Down & Out

[Lilith Anderson]

She was sore. It was a pleasant sort of ache that denoted a job well done. Worthy of reward. She took the opportunity as it presented itself, her quiet voice tickling the shell of his ear.

“So… I was wondering…”

”...Yes?”

“...well. I was kind of hoping I could leave the city this weekend. Go down south with a friend…”

”Why would you want to do that?”

She faltered. Already this was going awry.

“Because… she could use a friend right now. So I thought I’d--”

”You thought you’d pick another charity case to see if you could save them as well.”

Silence.

“It’s not like that. She’s not a charity case and she doesn’t need saving.”

”So she isn’t your usual lost soul just looking for somebody to care about them?”

“Well… no…”

”You’re a terrible liar, Lilith. Must I remind you of why I let you go to begin with?”

Again with the silence. Her throat felt raw like she might cry though her eyes were dry.

“You needn’t.”

”Oh but I think you’ve forgotten… have you heard the phrase ‘the blind leading the blind’?”

The stroke of his rough hand over her bare hip suited his patronizing tone, tender but grating.

”Are you familiar with it?”

“Yes.”

”Do you see what I am getting at or must I explain in depth.”

“Why don’t you enlighten me.”

Sarcasm. Ill timed to warrant a harsh grab of her hip, talon like nails digging into her flesh.

”I suggest first that you check your tone. Next, reevaluate exactly why you feel compelled to have these so called friends.”

“I’m a human being… or was… it’s normal, you know, having friends. And sometimes friends need other friends when things get bad.”

She felt like a child, readying herself for another scolding. It came soon after.

”No, you retain memories of what was but you are no more human than that rock. Have you forgotten your current debt for the sake of a ‘friend’? Unless… of course… you’d like to renegotiate…”

“I…” What other choice did she have?

[Lilith Anderson]

It was a first since her return, a blow so sharp it shattered her collarbone, cleaving flesh until it struck bone to rend it into multiple pieces. Pain was such an anomaly for her that her mind was flooded with the giddy chemicals that came with shock and trauma, making her giggle all the way home.

Home not home.

”What have you done to yourself this time.”

“Oh fighting, you know.” Giggle giggle.

”I hardly call those circular contraption dances you do ‘fights’. Come here, let me look at it.” Cimaron was gentle in his ministrations as he worked her arm and shoulder.

“Ow. Ow. Ow. That hurts.”

”Stop it, it does not.”

“Ow. Does too.”

“Time outside is making you soft.”

The Lilith pouted and wrenched her arm away from the demon’s grasp.

“It is not. Why didn’t the magic whatevers fix it like they normally do?”

”You fight up there like you are as whole as you are here. You are not… and I don’t think their magicks can account for that. At least not on such a deep level.” As he spoke he wrenched her arm and pressed hard against her chest, realigning the framework on which the Lord of Destruction had hung his greatest masterpiece.

Her hiss of pain lingered in the air, followed by silence between the two of them.

”What’re you trying to prove with all of this? After everything you told me… I don’t understand why you would go back to that…”

“It’s what I know. It centers me. You can’t judge that.”

”I’m not… I wouldn’t judge you, Lil. You know that. I worry about you, that’s all.”

“You don’t get to worry about me, not anymore. You said so yourself, it’s not your place.” The vitriol cut like a knife and Cimaron fell silent until he finally had her back in one piece. The bone had fractured into chips and slivers but he worked quickly to repair it.

”It’s not my place but that doesn’t keep me from giving a damn.” He sounded hurt. She instantly regretted the tone she had taken with him.

“Sorry.”

”Me too.” He leaned down to brush his lips to her forehead, the chaste kiss feverish against her uncharacteristically cool skin.

”You get so caught up watching out for others, you forget to take care of yourself. I’m not up there to watch out for you so you gotta do me a favor and look out for yourself.” The tuck of a loose purple strand over her ear was gentle enough and faded into a careful touch to her shoulder.

“Thanks for patching me up… What do I owe you for it?” Because nothing came free, not down here.

”A promise.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. Gold, silver, jewels, she could have managed it all. But favors and promises were fast piling up in her I.O.U. column. Could she afford to add another?

“Go on.”

”Come back to me. Soon. And not just because you’re afraid to tell your handler that you busted up the merchandise again.” There was that kiss to her brow again and he straightened up, pulling back to look her over.

“I’ll try.”

”That’s good enough for me.”

[Lilith Anderson]

There was blood on her hands. So, so, so much blood on her hands. Sticky and so dark that it was black, setting in stark contrast with her porcelain skin. There was so much of it and no matter what she did, she could never quite scrub it clean fully.

“M’lord?” She asked, dipping her hands into the elysian pool already murky with the ichor that had stained the rest of her. Bending until she was up to her elbows, she scrubbed furiously beneath the surface.

“Yes, pet?” He asked in return, lazily watching her from the pool’s edge. Lilith’s handmaiden, Ne’ri, stood by to relieve her of each part of armor as the Lilith had taken it off, cleaning it until it gleamed once more. The poor girl had spent many a night shining the ebonsteel and it seemed like tonight would again be one of those. Still she worked diligently whilst pretending she wasn’t listening to their conversation.

“Am I monster?” Her back was to the pair as she dipped even lower in the ancient waters, letting them wash away the filth and grime and guilt. Maybe not the guilt, that stuff never washes off. Tor gave her a merry chuckle, his voice echoing through the vaulted hall.

”Of course you are, my sweet. Perfectly so, even. Now finish up and get dressed. As much as I enjoy watching you run your hands all over yourself, I’ve something more stimulating in mind,” he chided her as he got to his feet, towering well over both the Lilith and her handmaiden. An index claw brushed Ne’ri’s hair from her eyes and she fluttered a shy bat of lashes up at the Lord of Destruction before he took his leave.

In that moment the Lilith wanted nothing more than to sink into the waters and never rise again. Though she had been told to hurry, she may as well have been moving through molasses for all the progress she made. Unaware that she was rubbing her fingers at upper arms already clean, her awareness was instead stimulated by the gentle rippling of water behind her as Ne’ri lowered herself into the pool.

“Come now, my lady, the Lord awaits,” Ne’ri said gently, taking point in scrubbing the nearly numb woman standing waist deep in the water. In the three minutes of efficient silence that followed, she managed to scrub clean every last speck of gore and even washed the tumble of plum strands before weaving them into a thick braid down the Lilith’s back. With Ne’ri guiding the pair back to the edge, they both climbed out and the smaller handmaiden wrapped a plush robe about the taller woman’s form. The Lilith almost missed the whisper that Ne’ri offered as she tied the sash around her waist.

“That you would as such a question tells me that perhaps you’re not the monster you think you are.”

[Lilith Anderson]

The way she straddled his lap had her intimately close to him, the curve of her back pressing her against him. The still man was a behemoth, making even her long and lean body look small in comparison. They were both slick, her pale skin gleaming in much the same way his bronzed flesh did. Neither moved until she dragged the curved blade down the side of his ribcage again, letting it bite into his flesh until he arched away from the stone throne to which he was bound, howling in pain as she added another deep mark.

One of many, it curved a waving line down each of his ribs, her wrist straining with how hard she pressed. Sticky black ichor gushed from the wound but it did little beyond staining her already blackened hands once more. Withdrawing the knife, she tilted her head until his screaming died down. He was long past the point of begging for her to stop, reduced to a whimpering mess of a man. Though satisfying to listen to them beg, she just wanted this one over. But she had a job to do and anything worth doing was worth doing right. They were going into hour fourteen at that point and even Cimaron had begun to bore of the games. He leaned against the nearest wall, ankles and arms both crossed as he watched with heavily lidded eyes.

“Lil… isn’t that enough?” He asked softly, holding his relaxed pose for the time being. The Lilith’s shoulders jerked in surprise. She turned a slow look toward the Daemon noble and then as if it would answer his question, she slowly pushed the knife between two of her subject’s ribs until the hilt stopped her. Her victim’s whimpering turned into a hoarse scream when she twisted and wrenched the knife as hard as she could.

“No,” she said haughtily, slowly extracting the knife and wiping it down on her pantleg. “Give me the ten blade and the salt.”

Cimaron pursed his lips but did as she asked, pushing away from the wall and moving to the layout of crude instruments and gore caked torture implements to pluck up a thin scalpel and a stone mortar filled with coarse grains of salt. Lilith set her current blade aside and curved him a dark smile as she took her newest toys off his hands. Patting a hand against her subject’s cheek, he groaned and cracked open one eye, the other have swelled shut after coming in contact with a steel pipe. He was aghast to find the blade a fraction of an inch away from his eye and tried to struggle back from her. His head crashed against stone, giving her ample opportunity to wind her free arm around his head and pry his eyelid open. After fourteen hours of this, he had weakened substantially and soon his fighting died down to an indiscernible groan.

“You have such lovely eyes,” she sighed wistfully, slowly dragging the very tip of the blade across the surface of his eye. He tried to shake his head back and forth which only served to dig the blade in deeper. She simply had to hold her hand steady and he did the rest while she readied the salt in her other hand. How convenient! Once his eyeball was suitably mutilated and he finally passed out (again) from the pain, she relented and eased off of his lap. Her thighs were coated in the man’s bodily fluids and not in a way she was comfortable with. Wiping her hands off did little to clean them but it gave her a moment to admire her handiwork. From head to toe he was covered in wounds, intricate runework etched into his torso and limbs, dotted by cuts, scrapes, and stab marks that were in various states of healing.

He wouldn’t die, not today at least. But he would forever remember why one does not cross the Lord of Destruction.

[Lilith Anderson]

“I still don’t understand why you take the long way to come back,” Cimaron said impatiently, having long since put the finishing touches on what should prove to be a brilliant masterpiece. At least it better have been for the call he had put in, pulling her back to the depths of Purgatory without so much more than a “C’mere” of sorts.

“You know me. I like the scenic route,” The Lilith drawled lazily, a catlike prowl directing her through the forge’s open doors. She passed the public facing outer room and directed herself down a sidehall to Cimaron’s private quarters. He quirked a thick brow but followed after her. When he got there, she stood in the middle of his parlor with her hands on her hips, facing him. Her hair was windblown, a wild lion’s mane of deep purple that looked nearly black in the firelight of the room. It was a rare spot of color on her black and white visage, a hint of humanity within the predator. He didn’t realize he was staring until he saw her mouth moving, her words going right over his head.

“So is this a direct enough route for you?” She finished, smirking at him. He had no clue what she said before that but she was beautiful and it was hard to look away. Cimaron gave her a sheepish smile as he did and moved to a locked case against the far wall.

“Yes, I suppose so. I finished what you asked for,” he said softly, worn fingers working open the locks and latches, disengaging the wards and finally with a quiet click, lifting the lid free. The cases contents radiated waves of regulated power, a steady pulse that drew on the inferno around them. The Lilith stepped forward only to be halted by an uplifted hand.

“I hope you understand what you’ve requested… I really don’t recommend their use by a human blooded mortal. At least not extended use… Their power recharges itself either upon return to the Netherrealms, or by contact with Abyssal energy,” Cimaron spoke as he turned, each hand now carefully holding a single gauntlet. Predominantly black, they were lined with red cracks that pulsed with heat as though there were embers living just beneath the surface. The layered plating looked like Cimaron had taken the wings from one of the many abyssal creatures outside of Purgatory and overlaid them to give them a thick leathery appearance though as he set them in her hands, their weight was very obviously metal.

“But they’ll do what I want them to?” She asked, lifting her gaze from their examination of the gauntlets to meet Cimaron’s studious look.

“It’ll channel the nature magic and augment it with Abyssal energy as well. The wearer, again someone I hope isn’t wholly human, will be offered the obvious protections that come with said energy. The defensive properties are strengthened in regards to shielding and offers a stamina boost after inflicting damage… in particular fatal damage,” Cimaron rambled off each of the specifications as casually as one might read ingredients on a cereal box.

“And the fit?” Came the follow-up question, something easy enough to talk about without thinking about the gauntlets giving the wearer a stamina boost for killing someone while wearing them.

“They’ll adjust to the fit of the first person to wear them. So don’t go trying them on until your friend has used them,” he answered, setting his hands to his hips in much the same way she had done when she came into the room. The way she grinned was beautifully unsettling, a brilliant ray of light in an otherwise desolate land. What he wouldn’t have given to have that grin be his.

“They’re perfect, Cim,” she said as she set them down, closed the distance between them and with a scant rock up onto her toes, crushed her mouth to his. She was never the eloquent sort when it came to thank yous. He nearly stumbled backwards but caught himself with an arm around the small of her back. Her mouth was hot against his for all of eight seconds before he found her pulling away. There was that grin again, both reaffirming and crushing at the same time.

“You’re the best,” Lilith said breathlessly, stepping back to take hold of the gauntlets and already turning for the door. Cimaron’s feet were rooted to the spot but he stared after her, brows knitting with consternation.

“Just be careful with them, Lil. Please,” he called after her, but she was already gone.

[Lilith Anderson]

The crowd’s roar was deafening, cheers and jeers calling for the death and dismemberment of the parties down below. They danced in close, only to clash and distance themselves, deftly navigating a battlefield strewn with those who hadn’t had enough to pass the prior rounds. A stalemate had formed between the trio and the bloodthirsty crowd was growing restless. Not only did the threesome have to contend with one another, they soon had to weather a rain from on high, all manner of items thrown below.

From a field of twelve, three were all that was left. Valiant warriors, barbarians, minor demons, the lot of them. It was a veritable who’s who of the underworld’s warrior class and they had spent the last three days eliminating one another in a battle royale to end all battle royales. Their fatigue was obvious, their movements much slower than they had been at the beginning.

One, two, three. Each equipped with their blood soaked instruments of war; a glowing broadsword, a massive battleaxe, a morning star bearing the flesh of those it had felled. Each at home in deft hands capable of terrible things. Each awaiting an opportune time to strike.

The Sollemnitas Sacrificia was not for the faint of heart.

After several hours of minimal action, the axe wielder launched a desperate offensive in hopes of taking down the bearer of the morning star. The former was smaller than the latter and had watched him crush several opponents with the weapon’s wicked spikes. It was foolish but brilliant, a gamble that could cost everything. It looked like the axe’s owner was going to circle around the coliseum's edge but at the last moment, they cut across the middle. Bounding over a fallen lump of a creature hacked in two, it appeared as if they may clash in the dead center of the ring.

But the blur of movement decided otherwise, and in a near suicidal display, the axe was thrown end over end as if it were no lighter than a hatchet or throwing knife. Though it left the thrower unarmed, it also caught its target by surprise. As surprised as one can get when they find a hulking axe embedded in their head, at least.

Alukiel Tehnon a’Modrtoh, champion of the fifth circle of Hell, was dead before he hit the ground.

His murderer stood over him as a screeching siren sounded throughout the coliseum, sounding the end of the round.

“UNDECIM CIRCUITU. INCIPIO!” Round eleven had just begun. The roar of the crowd reached ear splitting levels as the final two combatants faced off.

Two and Nine, the only champions left. It was a David and Goliath sized fight, if the term isn’t too crass to use when speaking of the atrocities of Hell. Lust versus Treachery. Each had notched several kills to their name in the arena and both sought to add just one more. The Feast of Sacrifice came around but once every one hundred years, each time pitting twelve champions against one another in the ultimate bloodsport. Since it was hosted by the under realm, each layer of the abyss named its own representative, nine in all. The great bastion of Purgatory offered another while those no names upstairs gave two. One for the lands of Heaven itself and another on behalf of the Empyrean, which if we’re being truthful, is a whole different monster.

The remnants of those that came before Two and Nine had yet to be cleared from the field, splattered gore painting a macabre portrait of their rise and meteoric falls. The black ichor of the abyss’s most vicious creatures mingled with the no longer pure white feathers that had been ripped clean from broken wings of fallen messengers, as though the two were one in the same once more.

Two and Nine.

Reduced to numbers for the amusement of others.

Two and Nine.

The unarmed David and the broadsword bearing Goliath.

A red horned helm lit up with the glow of a malicious grin, the hulking Goliath well aware that he had his final kill lined up then and there. But where his hulk outweighed that of his opponent, his agility did not, and his charge at the smaller combatant came up short as they dove between the tree trunks that were his legs. A spinning back kick sent him sprawling forward, face first into the far wall of the coliseum. Cracks in the stone spiderwebbed outwards, chips of rock breaking away into a cloud of noxious dust.

The enraged roar could be heard even above that of the crowd. Two needed a game plan, and quickly.

Much to the chagrin of those watching, evasion seemed to be the name of the game, the smaller of the two carefully avoiding the reach of the glowing broadsword whilst trying to get close enough to reclaim the axe. While many a weapon littered the field, none could be used to claim the final kill. Because what fun would that be.

Even the highest order of abyssal lords loved a good game of keep away.

Could they dance like this forever? The hours wore on, the deadly waltz bringing them together for a kiss of contact and a lightning quick getaway. Practiced footwork gave way to desperation and a sudden lunge put Two within arms reach of the axe at last. The black metal gauntlet closed around the handle and hefted it up to bear. Just in time for Nine to bring the pommel of the broadsword careening for his opponent’s temple. Helmet or not, the blow staggered his foe, and the axe clattered to the ground once more. He followed with another punch, this time of a heavy fist where mandible hinged on maxilla, with the satisfying crunch of a blow struck true. Two swayed and then crashed to their hands and knees, grasping at bloodied sands as if it were salvation.

Unlike many of the other champions who had been pressed into the Feast by forces much greater than them, Nine was here of his own volition. A volunteer. And it was here that he sought to prove why. Four centuries running he had taken the Crown of Sacrifices and he wholly intended to claim it for a fifth.

But he was Goliath and Goliath had to fall.

Right?

The crowd waited with baited breath, their cheers dying down to a dull roar. Would Nine make history or would Two stage a comeback for the books. A swift kick elicited a sharp yelp from the smaller of the fighters, the force throwing Two onto their back. A second kick, a third, and then a fourth silenced the cries, the heavy blows impacting the fallen’s battered armor so severely that crunches and wet snaps echoed throughout the arena with each break. Nine brought the glowing broadsword up, fell energy flickering around the blade as though excited for what was about to happen.

Rather than fall, the match’s Goliath plunged his sword down through his writhing opponent’s chest, the body jolting as though struck by a sudden surge of electricity. Black blood began to pool beneath Two’s torso and at last they went still. The screeching siren sounded and the crowd erupted into raucous screams of fury and pride. Omolin of the House Xornael, ripped his broadsword free of the body with such force that their helmet tumbled free, rolling like Marie Antoinette after a meeting with a guillotine. A wealth of purple so dark it may have been black spilled out around an ivory face, paler than the dead.

Lilith the Usurper, champion of the second circle of Hell, had fallen.

And all eyes were on the Lord of Destruction.

There would be Hell to pay.

[Lilith Anderson]

She had died before.

Once.

It wasn’t very pleasant and it had been quite a bit more painful than this. This had been quick. Kind of. She hadn’t thought that beast of a sword to be capable of penetrating her armor like it had. It had been like the shock from a direct current rippling through her. First it was hot, excruciatingly so, and then nothing at all. Cold even. Cold, wow. How long had it been since she had last experienced true cold? Only vaguely was she aware of the hushed arguing that was slowly swelling to fever pitch.

“It invalidates the win. Brother, surely you wouldn’t nullify the Sollemnitas Sacrificia for a pet,” said the first voice.

“There is treachery afoot and I will not abide,” came the second.

“How can you claim such?” Once more the first.

“Examine the weapon! I oversaw the forging of that armor with my very own eyes. No allowable blade would have pierced it with such ease,” growled the second.

“So you admit to weighting this battle in favor of your chosen champion.” It was the first voice’s turn to sound affronted.

“Hardly! I simply afforded her the same precautions that more experienced warriors have.”

“So tell me, Tor, why? Why her?”

She passed out before she could catch the response.

[Lilith Anderson]

The Lilith awoke to Ne’ri applying a stinging tincture to an abrasion along her jawline. Feebly, she reached a hand up to try and swat the girl away. Ne’ri set a hand to Lilith’s wrist and gently pushed it back down.

“Ne’ri… did I die again?”

Ne’ri hesitated then nodded gently, still swiping the slightly sticky liquid over her skin.

“Then why am I here?”

“Tis a question best suited for our Lord, my lady. It seems he saw fit to retain you.”

Lilith groaned. She already knew what that meant. Her value to the Lord of Destruction was greater when she was alive and able to submit to his will than she was dead.

Maybe this was Hell in its truest form; finding a way to leave, only to be yanked back time and time again.

[Lilith Anderson]

Somewhere in the upper realms, the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon on another Sunday morning in Rhydin. The tether that bound her to the nether’s abyss was loosened if only by degrees to allow her access. It was a special day though, one that truly called for release.

Today she fought for FireStar.

It was just a rock but it was a rock that symbolized so much more than a title in her eyes. The opal tied her like an anchor to her old life, who she was before.

”Oooh, that’s not a good start. For her, anyway.”

”Can somebody get her some ice, please?”

“This isn’t looking too good for her…”

“Congratulations, Harris, on a successful defense!”

She had fallen from the Bridge not long after the final call. That’s what she got for thinking an innocent hand up was without ill intent. That’s what she got for having hope.

“You were an idiot for thinking things could be different here.” For all the differences this time line had, it was woefully the same to where she had come from. Dragon’s Gate was dead at this hour, the long shadows of dawn still sprawled across the cityscape.

“At least then. It’ll be different this time.” An immediate contradiction, a peek of the resilient dreamer that had been imprisoned behind a mask of cool collection. Lucky for her facade, her words fell on deaf ears, the emptiness of the street failing to answer her as she made her way to Triple A Gym for one last practice. Maybe Apple wouldn’t be there to see the lingering bruises that covered her form, or the newly red eyes that unsettled the Lilith every time she caught a glimpse of herself reflected in a storefront window.

It was a new change, different, but new. Perhaps it meant it really would be different this time.