It had taken Alyx a few minutes to work out why her
fear was so mixed with the feeling of deja vu - but when it did, the
answer was obvious. This wasn't
precisely a new situation for her, by any stretch of the imagination. An abandoned warehouse, ritualistic
implements, strong chains and the smell of rusty steel, rusty blood and sharp
fear - all of these things had been an increasingly common part of her
surroundings over the last few years, and had long since lost any negative
connotations for her. Indeed, by now
such things were inextricably linked with her favorite hobbies.
Alyx just never really thought that one day it would
be her turn. She was too skilled and
useful for - this - to happen to her; she was special, unlike those
weaklings and sheep that made up most of humanity. She had been told so.
She mattered. She had a place.
None of this seemed to matter to her captor; the
hulking figure had captured and kidnapped her with contemptuous ease. He had demonstrated no lack of ruthlessness
in keeping her subdued, either; the Hellsworn had so far lost three teeth and
the use of one eye, and the dull roar in her side suggested that at least one
of her ribs was broken. Even if - when,
always 'when' - she got out of this alive, it would take months before her
master would find her useful again, or desirable.
This fool would pay. He had gagged her, of course - but Alyx was
more than a talking monkey, unlike this deeply disturbed subhuman. She had abilities. She mattered - and
she finally had regained enough Essence to make her play. Performing the Song while bound, suspended and
gagged was somewhat tricky, but she managed.
She had to.
At first, she thought that her attempt to make
mental contact had failed - but, after a moment, the man stopped and turned to
face her. His face was stone.
You heard me. You have made a stupid mistake, and your life is mine to do with
as I would. If I am placated, I will
let you live - even thrive; but if I am displeased further, then the fires of
Hell themselves will gnaw on you forever. Alyx' master had once shown her a terrifying vision of the parts of
Hell reserved for incompetent Soldiers; she now passed it along, with
interest. Do you want to avoid
that? Do you? THEN FALL TO YOUR KNEES AND BEG MY FORGIVENESS, WRETCH!
For one glorious moment, Alyx thought that her bluff
had worked. Her captor had obviously
'heard' her, and she knew that no mere human could stand up to the scenes of
pain and desolation that she had passed on.
Further negotiations would be tricky, and there was no assurance that
she could eventually see this scum screaming out his life, but there was a
chance -
The man casually reached out and bent a nearby steel
pipe into a pretzel. The faintest hint
of disturbance teased at Alyx' hearing as the taste of victory became ash.
She now knew that she was going to die.
Immediately, the threats became begging. No!
Wait! I was mistaken! Forgive me! The man came closer, a battered medical bag in one hand. I am loyal! Ask anyone! The man
knelt to rearrange a drop cloth and bucket underneath her bound form. You don't have to do this! We can find someone better to amuse
you! I have been trained well in how to
provide that service! I am eager to
prove my worth! The bag was now
being opened: the overhead bulb shone wetly on the edges of various -
things. It would be wasteful to use
me up - the fact that I can speak to you like this shows that I am
valuable! There are those that would be
hampered by my death! Candles were
now being lit and ritual circles drawn; Alyx could feel her ability to speak
mind-to-mind drain away - and with it, any chance that she could stop this,
this - aberration. She threw everything
left into her last plea.
If her last desperate scream of rage and fear
affected her killer, he gave no sign.
He simply straightened up, checked the tableau, and looked at her. Bizarrely, he checked her pulse - she tried
to scratch, at least, but to no avail - and even more bizarrely, touched one
finger to her forehead, evidently to gather some sweat. He rolled that sweat on his fingers, smelled
it, tasted it - but in a way unlike any she had ever seen before. After
a moment, he nodded and spoke the only words that she would ever hear.
"Yes.
That should be enough." He
raised one fist; the sound of her neck breaking fell with her into
unconsciousness. She never noticed,
however, that it was not accompanied by any disturbance.
The Elohite picked up the bone saw.
Zadkiel doesn't talk much about the fact that
certain of her Elohim have been tasked with, frankly, wet work. Not because she regrets the necessity, of
course; she doesn't. Those that
willfully and unrepentantly walk the dark path don't deserve anything but
death. And it's certainly not because
she disapproves of their methods; taking advantage of an unfortunate corporeal
societal problem is actually quite clever, provided that it doesn't get out of
hand. No, Zadkiel's reticence is purely
pragmatic.
It's just that most people get uncomfortable when
they find out that certain members of the Host have Roles as serial killers.
The problem is, that sort of Role is really very
useful for hiding disturbance that arises from a human's death. Certainly Hell thinks so; they've pioneered
this sort of thing for their more disgusting demons. There is a certain satisfaction in turning the tables - well, not
really. Zadkiel's Behavioral
Specialists do not allow themselves satisfaction.
Before you ask, developing this sort of Role is
tricky. The optimal course is to
actually find an existing serial killer, work out a way to kill him celestially
and take over his existing life.
Failing that, well, Malakim don't suffer Trauma. Zadkiel doesn't like 'growing' Roles this
way - it damages the host society in a variety of ways, but sometimes she
doesn't have a choice. At any rate,
once the Role is formed the Specialist simply waits until it is assigned a
Hellsworn that fits the ritual profile.
Zadkiel only picks the worst servants of Hell for removal - again,
because it's pragmatic to do so. The
Archangel of Protection is very much an Old Testament sort of angel, when it
comes to those who would collude in the damnation of their own species.
Needless to say, all Specialists are on Dominic's
permanent Watch List; he yanks them off duty at the first hint that they might
be suffering from subjectivity. He also
insists that any specific Role be strictly short-term. It probably disturbs him, though, that Behavioral
Specialists do not seem to be particularly unstable (unless overworked, of
course).
After all, it's just a job.