight, Darrus would almost surely lose--Searchers were taught evasive combat, but Reavers were masters at arms.

Darrus decided the best course of action would be to run for it; to go back into Hell and confess the difficulties to Cankerworm. Darrus ducked through a door and appeared in Cankerworm's office.

Four Guardians were in the office waiting for him. They all grabbed him.

"Cankerworm! What's going on!?" Darrus demanded of the Archdevil.

"It seems that all is not well with you, Darrus." said Cankerworm. "But don't worry, we're certain we can have you restored in a few days or so. Take him away."

Before Darrus could say another word, the Guardians dragged him off and forced him into a magma tube. The door shut, and divine energy washed over him. Cankerworm arrived shortly after and spoke to the operator.

"What seems to be his problem?" Cankerworm asked.

"He's full of Fury energy." said the operator. "It's giving him some extra free will, and if he'd bothered to try it, he can probably shapeshift. It's a good thing we caught him now; there's no telling how this would've gone even a day later."

"So the metamorphosis was still progressing?"

"You bet. He was the only one who had contact with the Fury and survived, right?"

"It's likely."

"I hope nobody else did. I don't even want to think about what it'd be like, trying to fix somebody further down the line."

"How long will this take?"

The operator glanced over his instruments. "I'd say about...seventy hours."

The operator laughed. "I hope he didn't have any appointments to keep."

Cankerworm wasn't amused. "Indeed." he said, and left.

V. New Liberty Bell

Lilith and Darrus came to one of the brothel's innumerable ornate doorways. Lilith withdrew a key from her pocket, unlocked it, and slipped through, Darrus in tow. They were in a small room, about four feet to a side. Beyond it was another locked door which Lilith pushed open. Darrus was caught aback by the contrast beyond. While the rest of the house looked like a baroque mansion that was honestly trying too hard, the hall in front of him resembled the recently demolished New Liberty Hospital for the Mentally Ill. There were austere white walls, doors marked only by numbers, and institional carpetting illuminated by flickering flourescent lighting.

Lilith caught Darrus' reaction. "This is where we sleep alone."

"But this place is so...barren." he said.

"It's by necessity. It keeps costs down, of course, but the girls need a relief from the gaudiness out there, too. You try eating cake three times a day for a week and see if you don't want some plain white bread afterward."

Darrus understood the metaphor, but reflected that he hadn't actually eaten since he was alive--more than twenty years ago.

"Why the double locks?" Darrus asked.

"Because customers don't like to think of us as real people. That and it would clash with the whole image of this place." Lilith sighed in disgust.

Lilith led him down the hall to a room numbered 203. She produced another key and unlocked it. Behind it was a small, gently furnished room. They stepped inside, and Lilith shut the door.

"You know," said Darrus. "For a succubus, you certainly seem to loathe sex."

Lilith sneered at him. "Let's just say that I've come to regret the choice I made all those years ago."

"What would damnation be without regret?" Darrus said, more to the world in general than to Lilith.

"Regardless," said Lilith, examining a shelf in the corner. "You need to tell me just what I'll be creating a beacon for, what range it needs, and then we need to choose what object to attach the beacon to. You're familiar how they work, correct?"

"It's been awhile. As I recall, you attach a subconscious signal to a mundane object, which then draws all of the target audience within range towards the beacon. Correct?"

"Enough to understand how it works. So, what exactly are you looking for?"

Darrus lit a cigarette. "You've heard about the blast downtown by now, correct?"

"Days ago. The TV said it was Insurgent activity, as if anyone in the Outer Warrens gives a damn."

"It wasn't insurgent activity. I was there. There was some sort of lesser-known fallen angel called a Fury that was going after an inmate at the New Liberty Hospital for the Mentally Ill. Apparently they were soldiers in Lucifer's army who exclusively fought against the Big Man, not for Lucifer. When they lost, they refused to be cast into the Pit with Lucifer's loyalists, so the Big Man exiled them to the moon. This one found its way onto a shuttle from the moon and ran around Earth for a few decades. Then he started killing things that had no right to be killed--an angel first, then one of our Searchers. He was after a prophet at the NLHMI when I got there. Eighteen Guardians, myself, and a Nightmare I'd brought with me for protection were all there. I wounded the Fury; Szziszzigji, the Nightmare, killed it. The problem was, when it died, all its energy surged outward--that was the source of the blast, not some Insurgent bomb. It was divine energy, so all eighteen Guardians were destroyed. I leapt through a door, half-stunned, and drifted between worlds for three days before some would-be witches managed to summon me this morning. The problem is that the inspection team that disposed of the Guardians remains and created the insurgent rumor didn't know that a Nightmare was present during the blast. They weren't looking for one, but they didn't find one, either. Or any signs of one."

"So there's a Nightmare running around New Liberty with corporeal form?" asked Lilith, raising her eyebrows. "What does it look like?"

"Three legs, all different lengths. Six-inch fangs, two red eyes, horns, a red mohawk, two arms, a tentacle and a tail. It's about twelve feet tall at the tops of the horns."

"And you think something like this could hide out in one of the largest cities on Earth for three days without being detected, after surviving a blast that killed 18 Guardian Devils and nearly killed one of the most clever Searchers in Hell?"

Darrus smiled inwardly at the compliment. "Most likely. Szziszzigji isn't just a normal Nightmare. Whoever thought it up had a truly twisted mind. It's capable of regenerating damaged flesh simply lurking in the shadows, and can make itself invisible. It has no odor, doesn't eat, and would certainly have no trouble defending itself if attacked."

"Can it communicate?" asked Lilith.

"Yes, but not in a traditional way. Its mouth is all wrong for speech, and it can't communicate telepathically, per se. Whatever pertinent thought it has, it shifts over to you. Everything it wants you to know is implicit, but you can usually get the idea of what it's trying to say."

"Unusual."

"Very. I brought it here as protection, considering it's so good at survival. Now that seems to have backfired."

"I take it your boss is worried about it breaking free?"

"He didn't say so, but I suspect as much. Since it's not truly a demon--"

"Hell has no concrete control over it. I understand. This," Lilith picked a small hand bell off the shelf in front of her, "should do nicely. Step outside, I require concentration to make this bell into the beacon."

"Right." Darrus went outside and waited. After a few minutes, there was a flash from beneath the door. Darrus pressed his ear to the door and heard Lilith coughing.

"Is it done?" he called.

"Yes!" she answered between coughs. "Come in!"

The door was locked, but it was hardly a barrier. Darrus grabbed the handle and the tumblers slid open. He went inside. Smoke was everywhere, but it was quickly dissipating.

"Did something go wrong?"

"No. It always does that. Your beacon is ready."

"I have another request." said Darrus.

"What now?"

"Can I leave it here? I have no permanent location to draw Szziszzigji to."

Lilith gave Darrus a piercing glare. "For how long?"

"Three days."

"Forget it. Every nightmare in the city will be clustered here by then."

"A day, then." said Darrus. "With any luck, Szziszzigji will be the only thing it attracts, anyway."

"Luck." said Lilith. "Is not something I'm inclined to believe in."

"Come now, Lilith. Perhaps luck believes in you." said Darrus, a smile cracking his face.

"Very well. Twenty-four hours, then it's out of here. Understand?"

"Perfectly. It'll be thrown into the Lake of Fire by this time tomorrow."

"It had better. The last thing I need is more nightmares in my existence."

IV. Underworld

Darrus came out of a doorway in the Outer Warrens of New Liberty. Located at the metropolis' southern end, it was a notorious red light district. Most demons didn't bother with the place; every soul there was either so tainted that any demonic interventioni was redundant, or else was completely untemptable and had come in the vain hope of redeeming one of the others.

It was also a hotbed for insurgent activity, which was why it had grown on Darrus.

Darrus stepped out into the street. A place this dark didn't slow down just because it was daytime. A network of canopies had been set up, hanging between the buildings. Gloom was requisite for such a place.

Darrus took the scenic route, if one could call it that, to the particular brothel he was looking for. He reached it in a few minutes time. It was a middle-of-the-road house of negotiable affection; a bit too pricey for the lowest classes, but not even attempting the raunchy mockery of class the more expensive houses displayed. It had been chosen because it saw the most economically diverse clientelle; Hell was always concerned with reaching all it could. This place was just nonthreatening enough to encourage a few uncorrupted souls inside, and to make the marginally corrupted seal the deal.

Sex itself wasn't the problem. None of the Big Man's laws specifically forbade it, provided that neither partner was married to someone not partaking in the union. It was the other elements that did it. Addiction encouraged theft, which was against the Big Man's law. Cheap, abundant prostitution encouraged infidelity--another no-no. The guilt experienced by some customers lead them to lengths that were unacceptable, or else the discovery of their deeds set events of the same nature in motion. The sex itself was merely the centerpiece the sins used as a vehicle. Street preachers would occasionally venture inside the Outer Warrens in the hope of dispelling any aspect of the darkness--they usually met with no success, and other times gave a route for another forbidden sin--murder.

Darrus arrived at the brothel and went inside. Business was slow, considering the sun was up.

"Good morning." said the hostess as Darrus strode through the foyer. She stood behind a podium with a velvet rope barring the way. "What are your personal preferences, and how much will you be willing to spend today?"

"I'm actually not here to patronize." said Darrus. No longer being human, sex wasn't particularly interesting to Darrus. "I wish to speak to one of your...employees."

The woman seemed vaguely insulted with the pause, meaning it had served its purpose. "Well, we really don't make a practice of--"

Her qualms were forgotten when Darrus laid a 20 credit note on the podium in front of her. "Right, then. Give me her name, and if she isn't currently engaged, I'll send her up."

"Lilith DeCarte." said Darrus.

"I'll be right back."

Darrus lingered in the foyer, peering at the garrish decor. The place was predominantly deep red--a color Darrus had seen enough of, as of late--and was heavily perfumed. If Darrus had needed to breath, he likely would have choked on the stuff. He absent-mindedly withdrew a cigarette and lit it. Darrus continued to rotate around the room, taking in its mock glory.

There was the sound of a throat clearing behind Darrus. He turned. The figure facing him was certainly beautiful, but in a frayed, half-damaged sort of way. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five, and looked as though she had grown up as the sort of girl that boys dream about but never get any further; unattainable, perfect, unapologetically feminine. But somewhere along the line, something had gone wrong, and she had wound up here, deprecating herself for the amusement of others. She wore too much makeup, as if hoping to cover up the fact that, though no one batted an eye and her presence, she didn't truly belong here.

It was a cunning illusion, all things considered.

"Lilith." said Darrus.

"Darrus, put out the cigarette." said the girl, stepping towards him in a manner more forceful than her form would suggest her capable of.

"Ah, yes." said Darrus, flicking it away. "Hell forbid that the place reek of anything other than what you folks have prescribed."

"What brings you here?" asked Lilith.

"I'm looking for something, and I require your service."

Lilith's shoulder's heaved. "I have many, many services to speak of. Which one were you referring to?"

"To create a beacon, to lure him in."

Lilith glanced at an ornate grandfather clock beyond the podium. "I suppose. I have the time. Come with me."

The girl who had greeted Darrus came back to her post just in time to notice that Darrus passed through the velvet rope, rather than over it. She dismissed it when she saw Lilith leading him into the house.

"Hold on a moment, Lilith!" said the girl. "You know the house gets 40%. What do you plan to do with him back there, and how much are you charging?"

Darrus and Lilith looked at each other.

"Do you want to do it, or should I?" asked Darrus.

"Go ahead." said Lilith, an exasperated look on her face.

Darrus reached into his coat. His hand came back with a small, silver whistle. "We're just going to listen to some music, maybe take a nap. We don't you join us?"

The girl started to protest. Darrus blew the whistle, and she sank slowly to the floor, sound asleep.

"Obedient little thing." said Darrus, putting the whistle away.

"Don't worry," said Lilith, walking down the corridor. "It'll fade in time."

"Always does." said Darrus, taking one last look at the girl's prostrate form before following Lilith. "Although, should we leave her unconscious in the foyer of a brothel?"

"Don't think it's the first time it's happened." said Lilith.

III. Trinity

It had been a strange three days for Lucian Briggs.

He'd been staying with Ross Gibson at the Seraphim Lodge, a hotel on the outskirts of New Liberty. He'd only gone back to his apartment once, to find it ransacked. Most of it was broken, rather than stolen, implying that a chot raid had done the place in, not a robbery. He'd checked his mail, and found that he'd been stricken from the roster at his job and was assumed dead; the letter was a mere formality on the off chance he'd survived.

But mostly, Lucian had been thinking. Gibson was building an insurrection, and wanted Lucian onboard.

His mother had spent her life fighting Rehnquist's regime. His father had lost his doing the same. Lucian had long ago decided it wasn't a fight he wanted to continue.

Recently, things had changed. He's lost his home and job, that much was certain. According to Gibson, Lucian's two best friends had been killed in the raid that nearly claimed his life. He hadn't lost everything, but had come damn close. In short, nothing was as it had been.

Gibson himself was an oddity to Lucian. Gibson had told Lucian he was twenty-nine years old--three years older than Lucian--yet he claimed to know Lucian's father, Darius. Darius Briggs had been tortured to death twenty-one years before, yet Gibson spoke of him like they'd seen each other in the past week.

The most unnerving thing about Gibson was that he heard voices. More specifically, one voice. He claimed that that one voice was the Metatron, the Voice of God. Lucian would've dismissed him as a lunatic, if it weren't for that fact that Gibson was always right. Lucian had been testing Gibson's prophecy almost constantly, and had yet to defeat him. The most convincing test, in Lucian's mind, was when Lucian flipped a coin fifty times in a row, and Gibson called it correctly in the air with his eyes closed each time.

Lucian hadn't ever really believed in God. His father had been brought up in a very religious household and had ultimately rejected his faith. His mother had had other concerns; between the two, religion had never had a serious presence in Lucian's life. But to hear the way Gibson spoke about talking directly to God, being His voice on Earth...it made Lucian wonder.

After the most recent events, Lucian was losing his faith in humanity. Faith in God only seemed natural.

Gibson came into the room.

"You've decided." he said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes, I have." said Lucian. "I'm going to join up with you."

"I knew it." said Gibson. Lucian didn't doubt that he had. "Oh, and by the way, I have someone I want you to meet. He's the head of a local insurrection cell, and he's waiting for us in the lobby."

The two men locked up the room and went to the hotel lobby. There was a thirty-ish man waiting for them. He had long, white-blonde hair down to his shoulderblades, pale skin, and blue eyes as deep as oceans. He wore a long, leather coat. There was something about him, in the way he spoke and carried himself, that hinted at something else; something deep. Lucian could just barely feel it; this man had some sort of hidden potential.

"Greetings." he said. His voice was soft and genial. He seemed to exude friendliness. "My name is Robert Keyes. Mr. Gibson has told me about you."

"Nice to meet you." said Lucian. "I'm Lucian Briggs." Keyes nodded and shook Lucian's outstretched hand.

"I'd like to speak to you away from...prying ears." said Keyes. "Perhaps you'd care to converse at my suite?"

Gibson shook his head. "Knock it off, Keyes. The eccentric millionaire routine may work on my friend, here, but I know better."

Keyes laughed. "You know me too well, already, Ross. But seriously, we should talk, tell Lucian here how many pies across town I--excuse me, we--have fingers in."

The trio went back to Gibson's room to discuss matters of state, and how to disrupt them.