Hellstorm in…

LORDS OF HELL

Part II

By Dino Pollard

I am Daimon Hellstrom, the Son of Satan. And now that I have killed my father, I now am Satan. As was the being who towered over me before his citadel. A demon of red, draped in a crimson cloak. In his realm, he is a giant, as he appears to me now.

“I ask again, halfbreed—what brings you to Mephisto?”

“Your attempts at intimidation are laughable. I am a Hell Lord of the Infernal Court and you shall address me with the proper respect,” I said.

Mephisto arched his brow. “Respect? You barge through my gates uninvited. You destroy one of my followers, and you dare speak to me of respect?”

“If I requested an audience, you would have mocked me for a perceived lack of courage. When I show that courage, you play the role of a regent? Don’t play your games with me, Mephisto.”

“Very well.”

Mephisto raised his arms and Hellfire erupted all around me. I could see nothing other than the infernal flames of damnation and almost as quickly as they came, they subsided. Once they did, I stood in an elegant living room filled with ornate, Victorian furniture. At the side of a roaring fire sat Mephisto—his red hair neatly combed back and dressed in a fine tuxedo. He gestured to the chair across from him.

“Is this setting more suitable for you, Daimon?”

“You’re enjoying this entirely too much,” I said as I sat across from him. Mephisto chuckled as he sipped from a brandy glass that suddenly appeared in his hand.

“Care for some? Quite good stuff. One thing I’ve always applaud you talking monkeys on—your ability to create fine potions of sin.”

“Let’s cut to the chase, Mephisto.” I placed my fingertips together, draping one leg over the other. “Not long ago, I dealt with an exorcism.”

“Why do you bother with this mundane garbage, Daimon? You’re a Lord of Hell, you’ve accepted your birthright. And yet still you stand with the mortals?”

“I don’t question your rule—don’t question mine.”

“Then why should I care about an exorcism? It was not one of mine you cast out.”

“I know. In fact, it wasn’t any demon.”

Mephisto yawned, feigning boredom. I know better. With all my time spent in Hell, I have learned to tell when a demon is putting on a show. And despite his actions, he is very intrigued by this turn of events. He’s trying to play me. If not for some sinister goal than simply because he despises my very existence. Kurios was one of the most powerful Lords in the Infernal Court, every bit Mephisto’s equal. They despised each other, but still held respect for one another.

No such respect exists between Mephisto and myself. He tolerates my presence, but considers me less than the lowest demon due to my mixed heritage. So I decide to call his bluff and rise from my seat.

“I can see this conversation is boring you, so I’ll take this story to someone who is interested in defending their territory.”

Mephisto held his hand up in protest. “Don’t be so hasty, Prince of Lies. What does this have to do with me or my territory?”

“It has to do with all of the territories—all of Hell is at risk.”

“From what?”

“Heaven.”

At this, Mephisto snickered. “You know the treaties, Daimon. Heaven and Hell do battle through mortals. We do not wage direct assaults on the territories. For Heaven to violate the agreement would be cause.”

A lit cigarette appeared between my fingers and I took a slow drag on it. Slowly, the smoke billowed past my lips as I spoke. “Cause for the final solution. Armageddon. Yes, I know.”

“And yet the stage is not yet set for such an event. The prophecies are quite clear on this subject. The Beast has not appeared yet.”

“Then what am I?”

This is what gave Mephisto cause to unleash a cackle, a cackle that sounded like the screams of thousands of tormented souls. “Well, aren’t we pompous. My dear boy, you are not the one the prophecies speak of. You are nothing more than a halfbreed, one of many bastard offspring produced through liaisons between lustful demons and mortal whores.”

An insult against my mother. He’s trying to bait me into a confrontation. And in his realm, I wouldn’t stand a chance. I know this and though the Darksoul aches to jam my trident into his chest, I maintain my composure.

“In that case, Heaven has changed the rules.”

“They can’t.”

“Tell that to the angel I exorcised from the body of a seven-year-old girl.”

There are few things on any plane of existence which can leave the Lord of Lies speechless. Apparently, I had found one. Mephisto maintained his silence for several moments, but concealed any shock he may have felt extremely well. He has, after all, had eons of practice. Instead, he simply took a long sip of his brandy. When the glass left his lips, he swirled the dark liquid around the glass, watching it with those yellow eyes of his.

“…this is not the first time you’ve exorcised an angel.”

“No, it’s not. Except when I exorcised Tzadqiel, it was a different story. He had taken possession of one of my worshippers. An attempt to weaken me by eliminating my followers. This girl was an innocent.”

“So they’ve grown bold in their movements.”

“And there’s more. Gabriel Rosetti, the Devil Hunter. He woke from his coma, took my consort. Isaac said his power was unreal. In my home. Now, he’s hidden from me.”

“Say I believe you, Son of Kurios. What do you want from me?”

“Sammael has connections to the Asura. Tell me where to find him.”

To Be Continued

Rebecca Lockwood, Spirit of Vengeance, in…

BETWEEN A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE

Part II

By Meriades Rai

I love my movies. Anyone who knows me knows that. Well, knew me. Because I’m, like… deceased. Officially. Ish. Would you believe that’s only just occurred to me? I mean, that there are people out there who are thinking of me in the past tense (on the rare occasions that they think of me at all), and when they mention me, they’re saying, “Hey, remember Becky? Becky Lockwood? She sure loved her movies, right? And, man, she had great breasts.”

Actually, I just added that last bit for ironic pathos. My breasts weren’t – aren’t – anything to speak of. But it makes me feel better about being dead (or whatever I am, which is close enough to being dead as makes no difference), so I’m going to allow myself a moment of fantasy.

Anyway. Movies. Unforgiven, one of my favorites, with Clint Eastwood and Morgan Freeman and Gene Hackman. Very clever film. One scene I particularly like is midway through the movie where Hackman’s character, Little Bill, is explaining how a gunfighter with a cool head will always have the advantage over an opponent who doesn’t, and no matter how quick a draw the other guy he is, if he’s nervous and his hand’s shaking then he’s not going to hit his target, whilst the first guy, he may be slower, but he’s composed, he’s a stone cold killer, and he’s going to get the job done. Then, in the movie’s climactic scene, Clint’s character Will Munny is facing down a tavern full of simple minded deputies and barflies and he demonstrates Bill’s point exactly, shooting down man after man with a steely eye while they fumble with their own guns and riddle the scenery with wasted bullets. And then Munny kills Little Bill. Who, believe me, deserves it.

I think of this scene as I approach the three men who have ill-advisedly earned the attention of the Spirit of Vengeance tonight. They’re all armed but they can’t shoot worth a damn, not when faced with a cadaverous ghoul like myself, all black leather and icy blue flame, riding astride my nightmare steed and lit stark against the inky twilight. I cock my own gun, my trusty Desert Eagle, and coolly take aim as panicked bullets whiz about me. I shoot the first man in the face, and his head erupts in a conflagration of Helfire. I turn my aim upon the second man and my next unholy slug detonates square in his chest.

What’s the expression? Ducks in a barrel? Something like that.

Rebecca Lockwood, Spirit of Vengeance and a stone cold killer herself. Eat your heart out, Clint.

I draw a bead on my remaining target. He’s sweating corn, his sallow skin glistening. He reeks of fear. Seeing your two pals writhing in the dust, consumed by the flames of retribution, that’ll do that to a man. To his credit, however, he seems pretty handy with his weapon.

He pulls the trigger and a bullet impacts in the center of my flaming skull.

It hurts.

But it would hurt a lot more if I wasn’t an undead avatar of punishment.

“FRANCESCO RÉYES,” I say, reaching out and plucking the man’s name from his head as I stare deep into his terrified eyes. “I FIND YOU GUILTY OF CAUSING PAIN AND MISERY. AND I’M HERE TO MAKE SURE YOU KNOW EXACTLY HOW THAT FEELS.”

Francesco fires off another shot, hitting me in the gut, but this bullet is no more lethal than the first. If anything the smoking hole in my leather jacket gives me extra street cred. I grab my would-be murderer about the throat and hoist him high, then pierce his soul with the rusty hooks of my penance stare and strip his evil down to the root, exposing his black core. He screams. It’s a sound that pleases me.

I roast him from the inside out with the flames of Vengeance, then cast him aside with his fellows and turn my attention to the injustice that summoned me here: a threadbare haversack on the ground near a freshly dug grave. The sack is squirming, and I can a woman mewling within. Still breathing, then, but these men would have ended their victim had I not arrived to save her; that or simply buried her alive. Whichever, the suffering I’ve delivered upon them shall be similarly cruel and enduring.

I reach out and burn away the length of rope knotted about the head of the sack, then step away as the woman inside wriggles clear, weeping and panting for breath. I’m feeling pleased with myself; being dead, or whatever I am, evidently hasn’t taught me the sin of pride.

My self-satisfaction lasts for all of a second, at which point I notice that the woman isn’t human…

…and that’s when things really start to go wrong. The creature hisses, unfolding her spindly arms and spreading her webbed claws. She is female – opening herself like this, as if for a friendly embrace, displays sharp breasts and the prominent swell of her sex between her crooked legs – but her flesh is scaled and grayish-green, she possesses a forked tail, and her head is decidedly birdlike, her neck ringed with a feathered crest and her features dominated by a curved, golden beak. Her eyes are pure white and I can’t help but be snared by them. I gaze into the depths of her, entranced. Is this how my penance stare affects humans, I wonder? Somewhere between hypnosis and horrified fascination. Like watching one’s own death unfold second by gruesome second…

The creature eventually breaks the spell and scurries away, into the night. I make to follow… but I can’t. Francesco’s bullets couldn’t harm me, but apparentlysomething can. I glance down at myself in alarm, and for a moment I’m confused. Then I realize what’s happening, and why my body is stiffening and paling to a strange, unearthly color.

Stone cold killer? Oh yes.

And now I’m literally turning into stone…

To Be Continued

Ink in…

DEPENDENCE

By Hunter Lambright

The bells on the inside doorknob rang as the door to Heaven’s Devils swung open. The owner, Leon Nuñez, looked up from changing the needle out of his tattoo gun.

“Today’s the day, cuz!” Eric Gitter said, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m eighteen, and the first thing I’m doing is the one thing I always wanted to do.”

“Signing up for the draft, hombre?” Leon asked, smirking.

Eric shook his head. “Hell no, man. I’m getting a tattoo.”

“I never guessed, you coming into my shop and all,” Leon said, shaking his head as he chuckled. “You have any idea what you want?”

“Nah, I was bouncing around ideas, but I didn’t know for sure. I want something that would kinda piss Ma off, but not too much, you know? And I can’t decide between badass and idolatry, either. Think the Fantastic Four’s Baxter Building logo is too much?” Eric asked. “I thought about the Avengers ‘A,’ but I’m guessin’ the boys would call me Asshole just for kicks if I did.”

Leon pursed his lips. “Tell you what, you’re into all that superhero shit, right? You ever wanted to have superpowers and shit, be just like them, yeah?”

“Only in the dreams that I don’t tell nobody about, cuz,” Eric said, laughing it off. “You know, dreams about flying and getting away and stuff, never none of that spandex shit, no way.”

“You trust me, hombre?”

“Sure I trust you,” Eric replied. “Blood trusts blood, cuz.”

“Then I’m gonna surprise you, and if you don’t like the surprise, hell, I’ll pay for your laser surgery. Sound like a plan?” Leon asked.

Eric cocked an eyebrow. “You’re the artist. You got an idea, you got an idea.”

“I got an idea,” Leon said. “Take your shirt off and we’ll get started.”

It was hours later that Ink stood in front of a mirror. “Ma’s going to kill me,” he said, staring over his shoulder into the mirror at the elaborate, feathered wings tattooed across his back and shoulders. “I love it, don’t get me wrong, but damn.”

Leon shook his head. “You don’t know the half of it. Try something for me, all right?”

“Try something?” Eric asked.

Leon nodded. “Think about flying. Just concentrate on it, all right? Like, think about the tattoo and flying, about what it’d be like to fly with that thing on your back.”

“You’re crazy,” Eric said, shutting his eyes as he thought about flying, about the wind in his ears and the world far away below him. “This is pointless, cuz.”

“Tell that to the fuckin’ inches under your feet!” Leon shouted gleefully.

Eric opened his eyes to find himself floating half a foot off the ground. “This some kind of trick? Happy birthday, where’s the party?!” Eric asked, moving his arms and legs frantically, unable to figure out how to land. As his concentration broke, so did his flight, and Eric was sent tumbling to the ground.

Standing up, Eric dusted off his jeans and brushed the rest of his body off. Finally, he met Leon’s eyes. “Did that really happen?”

“Yes, it did.”

“Did you do it? Did you give me the power to fly?” Eric asked.

Leon smiled. “Looks like it, hombre.”

“You realize that’s the most awesome thing anyone’s ever given me for my birthday, right? I can fly!” Concentrating, Eric accentuated his statement by doing a midair back-flip.

“Hey, it’s what blood does for blood,” Leon said. “Now get home to your Ma. She’s already going to be mad enough. My guess, you’ll wanna hold off on the flying till after dark, okay?”

“Okay,” Eric said. “I don’t know how I can thank you. I’m not even sure it’s real!”

“It’s real, believe me,” Leon replied. “It’s very, very real.”

Leon arrived at Heaven’s Devils to find the door already unlocked. He stepped inside. “Whoever’s here, I’m warning you, I have a gun and have already called the police!” he shouted.

“Cool your jets, cuz,” Eric said. He sat on the artist’s stool, elbows resting on his knees. His head hung low. “S’just me.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Leon said, anger filtering into his voice. “What you think you’re doing, breaking into my shop like that? Why didn’t you just call?”

“I need your help with something,” Eric said. “Been going out at night, playing vigilante, shit like that. Stupid, kid’s stuff. Last night, flying wasn’t enough to stop the bad guy. I was mobile enough, but not strong enough to stop this creep from shanking this old lady for her purse. Caught him, but wasn’t strong enough to stop him.”

“That’s rough, hombre, but what do you want me to do about it? I’m not willing to try a tattoo for bring the dead back to life, too dangerous,” Leon said.

Eric held up one hand. “It’s not what I’m asking. I want something more. Flying’s good, but it’s limited. Think you can make me stronger?”

Leon looked up at the pain in his cousin’s eyes. “For you, I think I can try. Roll up your sleeve, we’ll see what we can do.”

Dani looked over the file with INK printed across the tab, staring across the room at Eric Gitter. “School records say you got and charged with drug possession when you were sixteen.”

Eric shrugged. “Getting caught helped me clean up. ‘Sides, that’s way before my story starts.”

“Police records then go on to indicate a series of speed infractions and thrill-seeking,” Dani continued. “Seems to me that these records indicate a history of addiction running through your post-pubescent life, Mr. Gitter.”

“Well yeah, when you put it like that,” Eric said, shifting uncomfortably.

“Nine tattoos later, you’re sitting right in front of me,” Dani said. “Even after I told you our school’s purpose, you’re still here. Why’s that?”

Eric shuddered. “Because, yeah, I’m not a mutant, but I’m still scared somewhere along the line I got addicted to power…”

Follow Cipher and Ink into upcoming issues of X-Force! Next month: Onyxx!

Crimson Daffodil in…

SEEING RED

By Nik Wimer

“Get ya anything else, sweetie?” the waitress asked. She was smiling that special vacant smile people in the service industry learned from Day One. The one that was all teeth and never touched the eyes. The one that said: I’m being marginally more attentive to you in the hope it’ll get me a bigger tip, but, really, my mind is on bowling tonight with the girls, or if I can finish my term paper on time, or, anything–really–except whether your food was the way you wanted it. And, honestly, who puts mayonnaise on their pancakes anyway? One of those smiles.

“No, thank you,” the man said, answering for the table. His name was Vernon French, though in certain—albeit limited—circles, he was known as the Crimson Daffodil. (In the interest of full disclosure, he had also once been known as the Wombat, but that was a period of his life he was trying really hard to forget).

“What I would like,” French said, gazing into the waitress’ eyes, “is for you to pretend we’ve paid our check. Go over to the register as though you’re getting our change and empty the till. Then bring me back all the bills. You can do that for me, can’t you?” It was a ridiculous request, one that should have been answered with a derisive laugh or maybe a threat to contact the authorities. Instead, the waitress nodded her agreement and walked off to clean out the register.

Vernon French was born a mutant and he was rather happy with that fact. Probably because the powers he had manifested so far hadn’t turned him blue and furry, or blew off half his face, or any of a thousand other ways being a mutant could disfigure a person. In fact, other than being able to burrow through solid stone—something he chose not to advertise—his powers weren’t physical at all.It wasn’t really hypnosis. It wasn’t exactly mind-control either. What it was, was a physiological altering of the subject’s brain chemistry, a simple rearranging of the way synapses fired. That was his power.

While fear wasn’t eliminated, it was moved to the back burner of the brain’s metaphoric stove-top—the low BTU one where revenge could be left to simmer for a good long time or where one could warm milk for making cocoa—and pleasure was set to the boil. This lowered the subject’s inhibitions and made them very open to suggestion. And Vernon French was a man brimming with suggestions.

“Where to next, boss?”

French looked up at the men sitting in the booth on the opposite side of the table. Every mastermind needed henchmen, and they were his. Steady, dependable, and not-too-bright, they were everything you could ask for in your hired muscle. And tonight, they were also an experiment. “I was thinking–”

“I bet we go back to New York to look for that Dagger chic,” the first henchman guessed. It had been months since he’d seen them last. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, they had taken to calling themselves “Lance” and “Vance”.

“Not exactly,” French said to Lance—or, perhaps it was Vance. He had a hard time keeping them straight when they weren’t wearing color-coordinated shirts. “But I do have plans.”

“I knew it,” said Vance (Lance?) with a smile. “I knew the Boss had something planned. Didn’t I say the Boss had something planned? After all that time, why call unless he had something planned?”

French sighed. “Well, you two were in prison until a week ago.”

The two men considered that.

“My friends,” French began, “the time has come for us to part ways. I was born a rogue; a rapscallion. It is my very nature. Alas, there is nothing I can do to change. But I can ensure that good men like yourselves are never again caught in my wake and drowned.”

French held up a hand to quell the protests he sensed forming in their minds. “I’ve thought about it long and hard and decided this is for the best.”

This was it–le moment de vérité. He’d never tried to control more than one mind before. He looked at Lance (Vance?), caught his eye, held his gaze. “After the waitress returns, leave the restaurant and walk north until you can walk no more. Then, use the money I give you to return home and forget all about me.” With the waitress already in his thrall, he opened another connection and . . . was welcomed into the henchman’s mind.

He turned to Vance (Lance?), established a connection, and hastily repeated the instructions, substituting “north” with “south.”

“I mean it,” French said. “It really is for the best. After what happened in New York, I just couldn’t–” And that was the moment the waitress chose to return.

She held the cash from the register in a tight ball and tossed it carelessly onto the table. French picked up the bills, peeled one off at random, and handed it to the waitress who took it wordlessly and retreated back the way she’d come.

He sorted the money into roughly equal piles and pushed them across the table. “And that is that,” French said.

Lance gathered one stack of bills and slid from the booth. Vance followed. “That’s that,” they both agreed. Since French hadn’t given specifics on the goodbyes, both men simply nodded and walked out the restaurant’s front door. Outside, they paused to shake hands and then turned and headed off in opposite directions.

French waited before making his own exit. He’d really done it, severed all ties with his old life and left himself a clean slate. As he opened the door onto the brilliantly dawning new day, Vernon French realized something:

Today was the first day of the rest of his life.

Or something like that.