Roost
This penthouse office had windows in every direction - not that Nybbas had chosen it for that. He had picked the office building because it was in the dead center of his Principality and there was enough room in the lower levels for the frantically working communications teams. The windows had shown up because the Prince of the Media felt like looking out at Hell.
The view was even uglier than usual, at least from Nybbas' point of view.
Shal-Mari was still burning. The flashes of actinic light had died down, but the screaming was audible even at this distance. Every so often, a building would explode, collapse or simply wink out of existence. The smell was incredibly pungent, as well: there were at least three Deadly Sins being excised over there, and the resulting reek threatened to overwhelm even the Prince. In contrast, Hades was quiet ... but that might have been because every building within striking range of an enraged Cherub Archangel had been flattened. Nybbas snorted wearily. It seemed a good idea at the time to hold off attacking them until the battle started. That has-been Baal swore that we needed to start with a splash and keep going. Unfortunately, the special strike team had only gotten one of the Angels of Final Judgement in the first shot... and they never got another once Armageddon boosted the other to obscene levels of Word-power. At a guess, the remaining entities within the Principality were literally half frightened to death. 'Above', the Marches still hadn't shifted from the pale gray blur that had slammed down like a curtain when the Last Battle reached the Vale. Not even Nybbas' eyes could break through; with any luck, the camera crews already inside and in place were getting everything.
I hope that I get the chance to view the raw tapes. His communications people were reporting that Armageddon was shaping up more or less the way Nybbas expected: that is, both sides were steadily grinding each other into hamburger. At the moment, Hell's ahead on points...
The Principality of Sheol chose this moment to implode. Scattered fragments of stinking mud began to splatter down across Hell. Nybbas gave the reluctant smile of an expert director who has been forced to note a good dramatic scene in someone else's work of art.
...well, maybe not. Hope he took the bitch with him. The Prince sat in a chair that wasn't there before he needed it, his fingers intertwined as he judged the storyboard.
It all seemed perfect at the time. Montage: hordes of demons gathering at various Tethers, weapons being handed out, the soundtrack blaring away as the armies swarmed across the corporeal plane. Cut to another montage of worldwide panic and destruction; split screen to two wide shots of atrocities, then four, then eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four and so on, until the viewers can't make out anything clearly.
Insert scenes of the Prince of the Media, heroically watching over the high tech communications center that makes this all possible and bitterly cursing the cruel necessity of not being up there for the final push. Cut to a tasteful close-up of his disappointed, yet resolute face, with a quick background shot of the admiration and love of his Servitors. The inspiring speech ends up on the cutting room floor, but that's what DVD players are for.
Cut to panoramic view of the Seraphim Council: shock, surprise, Novalis weeping, War Faction already heading for the door, ominous theme music in the background. Another series of quick shots of the Host streaming down, frantically trying to consolidate and meet the destruction head on. Cut to wide view of most of the principals, facing each other mano-to-mano on some desolate exotic locale. Zoom in on Baal and Michael squaring off. Baal dies well - didn't know that he actually knew how to chew scenery - and utter silence for a minute. Zoom back to wide shot as the two sides start shouting and attack each other.
Cut to the corporeal plane: no music at first, then a low repetitive beat as camera shows various stealthy demons, liberally covered with eye-catching gadgets, creeping up to angelic Tethers. Focus on one group as it attacks one Tether - Flowers for preference, they give good visuals - and start streaming up. The group takes losses, but they keep going, towards an empty Heaven and a panoramic shot of unattended Hearts.
Sudden cut to random angel: zoom close as he suddenly staggers in pain. Zoom back to show rest of Host doing the same, their ranks rippling as they fall and moan. Demons start cheering and roll over Host. Fade to black as the soundtrack blasts out triumphant theme music.
It just goes to show: never believe the pitch ... or let your actors get creative control over the script.
Everything had been going fine until the actual assaults. Unlike the Marches, Nybbas had been able to access the satellite feeds from the infiltration teams, and he had been both stunned and impressed by the special effects. Probably Hell would have been able to deal with the unexpectedly high resistance from the blessed souls - somebody really should have thought to mention that they had artillery up there - but the sudden appearance of choking white smoke streaming down from Jacob's Ladder was what killed the scene. Granted, the visuals were outstanding - especially the way that demons tended to both explode and implode on contact - but it was an extraordinarily heavy-handed piece of Direction.
And, of course, it seemed that Hell wasn't the only one with infiltration plans. Hence, the aforementioned burning Shal-Mari: apparently, soon to be followed by a fiery Perdition. The Prince walked to the window and looked down at the battle again.
The overall style was eerily reminiscent of Dore or Bosch, provided of course that either worthy had been first given extensive CGI training and a chance to catch up on popular culture. Nybbas' own troops were fairly uniform: Servitors of the Media predominated, with the more photogenic monsters out there a close second. There were even some demonic refugees from the insanity going on elsewhere. Opposing them, though...
Nybbas munched some popcorn as he watched a squadron of Valkyries reform their formation and begin another strafing run on the defenders below. Dragons and harpies rose to meet them ... but were scattered by the sudden appearance of fighters on every kind of flying vehicle ever hallucinated by the mind of man, from broomsticks to flying carpets to doghouses. Media's own 'mechanical' air force had been knocked out in the first attack, thanks to the little green humanoids that had appeared from nowhere and proceeded to whale on sensitive equipment with very large hammers.
Below them, the hastily thrown together trenches were holding, but the fighting remained intense. A portion of the defenders had attempted to switch sides at the outset - damn all ungrateful gods, anyway - but Nybbas had been prepared for that, at least. Most of the would-be rebels' heads were on pikes now, with just the right lighting needed to maximize the effect. Nybbas sourly noted that the few that got away were giving better performances than he ever got out of them. Unfortunately, what was going on below was an ironic reversal of the usual order of things: Hell had superior forces, but Heaven's troops had the numbers - and were spending them like water.
A thoroughly motley crew was down there, too: their only pretense to uniformity was the sigil (a golden cup on a red field) that each wore. Impossibly bright knights on snowy-white steeds charged alongside retro mechanical men and beggars on giant ants, slaughtering every unicorn-riding elf that came within reach of their hateful steel swords, fists and mandibles. Hosts of nearly identical old, bearded men with staffs were calling down lightning bolts and fireballs onto the milling hordes in front of them: behind, an anthropomorphic frog was directing squadrons of implausible walking tanks into position for the next armored assault.
Where the two lines met, the carnage was amazing. In one place, a white-haired old man was the front line all by himself, his striped top hat askew as he pummeled five demons at a time with a sixth. That part of the line seemed to be mostly otherwise comprised of Greek and Norse gods, although there was a sizable proportion of people who apparently liked wearing their underwear outside their regular clothing. Every time a gap opened up in the lines for a moment, six or eight humanoids dressed all in black would dart through. Oddly, their appearance would go unnoticed by Nybbas' defenders... until the raiders uncrossed their arms from across their chest and ripped out someone's jugular from behind.
All of this did not particularly concern Nybbas: as far as he could see, the total combined firepower down there wasn't enough to penetrate his personal defenses, so why not watch the free show? Still, there were some questions about the point of it all. The attackers knew he was here, knew that they couldn't get past him and (presumably) knew that he wouldn't abandon his suddenly all-important post. Now that I think about it, why aren't these losers off getting smacked around by the Ice Bitch? Sure, they all hate me, but this isn't their usual venue...
The roar beneath began to shift in tone: fearful from the defenders, triumphant from the attackers. The Prince strained his ears to hear the sudden rhythmic chant. Da da-DAH-dah DAH... da da-DAH-dah DAH... The... something something...
Oh.
Idly shouldering aside a few buildings in the way, the attacker's secret weapon ponderously strode up the hastily-cleared path for it. Three hundred feet tall, his warty green hide scarred from corporeal, ethereal and celestial attacks, the Gorilla-Whale howled his anger and rage at Perdition as his eyes alighted on the defensive line in front of him. On his back, two humans frantically fired Brownings at any demons or hostile ethereals that came too close: Nybbas' eyes glittered as he recognized them.
Well, there's a trinity for you: celestial wannabe, ethereal copy and corporeal convert - and they'd be nobodies without me. I've got issues with all three of you ingrates: Mr. Lizard out there, most of all - the inundation of Hollywood had seriously discolored the shine on Nybbas' shoes - but you two aren't high and dry, either. There's only one King - ME - so we've got some copyright issues to discuss, 'son' ... and as for you, Norma, when I get done with you you'll wish you'd taken that secretary job. So come on down. The Prince of the Media flexed his fingers.
Let's do lunch.
The battle line had dissolved, even before the first wave of radioactive breath had washed over it, and the unlikely juggernaut had strode through it at full speed. Time for Nybbas slowed as he watched the breath crawl sluggishly up towards him, his thumb caressing the Delete button on his Remote...
...and then time slowed even further as he heard the faintest background music.
It was Him.
It was that insipid, powerful, happy-go-lucky bastard that had played hard to get for a century. That incompetent genius that had somehow vaguely managed to avoid every single lure and trap that the Media had ever laid for him. That intolerably Creative Fool that had been the silent ghost at Nybbas' feast, mocking the Prince's accomplishments by his mere existence.
And, apparently, he was down there, waiting for Nybbas to make his move.
It all became so obvious. This attack had Eli's fingerprints all over it, down to the ironic juxtaposition of Heaven's and Hell's usual roles and the stunning visuals. Once the Prince committed to an attack, the Archangel of Creation would intervene - and then the climactic fight scene would begin. Archangel versus Prince... except that the Prince would have to divert part of his power to keep Hell's communication nexus open.
This wasn't going to be pretty.
Nybbas smiled. This was going to be majestic.
It was amazing, really, how good this felt. All this time, I knew, somehow. I knew that the Tyrant was also the Audience. He's Up There, right now, watching some equivalent of TV, His eyes rapt on the screen. This scene is too perfect to be anything else but the final episode of a 20,000 year-old reality show designed to keep God on the brink of His seat. And I'm the villain. I'm the guy in the Black Hat. I'm the ultimate heavy, the penultimate Boss Level. I am what Eli needs to prove that he's the Hero of this picture.
In short, I am THE MAN. Even God admits it: otherwise, why send his hip, post-modern leading man to face me?
The most wonderful part is, Nybbas couldn't lose. Either I take down the lead, or he takes down me. If I win, well, that's live TV for you. The flubs are the most interesting part, anyway. But if I go down for the count... Hell, they'll remember me until the end of time. It'll be too good a story to not remember. Besides, even if Eli doesn't remember the first rule of Action Flicks, I do.
If the Bad Guy's cool enough, the Fans will insist that he come back. Nybbas looked in a direction impossible to describe in corporeal terms. Is that the deal, Boychik? I give good visuals, you write me into the sequel?
There was no answer, of course, but then the Prince of the Media hadn't expected one. He looked himself over, wondering whether he should wear something more suitable for the final scene. This look's a trademark, but we need some costumes for the action figure line - no, forget it. If I go out, it'll be as I came in: loudly. The Prince let his time-sense speed up again as he silently worked out his motivation for the upcoming scene.
As radioactive winds scoured away his surroundings, Nybbas practiced his trademark grin and tried to decide on a good throwaway line. The problem is, everything from the last twenty years isn't right, somehow. The floor gave way. I think that for once we'll actually go with the classics. The Prince slid down, cosmetically buffeted by crashing debris. When in doubt, steal from the best. He came to rest at the base of his half-gutted tower, slightly and dramatically disheveled. From out of the roiling clouds of dust came the footsteps of his enemy, coming ever closer. Nybbas adjusted the grip on his remote and waited.
"Top of the world, Ma," whispered the Prince of the Media. "Top of the world."