Game Face (Mythklok, Chapter 71)
Title: Game Face (Mythklok, Chapter 71)
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A bit of backstory on a yellow-eyed band member, a hunt in the Dreamtime, and C++ programming. Are you all super-excited???
Warnings: Slash, AU, OCs, swearing
Notes: Notes after the jump.
Mythklok started existence as a Metalocalypse AU. It lives now, only in my memories.
First off, a grateful thanks to Z for filling me in on the fine and not-so-fine points of horsemanship. (The sum total of what tiki knows of horses: they're big. Really, really big.) Last time: Dethklok finished an album, and we met Ganesh's old college flatmate. Who happens to be a goddess, who knew? And Dethklok has entered the video game industry.
Irrelevant photo is irrelevant.
Many years ago....
Charles Ofdensen lit a cigarette and glared at absolutely no one.
He was stuck.
He hadn't been Charles Ofdensen for long enough to know exactly how the man would react, but he was pretty damned sure how the being, Sariel, would feel. And that was pissed off, right to the tips of his fancy silver angel wings.
He had his wings out right now, as it happened. He pretty much despised his glittery True Form, but he had to admit, sometimes, it helped him think. As did sucking on a cigarette. But none of that seemed to be working worth a damn today.
He gave his wings a good rattle, and continued pacing. The pacing didn't help at all, but it seemed like the thing to do. Later he would have to crawl around this hotel room and make sure he hadn't left too many feathers scattered around. Hotel managers were probably going to start thinking he was some kind of crazy sexual deviant. Which, come to think of it, wasn't too far off the mark.
And where the fuck was Raziel? She had seen him through law school, true, but it seemed like she'd now fucked off for parts unknown again. She was an idiot, but at least she was someone he could fucking talk to.
He had eighty percent of a band. And that was it. And it was going to be an awesome fucking band but....
Pickles was a known quantity. Drug-addled and irrational, but overtopping with talent. And Skwisgaar of course. Getting those two together had been a masterstroke. And then finding Nathan. How had that voice … that presence … not been recorded before?
Now, Magnus.... Nobody really liked Magnus. And Charles figured the guy's time was limited. A strict vegetarian? Who practiced transcendental meditation? That hippie shit wasn't gonna play. Not with this crowd, not for long. That guy felt like a placeholder. But for now, he put up with Skwisgaar's bullshit. That was the critical thing. The boys were already pretty smug little bastards. You had to be someone who could put up with them, but not get beaten down.
You needed ego. Great throbbing foamy barrels of ego. That's how you made it in this business. Charles had already witnessed it, for years, from the other side. This industry was not for the faint of heart. The ones who succeeded were the ones who already considered themselves fucking royalty. The great fire-breathing monsters. The strutting showmen.
And that was where things stood. You could get a bass player, that was no problem. Either Pickles or Skwisgaar could play the part for the recordings. What they needed was another band member. And that just wasn't fucking happening. They needed a bass guitarist who, all agreed, wouldn't actually need to play bass guitar. But nevertheless, someone with just as big a rock and roll presence as the rest of them.
He heard the pounding at the door. He reluctantly Court Formed, tucking himself all back into the grey man shape and, throwing open the door before his band woke the other guests with their pounding and hollering, wandered off to see where he'd thrown his shirt.
“You ready yet, Ofdensen?” It was Nathan and Skwisgaar.
“Yeah. Minute.”
“You know, you could take the fucking cigarette out of your mouth and eat something sometimes!” Nathan scolded.
Charles shrugged, adjusting his tie in the mirror. He wondered idly what Nathan would do if Charles told him he'd been a skinny bastard for literal centuries. He watched Nathan out of the corner of his eye. Pickles and Skwisgaar had picked up on it but Nathan.... No. Don't even think it. Human men tended to be persnickety like that. Not worth risking his new band for a drunken blow job. And anyway, he didn't think a line like “Hey, I'm immortal, baby” would work on somebody like Nathan.
“Just gotta find my jacket,” Charles muttered.
“You don't ams gotta dress like da douche balls,” Skwisgaar sighed.
“Yeah, I gotta,” said Charles, grabbing his jacket and hustling the two musicians from his room. “I want you guys to look successful.”
“We ARE successful,” Nathan insisted.
Good, Charles thought. Keep thinking that. “Yes. But. I want you guys to look like you can afford to hire a slick lawyer in a suit to follow you around.” Actually, they couldn't, especially with money coming in limited to Pickles's S&B residuals and bits from Skwisgaar's various odd guitar jobs. He had dug into the small stash of funds Raziel had left him (before she fucked off) to fund this recruitment trip.
“Ohhhh,” said Nathan. “That makes sense.” He grinned and gave Charles a friendly whack on the back, which nearly sent Charles sprawling. “All right! Let's get to the fucking club.”
In the Dreamtime....
“But I'm your Honored Sister, not your Little Sister!”
Young Sariel stopped walking along the wooded path and glanced down. A lot further down than was his custom in talking to Raziel. He currently appeared to be a boy of about 12 or 13 years. She looked around eight. And did not look at all happy about this eventuality.
“We talked about this,” he explained calmly. “The other guys who are gonna be on the hunt.... Well, they're guys. If you're this age, they'll be protective. But if you're any older, all they'll wanna do is hit on your or harass you. And, I don't want any chopped limbs. Not even in somebody's dream.”
Raziel stood with little arms crossed, a tiny ball of fury. “You're supposed to be my Little Brother! It's not honorable!”
“I thought you never had any use for those stupid honorifics?” he laughed.
“You're the one who hated honorifics.”
“We're doing this for Ganesh, remember?”
Her expression softened somewhat, from that of murderous rage to simmering fury. Sariel felt himself smiling. It must have been the experience of being a father that was doing this to him, he thought, but Raziel was an awfully cute kid.
“What?” she demanded, preparing herself for further insult.
“Uh,” he said, giving himself a moment by adjusting his glasses. He had made himself too damned young to smoke, which was a little annoying. “I was thinking, you look just like little Abby!”
“Really?”
“Yeah! If you put your hair up. I mean, other than the eyes, when she's a couple years older....” It was a really good lie, actually, because it was mostly true.
Raziel's fury melted into motherly pride. Which was also pretty cute. But Sariel was prepared this time to bite the inside of his cheek. “You look different,” she told him as they began to walk again.
Sariel nodded. His hair was light, almost blond. But the strangest thing was that his eyes were a sort of steely blue. “Yeah, I guess the Court Form I created before I knew you was different?” he said, self-consciously putting a hand through his hair.
“Well, you look like an Odinsson, so that will work well for blending,” said Raziel.
“What did Wotan say, by the way?” he asked her. “I mean, the real Wotan.”
“I told him I'm going down to sleep with Sariel and Ganesh and there's NOTHING WEIRD ABOUT IT.”
“And what did he do?”
“He laughed!”
Sariel frowned, now just a bit insulted. They made their way through the familiar - but somehow unfamiliar - woods that surrounded Valhalla.
“But Ganesh doesn't know about this?” she asked Sariel at length.
“No. I wanted to pay him back. He's been coming along, into my dreams.” He smiled again. “And helping me.”
“What, you have therapy sessions?”
“No. We. Uh. We're kids. And we play pirates. Or, something....” He was blushing.
“And you haven't invited me!” Raziel blustered.
“Well, I invited you today.”
“But to his dream?”
“Yeah. He'll come and play with me in my dreams, but when I've offered to come back into his dreams, he gets funny about it.”
“You sure he wants you to pay him back?”
“Sure,” said Sariel, now a bit testy. “What could it hurt?”
They came out of the woods, and into what appeared a merry chaos at the stables at Valhalla. Both “children” stood for a moment in wonder, not at the hubbub, but at the novelty. Well, the novelty of the ancient, anyway. Wotan had obviously rebuilt the stables, perhaps several times, before the days that Sariel and Raziel knew it as adults. But this was the Valhalla from Ganesh's childhood, very long ago.
“Come on!” boomed a voice that hadn't changed in the least. “Let's get cracking before the game find something better to do!”
There was a veritable gaggle of boys surrounding him, ranging from what would have been for humans grade school age to the late teens. But Wotan was at least half a head taller than any of them. He was a bit more unkempt than the Wotan Sariel knew, but the most striking thing was that he wore a very jaunty eyepatch.
“This was before I convince him to keep Mimir up at the house,” Raziel whispered to Sariel.
Sariel and Raziel exchanged a glance. Grabbing her hand, as if she were his actual little sister, Sariel marched as confidently as he could up to the large god.
“Uncle Wotan! I hope we aren't late!”
Wotan stopped short and gave the two latecomers a practiced eye. “Aye? And who are ye?”
“Why, I'm your Cousin Sariel, of course! Papa Jacque's boy!”
“Papa Jacque? How is that old son of a bitch?” The one blue eye peered at Sariel. “And you, boy, you don't look a damned thing like him!”
“I take after my mom. Anyway, Cousin Poseidon was playing cards with Papa Jacque and he said you would take me on my first hunt!”
“Well, Poseidon didn't bother to tell me about this! Asshole! That's just like him. All right, we'll get out outfitted. And who is this lovely lady?” he asked, hunkering down to get a better look at the tiny girl.
“I'm the Lady Raziel!” she announced.
“This is my sister,” Sariel smiled.
“And you, you intend to accompany us on the hunt, young missy?” asked Wotan.
“I'm not Missy, I'm Raziel! Are you thick?” she asked the large god.
“My apologies, My Lady Raziel,” Wotan told her, rising with a slight bow. “Yes, I'm a bit old and thick. So, you think to come on our hunt today. And how old are ye?”
“I am aged eight years and three months,” she declared grandly, hands on hips. Several of the boys had ceased their preparations to stare at the newcomers.
“Well, that is very mature. Would ye prefer to be mounted on your own pony, or to ride with one of the mob here?”
“Well, I dunno, they're kinda scruffy looking!” Raziel told him, giving the boys a practiced eye.
Sariel was now nearly drawing blood from chomping the inside of his cheek. One of the pleasures of being an evil genius, he thought, was when things went in accordance with one's plotting. He figured he could talk his way into the hunt: Wotan wouldn't be able to resist taking another kid, even on as shaky a story as the one he'd concocted. But being the new guy on the would have thrown the spotlight too much on himself. Raziel - even a pint-sized Raziel - served as a delicious distraction.
He sensed eyes on him, and glanced over. Ganesh was gazing curiously at him. He grinned over at him, only to have Ganesh blush - blush! - and turn away.
Damn he's cute when he blushes, was the first thought that ping-ponged through Sariel's Dreamtime adolescent brain. And, unbidden, he started to cast his mind over potential things that could make and adult Ganesh blush. Save it for later! He was a trifle surprised at Ganesh's appearance. He was wearing his human head today, whereas, in Sariel's dreams, he usually appeared as a gentle elephant god. Sariel had expected a bit older version of their little Elias, but it was difficult to reconcile their effusive toddler with this small, quiet boy.
“Ganesh! Standing there, teeth in your mouth and your tongue hanging out,” Wotan chastened. The god had pawned Raziel off on the haughty boy Sariel took for Thor. “Why don't you help get Sariel mounted?” Wotan suggested. Ganesh nodded, and inclined his head that Sariel should follow.
The two boys entered the stables. They walked through the broad doorway, out of the morning sun and noisy chaos, and into the quiet and cool, smell of hay and horses. A couple of mounts looked up curiously, but then went back to chewing. Sariel followed Ganesh, who seemed to know where he was headed.
Ganesh stopped in front of a stall. Curious, intelligent eyes gazed at Sariel. Ah, good, yes. Sariel reached out to scratch the nose. Calm and reserved. It seemed a good choice. It seemed a really good choice.
Sariel tried to study Ganesh again out of the corner of his eye. The boy, Ganesh, wouldn't know him, and Sariel had tried to keep most of his magic Court Formed away. But, like Raziel, even in pint-sized form, Ganesh was Ganesh.
“This will be good,” Sariel told him.
Ganesh smiled shyly, and gave another blush. With a great gritting of teeth, Sariel barely managed not to ask Ganesh whether they could just dispense with all the hunting nonsense and perhaps retire to the back of the stables for a lengthy make out session? Ganesh went off to get a saddle, and they quietly outfitted the horse together. Maybe it had been a mistake to choose a horny adolescent Sariel for this mission?
“Thanks!” Sariel told Ganesh when the horse was properly dressed.
“Er,” said Ganesh.
Sariel stayed quiet, holding the bridle.
“With this lot?” Ganesh told him. “Your magic? You might want to keep it in check.”
Sariel jumped up on the horse. He leaned over. “Where's the fun in that?” he asked Ganesh.
“It's just,” said Ganesh. “They can be....”
Sariel winked. “So can I,” he grinned, and rode out into the sunlight.
The present day....
It was a strange sound. Even for Mordhaus, where strange sounds abided.
But somehow, a familiar sound.
Charles leapt out of the way, back flattened up against the wall, just in time to avoid being knocked over by the hurtling body.
“Whoa!” The guy 360-ed and skidded his skateboard back over to Charles. It was the head of the video game company, a fellow, Charles gathered, who was named Kevin. He had only ever caught the first name, as he assumed “Kevin Dude” was no the guy's proper name.
“Sorry, Charles Dude, I didn't know you were there!” apologized Kevin the video game guy.
“Well, that's comforting,” Charles told him. The guy looked a bit bewildered at the comment, but amiably followed Charles along the corridor as it curved and they came to....
“A, ah, skateboard ramp?”
“ISN'T IT BODACIOUS?” enthused Kevin.
“Uh, yes. Yes, Kevin, it is rather bodacious.” As Charles had been (and as he would freely admit to no one but himself) pushing exhaustion at the time Raziel planted the video game guy in his office, he had let Raziel and Ganesh actually effect the Dethklok organization's acquisition of the company. Ganesh especially had attacked the assignment with a surprising relish. He declared that his goal was to wrest the company from the greedy clutches of the American military industrial complex. But Charles was rather taken aback by Ganesh's canny grasp of US corporate law. He had dissolved the old company, leaving nothing but a desiccated husk for Crozier and his black-suited accomplices to puzzle over, and reconstituted the entire thing - lock, stock, and skateboard ramp - in the dungeons of Mordhaus.
Raziel had decided it would be safer, at least for the present time, to keep the employees close at hand, both for their own safety, and in case Charles changed his mind on subjecting them to horrible tortures. As an added bonus, Kevin rather excelled at dramatic readings of the Tales of the Wiggly Pigglies books, something which, although Charles loved his son with all his black heart, he would really rather taser himself in the balls than subject himself to even one more time.
But it looked like the entire company had, en masse, grabbed boards and surrounded the ramp.
Another familiar body hurtled by a great speed. Charles grinned and waited for the boarder to recognize him and coast back.
“Ah. Er. Uh.”
“Ganesh.”
“Toki!” said Ganesh, grabbing the shoulder of the guitarist, who had just approached, Functional Bunny board under his arm. “Toki and I were just, er, warming up for snowboarding season!”
“Well, it's good that you are here to make sure our GUITARIST doesn't do anything like, break his wrist, on the eve of a big tour?” said Charles.
“Er.”
“I ams not snaps da arms, Charles,” Toki assured him, holding up his Facebones logo wrist guard. “Den you ams has to rely on dat douches Skwisgaar.”
“Look, just be careful, OK? I know it's easy to get injured with this stuff.”
“We ams follows da safety procedures,” laughed Toki.
“Yes, terribly cautious!” seconded Ganesh.
“And there's our little bro!” enthused Kevin as Elias came running up. Kevin dropped his Facebones logo board to the ground, and Elias gleefully jumped up on it and started to whiz down the corridor, wind blowing through his little silvery-tipped wings.
Charles glared at Ganesh. His left eye twitched.
“Uh-oh,” said Toki, who knew that twitch.
“Er,” explained the elephant god. “I think it is time for this one's nap!” he declared as Elias zoomed by. He expertly scooped the child off the board and then, along with Toki, bustled off down the corridor.
“You ams in da troubles now, dudes,” Toki could be heard saying as they rounded the bend, out of sight.
“Kevin,” said a lilting voice. Bréagán, the tall, redheaded Goddess of Play, was now standing in the hallway, pointing to her wristwatch.
“Hey slackers!” said Kevin. The other video game dudes in the hallway all looked up. “Five o'clock, time to get coding dudes!” The sound of wheels and excited chattering quieted quickly as the programmers retired to a room and found their places behind workstations.
“Bréagán?” said Charles. The red haired goddess, who had turned to follow the skateboarder programmers inside, remained instead out in the corridor.
Her blue eyes bored into him, though she was smiling faintly. “You're looking better,” she said. “Not like you're gonna dry up and blow away.”
“Oh. Uh. Thank you,” he said awkwardly. “I been having some trouble sleeping.”
“I know about the one who's troublin' you,” she told him.
“Oh, Ganesh told you?” said Charles irritably.
“That angel? He's a one I keep a watch on,” she told him.
“Like you keep a watch on me?” he asked.
She nodded. “Some folks merit keepin' a watch.”
“Can I ask why? I mean, him, not me?”
She nodded. “He's a Seraph, strayin' into my realm. And I'm one territorial bitch, me.”
Charles couldn't help smiling faintly. But then he frowned. “So, you think Uriah is connected to the military's interest in your company?”
“I haven't put together the pieces. But there's a link, mark my word. Though, that one, he's harder to get a handle upon than you.” The steely eyes narrowed at him.
“So, what do you know for sure?”
“The military man, the one in charge?”
“Crozier?”
“Aye, that's the one. Only seen him the once, but that was enough. There was a magic to him,” she said, nodding.
“Wait, he's a supernatural?”
“No, you misunderstand. He'd been magicked. By something. Someone. Powerful stuff.”
“You see magic, like Ganesh?”
“'Tis of a different kind, but a similar nature. Yes.”
He inclined his head. They were both leaning shoulders against the corridor now. She was definitely taller than he, but Charles had never found this terribly intimidating. “So, you see me?” he asked.
She regarded him for a moment, and then said softly, as if to herself, “I've rarely seen so much power. I knew you were different. That day he spotted you in the subway.”
“The what?”
“The day you met?”
“I didn't meet Ganesh in a subway!”
She looked thoughtful. “You really don't recall? London Underground. We were playing, busking, and you called out a request.
He frowned. “Oh. Good gods. That was you? He had a beard. I hate that beard!”
“It's not attractive, is it? But, there's not telling him.”
“No,” he said.
“Thought you wanted to give our Ganesh a good shagging, but then you disappeared,” Bréagán told him. “At least, that's what everyone wanted with that one.”
“Including you?”
“Yeah, including me,” she laughed.
Charles rubbed his forehead. Another thing to ask Ganesh. Once he got through being very pissed at Ganesh. “OK. I'll tell you one thing we know. From watching, as you call it.”
She looked at him questioningly.
“The army has Angelic translators.”
She blinked. “Now, why would they need that, when they've got him?”
“That's a good question. Either he's not really connected. And you're wrong,” he couldn't help adding. “Or...”
“They don't trust the bastard,” she said arching a red eyebrow.
“Bréagán!” came a voice from inside the room. She nodded to Charles, and took off inside, quietly shutting the door behind her. Charles could see, through the glass, many quiet people peering into terminals.
Someone had left a Facebones board sitting in the hall. Charles considered picking it up. And then, for some reason, he looked carefully up and down the corridor.
Empty.
He grinned.
Many years ago....
Nathan had managed to get them to the club maybe an hour ahead of the main act. It wasn't that he lacked a sense of direction so much as the plethora of obnoxious back seat drivers. And no one would let Charles anywhere near a set of car keys. “Pickles drives better when he's blind drunk,” Nathan had grumbled.
“So who's up next?” Charles asked, lighting up the first of many cigarettes.
Pickles, the only guy who was somewhat paying attention, picked up a flyer that was already becoming buried under beer bottles. Green eyes scanned it, and then he started laughing.
“What?” said Charles.
“You'll like dese guys, Ahfdensen,” grinned the redhead, pushing the flyer over towards him. “Da t'ird act down.”
Charles picked it up and squinted at it. It was a dark smoky club, and the printer looked like it had been low on toner when these were pumped out.
“Oh, Christian rock? Fuck that,” snarled Charles, letting the flyer slip to the floor. He scanned around the table in surprise. Quite suddenly, the rest of the guys, who had barely given him any mind since they piled in the car, were staring.
“Don't like Christian rock, Ofdensen?” grinned Nathan.
“Yeah. So what?”
“You ams never has da opinguins abouts nothings,” added Skwisgaar suspiciously.
“Just. Bad experience with some of those guys,” Charles told them, hoping like hell that something shiny would catch their collective attentions soon. Fortunately, the next act was tuning up, which immediately started the torrent of invective from his proto-band.
“Ha! Look at these assholes!” laughed Nathan.
“Douches,” muttered Skwisgaar.
A bass guitar had started pumping. Charles looked up. It was like time stopped.
He had never seen anyone sling a bass that low.
The band - hilariously, the name was Righteous Babes o' War - at last started doing whatever the hell they thought they were doing, but the bassist was off in his own little world, carefully striking stadium poses and stadium pouts while the rest were sadly vamping to a largely disinterested crowd.
“Who's that guy? The bassist?” Charles asked as the band departed, to little notice.
There was chuckling.
“Dats guys?” laughed Skwisgaar.”
“What's the joke?” asked Charles, who was getting annoyed.
“He'll just tell you to FUCK OFF,” said Nathan.
“He tol' me t' feck ahf,” confessed Pickles.
“I ams not talk to dat guy,” grumbled Magnus. “Ams not mellows.”
“We ams recorded together,” Skwisgaar stated.
“Really, dood?”
“Ja. I ams tells hims he sucks, and he ams tells me I ams sucks!”
“Whatta douche!” nodded Pickles.
“I gotta talk to him,” said Charles, suddenly leaving the table.
There was a silence.
“Is that guy nuts?” asked Nathan to no one in particular.
“Yeah. Dat's why we hired him,” laughed Pickles.
In the Dreamtime....
“Heels down! And tighten that grip! Have you never ridden a horse before?”
“Uh, yeah, Raziel,” sighed Thor.
“Lady Raziel!”
“Lady Raziel.”
“Thor, are you paying attention?” scolded Wotan, who had just ridden abreast of them.
“Yes, Dad,” mumbled Thor.
“Remember when you got bucked off last month?”
“Ow” said the boy, rubbing his head. “Yeah.”
“I'm not surprised, with your technique!” lectured Raziel, receiving a blue-eyed glare.
“Your feet get caught in those stirrups when you fall, you could get an even worse thumping!” his father told him.
A raven alit on Wotan's shoulder. He cocked his head, listening. He reigned in Sleipnir. “Everybody form up!” he ordered as the company came to a halt.
“We've got some sign of prey up ahead. But I don't want to scare them off with this thundering herd. Thor, you and Vali come with me. The rest of you stay here for now. And no monkey business!”
Sariel could hear Thor sighing as they rode off. “You've got to quit leaning back when you stop. It's stupid!” nagged Raziel. He grinned at Ganesh as they dismounted. Despite a few attempts, the god had not said a word to Sariel since the hunt began.
“Well, as we're stuck here for a while, perhaps I will relate to you some stories of my brave deeds,” Baldr told them as he gracefully leapt from his horse.
“Yeah,” said Skanda. “You need to tell us again about the time you rescued the fair maiden from the troll!”
“Why, yes, that's one of my best!” agreed Baldr. “I should commit all these to writing some day!”
“So,” Sariel, who was standing in the back, whispered to Ganesh, “he rescued a maiden?”
“Er,” said Ganesh. Sariel looked at him questioningly. Ganesh flicked his eyes at Baldr, who was paying him no mind, and leaned over to Sariel. “Not actually yet.”
“This is a story about how he didn't rescue a maiden?” Sariel asked.
“Well. There are, as you know, challenges along the way. And he has completed some of them. Bravely! But. Er.”
“The maiden's still twiddling her thumbs?”
“Er. Combing her long golden hair. Er. Yes.”
“Maybe you could tell us about your adventure with the demon wolf!” Skanda prompted.
Sariel cocked an eyebrow at Ganesh. “Er. No, not yet. The demon wolf still roams the mountains. But, in the meantime, he has had many, er, interesting, events.”
“Has this guy actually finished anything? Ever? I mean, other than polishing his ego?” Sariel asked. Ganesh made a “quiet” gesture, but he was also smiling.
“Yes, that is one of my favorite adventures as well,” agreed Baldr, who appeared slightly irritated to be interrupted in his tale by other tales.
“I should tell you my thoughts about your many brave tales!” Skanda insisted, to a frank glare from Baldr.
“The obsequiousness is blinding,” Sariel muttered to Ganesh, who let out a chuckle.
“What's that, Shorty?” asked Skanda.
“Hey, are we making up nicknames?” Sariel grinned at Skanda. “Would you prefer Stupid, or Stupid?”
“Dad asked us not to fight, Sorry-El,” scolded Baldr.
“Baldr, Sariel is new,” interjected Ganesh.
“Shut it, Chubs,” grumbled Skanda.
“You could be civil to him,” Ganesh shot back.
“Is that your new boyfriend, Nesha?” taunted Baldr to general laughter.
“Whatsa matter?” asked Sariel, now stepping close to Baldr. “You jealous?”
“Oooo,” said Skanda.
“No!” said Baldr. Sariel was now uncomfortably close. “Back off.”
“Not without a kiss,” grinned Sariel, leaning ever so slightly closer.
They locked eyes.
“Boys! You need to stop fucking around and come with me!” Everyone was suddenly attending to the sound of the little voice. It was Raziel, who had ridden up alone on Thor's horse.
“Is Thor all right?” asked Baldr.
“He's fine. He's just an idiot,” she grumbled. Her feet were nowhere near the stirrups, but she didn't seem to have any problem at all guiding the horse. “Demon sighted! You guys follow me NOW!”
The boys mounted. Sariel quickly pulled abreast of Raziel. “You enjoying yourself?” he asked.
“This is great!” she told him.
“I thought you always told me you couldn't rid for shit?”
“Anyone can ride better than that idiot, Thor. Hmpf! And how is Baldr?”
“Another blond idiot.”
“I swear, if my son grows up to be an idiot, I'll thump him on his blond head!”
They grinned at each other and rode ahead.
Many years ago....
Charles found himself in a dark, cramped, crummy backstage room. He had never held much fear of the dark, as his night vision was sharp, but he felt an odd chill run up the sensitive area on his back, just where his wings would have jointed were he in True Form.
He heard a rustling, and glanced towards a corner. A glint of eyes, amber, reflective, like a cat's eyes. And was that a flash of wings? Slick, dark, and leathery.
Charles blinked and shook his head. He was apparently in the presence of William Murderface, who was sullenly packing away his own gear. The guys had described him as a bit of a prima donna. Charles wondered which Murderface he would find.
“You William Murderface?” asked Charles.
“Who wantsch to know?” grumbled the bassist.
“I'm-”
“I know who you are!”
So, the dickhead, thought Charles. He took his sweet time fishing out the pack of cigarettes and then taking one out. He handed the pack towards Murderface, who waved him off.
“You're that schlick lawyer who'sch been following thosche douschebagsch around like a little fucking puppy.”
“That is correct, I am their little fucking puppy,” Charles agreed amiably.
“Haven't scheen them produsche anything yet,” Murderface told him.
“Well, we have a pressing issue.”
“A pressching isschue?”
“We need a bassist.”
The weird yellow eyes were suddenly curious. “Schtill offering that schmoke?” he asked. Charles extracted the Marlboros and tipped one towards Murderface. The bassist lit up, standing and sliding his eyes around the dark, cramped backstage room.
“Thosche guys, they're asschholesch. You know that,” he stated simply.
“And you are playing in a Christian rock band.”
“It'sch not so bad! Well. Yesch it is.” Murderface sighed in frustration. “Schit. When I joined, they were schupposedly almoscht schigned! Schome fucking religiousch label, but who gives a pissch? You know how much money they make from Chrischtian rock? Thats schit schells!”
“So, that's what you want? You wanna be signed?”
“Yeah, of coursche! What elsche schould I want?”
Charles shrugged, blowing grey smoke. “Some guys got an artistic vision, some guys-”
“Fuck that schit.”
“Yeah?”
Murderface tapped ashes out in an empty beer can. “You wouldn't believe the schit I've gone through to get where I am. How many yearsch. You would not believe me. I'm tired of paying my fucking duesch.”
“So. Would you be willing to give my band a try?”
“What about the other guysch?” Murderface asked suspiciously.
“I'll take care of them.”
“Oh yeah? I heard you take care of Pickles.”
“What have you heard?” Charles inquired pleasantly. “Specifically?”
“I heard you schuck his cock!”
“Uh-huh. He occasionally sucks mine. So, it seems fair.”
They locked eyes for a moment.
“I won't schuck anybody'sch cock,” Murderface declared.
“All rightie. We'll have a clause in the contract.” Charles stubbed out his cigarette in Murderface's beer can, and inclined his head. “You wanna come meet the boys?”
Murderface tossed his own cigarette to the floor and gave it a squash with his boot. Then he followed Charles silently through the maze of backstage cubby holes, and out into the main, smoky, noisy club.
The guys, though they had acquired some female companionship, were still arrayed around the same table. The pile of empty beer bottles had grown.
“Boys,” said Charles. “Meet your new bass guitarist.”
“What!” said Nathan. “Noooo! Not him!”
“Why the fuck not?” said Charles.
“He ams assholes!” declared Skwisgaar.
“I'm an asschole? You're an asschhole,” said Murderface.
“You ams bigger assholes!” rejoindered Skwisgaar.
“Yeah, I am a bigger asschhole!” declared Murderface. “I'm the biggest asschhole!”
“Yeah,” said Pickles, “Dood's gaht a point.”
“How do we know you're a bigger asshole than Skwisgaar?” rumbled Nathan. “That guy's a pretty big asshole!”
“Heys!” said Skwisgaar.
“You guysch want me to schow you how big an asschhole I can be?” The weird eyes now flicked around the assembled group. Charles stayed silent. He had to shut up and let this happen, he knew.
Murderface turned and stalked off. The band scrambled to follow him, save for Magnus, who earned a parting scowl from Skwisgaar. Charles frowned. That girl on Magnus' lap - wasn't she the one who had been with Skwisgaar earlier? This was gonna be a problem. Charles bit his lip and gestured to Magnus, who reluctantly shooed his new friend off her perch and rose.
Murderface had just marched boldly up to the guy who owned the club. Charles recognized him: English accent (which he suspected was a put on), expensive clothes, flashy watch, shiny shoes. A real dick. This wasn't the kind of club he'd let his own band play, even if they were new on the scene, because he had long suspected the dude was sleazy. He held back, wondering what Murderface was gonna pull on him.
“Thisch club is full,” said Murderface.
“Well, jolly good,” sniffed the owner. He wasn't a small guy: about as tall as Murderface, and burly as hell.
“I schaw our take. It wasch pretty thin,” growled Murderface.
A sneer. “We only pay for people who came to see you,” he sniffed.
The entire band let out huffs of annoyance. One of the oldest tricks in the book. Which didn't keep the crappy places from pulling it on you.
“Yeah?” said Murderface. “You aschked each and every one of them who they came to schee?”
“Christian rock?” retorted the manager. Roger was it, Charles thought.
Murderface made a show of scanning the club. “It isch a fairly religiousch looking crowd, if I do schay so myschelf.”
Roger stared down Murdereface. “You ain't getting any more of my money,” he said, the British accent thinning over something that sounded a lot more midwestern. He straightened, brushing imaginary lint from his perfect lapels. “Now, piss off!” he said with a dismissive gesture.
Murderface's grin was black and wide.
“Aiiiiiiiii!” screamed the manager as the yellowy stream of piss hit his feet, soaking into his shoelaces. “Aiiiiii!” He danced in the little yellow puddle of urine, splashing more of the horrible liquid onto his pantlegs.
A bouncer was there, poised about to grab Murderface by the collar. But then, just as quickly, the smack of flesh to flesh, as Nathan, with the snap of a predator, laid him out with one magnificently aimed punch.
Then Murderface had kicked someone in the shins, Skwisgaar whacked another guy in the stomach with his heavy guitar case, and there was another bruiser about to pounce on Pickles, but Charles had him by the belt and had tossed him onto a nearby table, collapsing it, beer and hot wings and all.
Charles now grabbed Pickles by the collar. “This way!” he said. He ducked down and hauled the drummer outside, where he was relieved to see his band - including Murderface - emerge in the alleyway beside him. They could still hear the sound of a small riot from inside.
“THAT WAS AWESOME!” said Nathan, pounding Murderface on the back. “YOU'RE AN ASSHOLE!”
“Ja,” agreed Skwisgaar, inspecting his guitar case for damage. “Ams completes assholes.”
“Guys, I would suggest we get far from here before the cops show up,” Charles told them. He could barely hear the sound of sirens off in the distance.
For once, there was not much of a debate, as the musicians chattered amiably with one another while they climbed into cars to get back to the hotel (by way of a very sleazy strip club Murderface knew). Charles let himself fade into the background, silent and grey, though barely believing such a stupid move had actually worked. Maybe he could do this. Maybe.
“Dood!”
It was now very late. He had been about to slip the card key into the slot at his room. He hadn't noticed Pickles behind him.
“Dat wuz pretty cool, gettin' dat guy off me like dat,” Pickles told him. “Back at da club.” He hadn't mentioned it up until now.
Charles shrugged and nodded. “My job,” he muttered, flicking his cigarette.
“Wuz pretty cool,” said Pickles, now standing up against him, locking eyes.
“Pickles,” Charles said softly. “We have.... This is business....”
“Yeah, business,” said Pickles. His mouth was so close now, and he was gently pushing Charles' feet apart with pressure from his tennis shoed feet, holding his hips.
“I'm not sure....” whispered Charles.
“Jest a splash,” said Pickles. And his soft mouth was on Charles', the warm taste of booze, and gently grinding into him.
Want me to show you? I'll take the wings out. I'll show you. But Charles banished the thought.
This can't end well, he thought as he backhanded the card through the slot by the door and took a step back, into his room.
In the Dreamtime....
“The game is afoot,” Wotan explained. “We are going to outflank him. Now, pay attention. We're going to head through the woods and flush him out. Vali and Thor, you two will ride to the stream on the other side and wait for us. Be ready catch him when he comes out. A Hoping demon! He'll be quick!”
The boys jumped on their horses. Charles noticed with amusement that Raziel was now riding with Wotan on Sleipnir. Thor must have grown weary of the constant riding lessons.
The giant mount was amazingly swift and agile in the tangled overgrowth. “Demon! There!” shouted Wotan. It had a stripe of silver on its back, just visible as it slipped through the underbrush.
Charles urged his mount, but was nearly knocked over by Baldr. “Watch where you're going, idiot,” Baldr shouted at him as he rode off.
“That wasn't very nice,” Charles told Ganesh, who had just ridden up beside him.
“No,” admitted Ganesh. “It wasn't.”
Soon they had the hopping demon chased to the edge of the woods, where it streaked out into the clearing, right between Vali and Thor, who sat mounted, rather stupidly watching it pass. “I've got it!” Thor announced, giving chase. The little demon streaked over the stream and made a line for a thicket beyond. He slipped underneath. Thor galloped towards it. “Thor! Don't....” Vali warned.
Thor's horse made it somewhat awkwardly over the stream, losing a step, but then, just at the edge of the hedge, the horse stopped short, sending its rider tumbling headlong into the bush. Vali was there at his side a moment later.
There was the sound of hooves: Ganesh had cleared the woods. He also hurtled straight for the thicket. But this time horse and rider as one bounded cleanly over the stream, then the thicket, barely missing a step as they hastened after the demon.
“Thor!” thundered Wotan to the moaning boy as the bearded god too emerged from the wood, astride Slepinir.
“Oh, lord,” sighed Raziel, riding behind him.
“I think he's OK, Dad!” Vali told him.
“Damn idiot,” said Wotan, dismounting. “Where's Ganesh?”
“Up ahead.”
“Made the jump, huh?” laughed Raziel as a groggy Thor glared up at her.
“Sariel! Baldr!” urged Wotan as the two boys emerged from the wooded area. “You go around, take the path, and wait for Ganesh on the other side!”
The two boys instantly obeyed, Sariel following Baldr down a well-worn path to a clearing on the other side of the rough patch where the hopping demon had disappeared.
Baldr dismounted, throwing an unpleasant glance Sariel's way.
“Alone at last,” joked Sariel, who also hopped down from his mount.
“Stay away from me, Shorty,” sneered Baldr.
“What are you afraid of?” asked Sariel
“Not you,” Baldr told him, taking a step back.
“Really?” said Sariel, moving another step closer. “Maybe you should be.”
“Why would I be afraid of a pipsqueak like you?”
Sariel grinned, unbuttoning his shirt. “Wanna look? You know you do.”
“Stay away from-” started Baldr.
And then Baldr's blue eyes grew very, very big. Just a glint of sliver reflected in them.
And then Baldr was on his horse, riding like the very devil was upon him.
Sariel gave his wings a satisfied flap.
“What.... Are you?”
Oh. Shit.
“Uh. Ganesh. Hey,” said Sariel. No time to transform back. Now he knows I'm a monster, Sariel thought sadly. But if Ganesh was frightened, it wasn't apparent from his manner. He dismounted and approached cautiously, but determinedly. He looked intensely curious. He walked around the other boy, staring quite openly.
“I realized.... You're something different,” Ganesh muttered.
Sariel nodded. I'm radiating power right now, and he sees all that, he thought. He tentatively poked out a wing, and Ganesh put a hand through the feathers.
“You can … fly?” Ganesh asked tentatively.
“Yeah. We can actually make ourselves lighter when we do that.”
Ganesh nodded. He then traced the wing along, following the long digit bones back to the radius and ulna, and the humerus, to where they jointed in Sariel's back.
“Oh!” said Sarel, feeling the gentle hand rubbing down his back, where the wing jointed.
“Sorry!” said Ganesh, removing his hand.
“No. It actually feels good.”
Ganesh had moved around to face Sariel.
“Why do you cover yourself up like that?” he asked.
“Why don't you wear the elephant head?” Sariel snapped before he could stop himself.
Ganesh winced. “I'm sorry,” he said.
“No, no. It's OK. You see. I scare the shit outta people,” he said, waving in the general direction where Baldr had ridden off. “And these things are a pain in the ass. They pick up dust, and catch on stuff, and, you know, try and ride a horse with these on your back.”
He saw himself, just then, reflected in Ganesh's dark eyes. A glint of silver. He couldn't help himself. He had Ganesh by the collar. He was so used to pulling him down, it was strange, a Ganesh as small as he. And he was tugging Ganesh towards him, for the kiss. So sweet and gentle. He didn't smoke yet, of course, so there was none of the tang of a beedi, just the elusive hint of an exotic spice.
I'm going to faint, Sariel thought, regretfully pulling back. And he probably thinks I'm some kind of creature.
But then he felt the light touch, two fingers of Ganesh's hand, tracing along his cheek.
“I'll.... I'm going to see you again?” Ganesh asked hopefully.
Sariel nodded. It was all he could do. Too much to explain. Too much.
“I got the demon. Did you see?” Ganesh pointed shyly to his saddle, where the carcass of the unfortunately hopping demon now hung.
“That was very impressive riding,” Sariel managed to croak out to him.
Ganesh blushed.
The present day....
“Ganesh.”
“Sariel.”
“Do NOT try to love god me!” declared Charles, crossing his arms as Ganesh sat back casually on the couch and batted his lovely dark eyes at him.
“Would I attempt that? Well, possibly.” And now the ingratiating grin was added to the arsenal.
“Our son. Our son! Wings out! In front of....”
“In front of people who are aware, if they own a television, that you are an angel, and thanks to your encounter in your office, that you have a son.”
“I don't give a shit about me! We agreed to keep him out of public view until he's 18!”
“And he is out of public view. He is in Mordhaus, our home.”
“Yeah! Along with those video game dudes!”
“Sariel. Bréagán has vetted each and every one of those workers. She is, in her way, as paranoid as you.”
“Ganesh!”
“Oh, mightn't we avoid the quarrel and proceed to the make up sex?” inquired Ganesh, now pulling Charles onto his lap.
“Ganesh, I can't discuss this with you groping my ass!”
“Then we'll need to quit discussing it.”
“Ganesh!”
“I meant to ask you, by the way, about a recent dream,” murmured Ganesh into Charles' neck.
“Uhhhhhh....” explained Charles.
Ganesh was now holding Charles' face, looking into his eyes. “Was it you and Lady Raziel?” he asked.
“OK. All right. I'm caught. I just... I just.... I definitely can't talk when you're doing that!”
“Mmmm,” said Ganesh, who was otherwise occupied.
There was a knock at the door.
“Mumblemumble?” mumbled Charles into Ganesh's chest.
“What was that?” asked Ganesh, grabbing the beside clock radio and frowning at the readout.
“You gonna get that?” repeated Charles.
“Well, 'tis your house.”
“Our house,” muttered Charles.
Ganesh sighed, and, disentangling himself from a sleepy angel, threw on a robe and went to the door of their suite. Charles wiggled up in bed just a bit and mashed himself into the pillow. No, not as nice as Ganesh. That's what he would do! He would manufacture a line of pillows that were just as nice as Ganesh. All soft and a nice smell and warm and comfy. He drowsed, thinking happily of money.
“Charles. Come here please."
He pushed himself up on both elbows, blinked sleepily, and grabbed his glasses from the bedside table, where they more or less made it over his ears. Then, stopping to stumble into a pair of pajama pants, he padded to the door.
“Ashleigh?” he yawned.
“Charles,” she said. Odd, thought Charles. No, “Daddy?” Was she gonna try to sell him angel rocks? Charles tried to search his memory for what the hell his "daughter" wanted.
Ganesh looked concerned.
“Have you..... Have you seen my mother?” she pleaded.
“As I was explaining,” Ganesh told him, “I had a brief meeting with Ashleigh's mother a month or so back, and at that time, er, persuaded her to depart the premises. We have had no further encounters.”
Charles nodded and straightened his glasses. Ganesh hadn't exactly told him how he'd chased her off, and Charles hadn't exactly asked.
“I actually haven't seen your mother for years Ashleigh,” Charles told her.
“That's just it. No one's seen her. No one.”
Charles and Ganesh exchanged a glance.
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A bit of backstory on a yellow-eyed band member, a hunt in the Dreamtime, and C++ programming. Are you all super-excited???
Warnings: Slash, AU, OCs, swearing
Notes: Notes after the jump.
Mythklok started existence as a Metalocalypse AU. It lives now, only in my memories.
First off, a grateful thanks to Z for filling me in on the fine and not-so-fine points of horsemanship. (The sum total of what tiki knows of horses: they're big. Really, really big.) Last time: Dethklok finished an album, and we met Ganesh's old college flatmate. Who happens to be a goddess, who knew? And Dethklok has entered the video game industry.
Irrelevant photo is irrelevant.
Many years ago....
Charles Ofdensen lit a cigarette and glared at absolutely no one.
He was stuck.
He hadn't been Charles Ofdensen for long enough to know exactly how the man would react, but he was pretty damned sure how the being, Sariel, would feel. And that was pissed off, right to the tips of his fancy silver angel wings.
He had his wings out right now, as it happened. He pretty much despised his glittery True Form, but he had to admit, sometimes, it helped him think. As did sucking on a cigarette. But none of that seemed to be working worth a damn today.
He gave his wings a good rattle, and continued pacing. The pacing didn't help at all, but it seemed like the thing to do. Later he would have to crawl around this hotel room and make sure he hadn't left too many feathers scattered around. Hotel managers were probably going to start thinking he was some kind of crazy sexual deviant. Which, come to think of it, wasn't too far off the mark.
And where the fuck was Raziel? She had seen him through law school, true, but it seemed like she'd now fucked off for parts unknown again. She was an idiot, but at least she was someone he could fucking talk to.
He had eighty percent of a band. And that was it. And it was going to be an awesome fucking band but....
Pickles was a known quantity. Drug-addled and irrational, but overtopping with talent. And Skwisgaar of course. Getting those two together had been a masterstroke. And then finding Nathan. How had that voice … that presence … not been recorded before?
Now, Magnus.... Nobody really liked Magnus. And Charles figured the guy's time was limited. A strict vegetarian? Who practiced transcendental meditation? That hippie shit wasn't gonna play. Not with this crowd, not for long. That guy felt like a placeholder. But for now, he put up with Skwisgaar's bullshit. That was the critical thing. The boys were already pretty smug little bastards. You had to be someone who could put up with them, but not get beaten down.
You needed ego. Great throbbing foamy barrels of ego. That's how you made it in this business. Charles had already witnessed it, for years, from the other side. This industry was not for the faint of heart. The ones who succeeded were the ones who already considered themselves fucking royalty. The great fire-breathing monsters. The strutting showmen.
And that was where things stood. You could get a bass player, that was no problem. Either Pickles or Skwisgaar could play the part for the recordings. What they needed was another band member. And that just wasn't fucking happening. They needed a bass guitarist who, all agreed, wouldn't actually need to play bass guitar. But nevertheless, someone with just as big a rock and roll presence as the rest of them.
He heard the pounding at the door. He reluctantly Court Formed, tucking himself all back into the grey man shape and, throwing open the door before his band woke the other guests with their pounding and hollering, wandered off to see where he'd thrown his shirt.
“You ready yet, Ofdensen?” It was Nathan and Skwisgaar.
“Yeah. Minute.”
“You know, you could take the fucking cigarette out of your mouth and eat something sometimes!” Nathan scolded.
Charles shrugged, adjusting his tie in the mirror. He wondered idly what Nathan would do if Charles told him he'd been a skinny bastard for literal centuries. He watched Nathan out of the corner of his eye. Pickles and Skwisgaar had picked up on it but Nathan.... No. Don't even think it. Human men tended to be persnickety like that. Not worth risking his new band for a drunken blow job. And anyway, he didn't think a line like “Hey, I'm immortal, baby” would work on somebody like Nathan.
“Just gotta find my jacket,” Charles muttered.
“You don't ams gotta dress like da douche balls,” Skwisgaar sighed.
“Yeah, I gotta,” said Charles, grabbing his jacket and hustling the two musicians from his room. “I want you guys to look successful.”
“We ARE successful,” Nathan insisted.
Good, Charles thought. Keep thinking that. “Yes. But. I want you guys to look like you can afford to hire a slick lawyer in a suit to follow you around.” Actually, they couldn't, especially with money coming in limited to Pickles's S&B residuals and bits from Skwisgaar's various odd guitar jobs. He had dug into the small stash of funds Raziel had left him (before she fucked off) to fund this recruitment trip.
“Ohhhh,” said Nathan. “That makes sense.” He grinned and gave Charles a friendly whack on the back, which nearly sent Charles sprawling. “All right! Let's get to the fucking club.”
In the Dreamtime....
“But I'm your Honored Sister, not your Little Sister!”
Young Sariel stopped walking along the wooded path and glanced down. A lot further down than was his custom in talking to Raziel. He currently appeared to be a boy of about 12 or 13 years. She looked around eight. And did not look at all happy about this eventuality.
“We talked about this,” he explained calmly. “The other guys who are gonna be on the hunt.... Well, they're guys. If you're this age, they'll be protective. But if you're any older, all they'll wanna do is hit on your or harass you. And, I don't want any chopped limbs. Not even in somebody's dream.”
Raziel stood with little arms crossed, a tiny ball of fury. “You're supposed to be my Little Brother! It's not honorable!”
“I thought you never had any use for those stupid honorifics?” he laughed.
“You're the one who hated honorifics.”
“We're doing this for Ganesh, remember?”
Her expression softened somewhat, from that of murderous rage to simmering fury. Sariel felt himself smiling. It must have been the experience of being a father that was doing this to him, he thought, but Raziel was an awfully cute kid.
“What?” she demanded, preparing herself for further insult.
“Uh,” he said, giving himself a moment by adjusting his glasses. He had made himself too damned young to smoke, which was a little annoying. “I was thinking, you look just like little Abby!”
“Really?”
“Yeah! If you put your hair up. I mean, other than the eyes, when she's a couple years older....” It was a really good lie, actually, because it was mostly true.
Raziel's fury melted into motherly pride. Which was also pretty cute. But Sariel was prepared this time to bite the inside of his cheek. “You look different,” she told him as they began to walk again.
Sariel nodded. His hair was light, almost blond. But the strangest thing was that his eyes were a sort of steely blue. “Yeah, I guess the Court Form I created before I knew you was different?” he said, self-consciously putting a hand through his hair.
“Well, you look like an Odinsson, so that will work well for blending,” said Raziel.
“What did Wotan say, by the way?” he asked her. “I mean, the real Wotan.”
“I told him I'm going down to sleep with Sariel and Ganesh and there's NOTHING WEIRD ABOUT IT.”
“And what did he do?”
“He laughed!”
Sariel frowned, now just a bit insulted. They made their way through the familiar - but somehow unfamiliar - woods that surrounded Valhalla.
“But Ganesh doesn't know about this?” she asked Sariel at length.
“No. I wanted to pay him back. He's been coming along, into my dreams.” He smiled again. “And helping me.”
“What, you have therapy sessions?”
“No. We. Uh. We're kids. And we play pirates. Or, something....” He was blushing.
“And you haven't invited me!” Raziel blustered.
“Well, I invited you today.”
“But to his dream?”
“Yeah. He'll come and play with me in my dreams, but when I've offered to come back into his dreams, he gets funny about it.”
“You sure he wants you to pay him back?”
“Sure,” said Sariel, now a bit testy. “What could it hurt?”
They came out of the woods, and into what appeared a merry chaos at the stables at Valhalla. Both “children” stood for a moment in wonder, not at the hubbub, but at the novelty. Well, the novelty of the ancient, anyway. Wotan had obviously rebuilt the stables, perhaps several times, before the days that Sariel and Raziel knew it as adults. But this was the Valhalla from Ganesh's childhood, very long ago.
“Come on!” boomed a voice that hadn't changed in the least. “Let's get cracking before the game find something better to do!”
There was a veritable gaggle of boys surrounding him, ranging from what would have been for humans grade school age to the late teens. But Wotan was at least half a head taller than any of them. He was a bit more unkempt than the Wotan Sariel knew, but the most striking thing was that he wore a very jaunty eyepatch.
“This was before I convince him to keep Mimir up at the house,” Raziel whispered to Sariel.
Sariel and Raziel exchanged a glance. Grabbing her hand, as if she were his actual little sister, Sariel marched as confidently as he could up to the large god.
“Uncle Wotan! I hope we aren't late!”
Wotan stopped short and gave the two latecomers a practiced eye. “Aye? And who are ye?”
“Why, I'm your Cousin Sariel, of course! Papa Jacque's boy!”
“Papa Jacque? How is that old son of a bitch?” The one blue eye peered at Sariel. “And you, boy, you don't look a damned thing like him!”
“I take after my mom. Anyway, Cousin Poseidon was playing cards with Papa Jacque and he said you would take me on my first hunt!”
“Well, Poseidon didn't bother to tell me about this! Asshole! That's just like him. All right, we'll get out outfitted. And who is this lovely lady?” he asked, hunkering down to get a better look at the tiny girl.
“I'm the Lady Raziel!” she announced.
“This is my sister,” Sariel smiled.
“And you, you intend to accompany us on the hunt, young missy?” asked Wotan.
“I'm not Missy, I'm Raziel! Are you thick?” she asked the large god.
“My apologies, My Lady Raziel,” Wotan told her, rising with a slight bow. “Yes, I'm a bit old and thick. So, you think to come on our hunt today. And how old are ye?”
“I am aged eight years and three months,” she declared grandly, hands on hips. Several of the boys had ceased their preparations to stare at the newcomers.
“Well, that is very mature. Would ye prefer to be mounted on your own pony, or to ride with one of the mob here?”
“Well, I dunno, they're kinda scruffy looking!” Raziel told him, giving the boys a practiced eye.
Sariel was now nearly drawing blood from chomping the inside of his cheek. One of the pleasures of being an evil genius, he thought, was when things went in accordance with one's plotting. He figured he could talk his way into the hunt: Wotan wouldn't be able to resist taking another kid, even on as shaky a story as the one he'd concocted. But being the new guy on the would have thrown the spotlight too much on himself. Raziel - even a pint-sized Raziel - served as a delicious distraction.
He sensed eyes on him, and glanced over. Ganesh was gazing curiously at him. He grinned over at him, only to have Ganesh blush - blush! - and turn away.
Damn he's cute when he blushes, was the first thought that ping-ponged through Sariel's Dreamtime adolescent brain. And, unbidden, he started to cast his mind over potential things that could make and adult Ganesh blush. Save it for later! He was a trifle surprised at Ganesh's appearance. He was wearing his human head today, whereas, in Sariel's dreams, he usually appeared as a gentle elephant god. Sariel had expected a bit older version of their little Elias, but it was difficult to reconcile their effusive toddler with this small, quiet boy.
“Ganesh! Standing there, teeth in your mouth and your tongue hanging out,” Wotan chastened. The god had pawned Raziel off on the haughty boy Sariel took for Thor. “Why don't you help get Sariel mounted?” Wotan suggested. Ganesh nodded, and inclined his head that Sariel should follow.
The two boys entered the stables. They walked through the broad doorway, out of the morning sun and noisy chaos, and into the quiet and cool, smell of hay and horses. A couple of mounts looked up curiously, but then went back to chewing. Sariel followed Ganesh, who seemed to know where he was headed.
Ganesh stopped in front of a stall. Curious, intelligent eyes gazed at Sariel. Ah, good, yes. Sariel reached out to scratch the nose. Calm and reserved. It seemed a good choice. It seemed a really good choice.
Sariel tried to study Ganesh again out of the corner of his eye. The boy, Ganesh, wouldn't know him, and Sariel had tried to keep most of his magic Court Formed away. But, like Raziel, even in pint-sized form, Ganesh was Ganesh.
“This will be good,” Sariel told him.
Ganesh smiled shyly, and gave another blush. With a great gritting of teeth, Sariel barely managed not to ask Ganesh whether they could just dispense with all the hunting nonsense and perhaps retire to the back of the stables for a lengthy make out session? Ganesh went off to get a saddle, and they quietly outfitted the horse together. Maybe it had been a mistake to choose a horny adolescent Sariel for this mission?
“Thanks!” Sariel told Ganesh when the horse was properly dressed.
“Er,” said Ganesh.
Sariel stayed quiet, holding the bridle.
“With this lot?” Ganesh told him. “Your magic? You might want to keep it in check.”
Sariel jumped up on the horse. He leaned over. “Where's the fun in that?” he asked Ganesh.
“It's just,” said Ganesh. “They can be....”
Sariel winked. “So can I,” he grinned, and rode out into the sunlight.
The present day....
It was a strange sound. Even for Mordhaus, where strange sounds abided.
But somehow, a familiar sound.
Charles leapt out of the way, back flattened up against the wall, just in time to avoid being knocked over by the hurtling body.
“Whoa!” The guy 360-ed and skidded his skateboard back over to Charles. It was the head of the video game company, a fellow, Charles gathered, who was named Kevin. He had only ever caught the first name, as he assumed “Kevin Dude” was no the guy's proper name.
“Sorry, Charles Dude, I didn't know you were there!” apologized Kevin the video game guy.
“Well, that's comforting,” Charles told him. The guy looked a bit bewildered at the comment, but amiably followed Charles along the corridor as it curved and they came to....
“A, ah, skateboard ramp?”
“ISN'T IT BODACIOUS?” enthused Kevin.
“Uh, yes. Yes, Kevin, it is rather bodacious.” As Charles had been (and as he would freely admit to no one but himself) pushing exhaustion at the time Raziel planted the video game guy in his office, he had let Raziel and Ganesh actually effect the Dethklok organization's acquisition of the company. Ganesh especially had attacked the assignment with a surprising relish. He declared that his goal was to wrest the company from the greedy clutches of the American military industrial complex. But Charles was rather taken aback by Ganesh's canny grasp of US corporate law. He had dissolved the old company, leaving nothing but a desiccated husk for Crozier and his black-suited accomplices to puzzle over, and reconstituted the entire thing - lock, stock, and skateboard ramp - in the dungeons of Mordhaus.
Raziel had decided it would be safer, at least for the present time, to keep the employees close at hand, both for their own safety, and in case Charles changed his mind on subjecting them to horrible tortures. As an added bonus, Kevin rather excelled at dramatic readings of the Tales of the Wiggly Pigglies books, something which, although Charles loved his son with all his black heart, he would really rather taser himself in the balls than subject himself to even one more time.
But it looked like the entire company had, en masse, grabbed boards and surrounded the ramp.
Another familiar body hurtled by a great speed. Charles grinned and waited for the boarder to recognize him and coast back.
“Ah. Er. Uh.”
“Ganesh.”
“Toki!” said Ganesh, grabbing the shoulder of the guitarist, who had just approached, Functional Bunny board under his arm. “Toki and I were just, er, warming up for snowboarding season!”
“Well, it's good that you are here to make sure our GUITARIST doesn't do anything like, break his wrist, on the eve of a big tour?” said Charles.
“Er.”
“I ams not snaps da arms, Charles,” Toki assured him, holding up his Facebones logo wrist guard. “Den you ams has to rely on dat douches Skwisgaar.”
“Look, just be careful, OK? I know it's easy to get injured with this stuff.”
“We ams follows da safety procedures,” laughed Toki.
“Yes, terribly cautious!” seconded Ganesh.
“And there's our little bro!” enthused Kevin as Elias came running up. Kevin dropped his Facebones logo board to the ground, and Elias gleefully jumped up on it and started to whiz down the corridor, wind blowing through his little silvery-tipped wings.
Charles glared at Ganesh. His left eye twitched.
“Uh-oh,” said Toki, who knew that twitch.
“Er,” explained the elephant god. “I think it is time for this one's nap!” he declared as Elias zoomed by. He expertly scooped the child off the board and then, along with Toki, bustled off down the corridor.
“You ams in da troubles now, dudes,” Toki could be heard saying as they rounded the bend, out of sight.
“Kevin,” said a lilting voice. Bréagán, the tall, redheaded Goddess of Play, was now standing in the hallway, pointing to her wristwatch.
“Hey slackers!” said Kevin. The other video game dudes in the hallway all looked up. “Five o'clock, time to get coding dudes!” The sound of wheels and excited chattering quieted quickly as the programmers retired to a room and found their places behind workstations.
“Bréagán?” said Charles. The red haired goddess, who had turned to follow the skateboarder programmers inside, remained instead out in the corridor.
Her blue eyes bored into him, though she was smiling faintly. “You're looking better,” she said. “Not like you're gonna dry up and blow away.”
“Oh. Uh. Thank you,” he said awkwardly. “I been having some trouble sleeping.”
“I know about the one who's troublin' you,” she told him.
“Oh, Ganesh told you?” said Charles irritably.
“That angel? He's a one I keep a watch on,” she told him.
“Like you keep a watch on me?” he asked.
She nodded. “Some folks merit keepin' a watch.”
“Can I ask why? I mean, him, not me?”
She nodded. “He's a Seraph, strayin' into my realm. And I'm one territorial bitch, me.”
Charles couldn't help smiling faintly. But then he frowned. “So, you think Uriah is connected to the military's interest in your company?”
“I haven't put together the pieces. But there's a link, mark my word. Though, that one, he's harder to get a handle upon than you.” The steely eyes narrowed at him.
“So, what do you know for sure?”
“The military man, the one in charge?”
“Crozier?”
“Aye, that's the one. Only seen him the once, but that was enough. There was a magic to him,” she said, nodding.
“Wait, he's a supernatural?”
“No, you misunderstand. He'd been magicked. By something. Someone. Powerful stuff.”
“You see magic, like Ganesh?”
“'Tis of a different kind, but a similar nature. Yes.”
He inclined his head. They were both leaning shoulders against the corridor now. She was definitely taller than he, but Charles had never found this terribly intimidating. “So, you see me?” he asked.
She regarded him for a moment, and then said softly, as if to herself, “I've rarely seen so much power. I knew you were different. That day he spotted you in the subway.”
“The what?”
“The day you met?”
“I didn't meet Ganesh in a subway!”
She looked thoughtful. “You really don't recall? London Underground. We were playing, busking, and you called out a request.
He frowned. “Oh. Good gods. That was you? He had a beard. I hate that beard!”
“It's not attractive, is it? But, there's not telling him.”
“No,” he said.
“Thought you wanted to give our Ganesh a good shagging, but then you disappeared,” Bréagán told him. “At least, that's what everyone wanted with that one.”
“Including you?”
“Yeah, including me,” she laughed.
Charles rubbed his forehead. Another thing to ask Ganesh. Once he got through being very pissed at Ganesh. “OK. I'll tell you one thing we know. From watching, as you call it.”
She looked at him questioningly.
“The army has Angelic translators.”
She blinked. “Now, why would they need that, when they've got him?”
“That's a good question. Either he's not really connected. And you're wrong,” he couldn't help adding. “Or...”
“They don't trust the bastard,” she said arching a red eyebrow.
“Bréagán!” came a voice from inside the room. She nodded to Charles, and took off inside, quietly shutting the door behind her. Charles could see, through the glass, many quiet people peering into terminals.
Someone had left a Facebones board sitting in the hall. Charles considered picking it up. And then, for some reason, he looked carefully up and down the corridor.
Empty.
He grinned.
Many years ago....
Nathan had managed to get them to the club maybe an hour ahead of the main act. It wasn't that he lacked a sense of direction so much as the plethora of obnoxious back seat drivers. And no one would let Charles anywhere near a set of car keys. “Pickles drives better when he's blind drunk,” Nathan had grumbled.
“So who's up next?” Charles asked, lighting up the first of many cigarettes.
Pickles, the only guy who was somewhat paying attention, picked up a flyer that was already becoming buried under beer bottles. Green eyes scanned it, and then he started laughing.
“What?” said Charles.
“You'll like dese guys, Ahfdensen,” grinned the redhead, pushing the flyer over towards him. “Da t'ird act down.”
Charles picked it up and squinted at it. It was a dark smoky club, and the printer looked like it had been low on toner when these were pumped out.
“Oh, Christian rock? Fuck that,” snarled Charles, letting the flyer slip to the floor. He scanned around the table in surprise. Quite suddenly, the rest of the guys, who had barely given him any mind since they piled in the car, were staring.
“Don't like Christian rock, Ofdensen?” grinned Nathan.
“Yeah. So what?”
“You ams never has da opinguins abouts nothings,” added Skwisgaar suspiciously.
“Just. Bad experience with some of those guys,” Charles told them, hoping like hell that something shiny would catch their collective attentions soon. Fortunately, the next act was tuning up, which immediately started the torrent of invective from his proto-band.
“Ha! Look at these assholes!” laughed Nathan.
“Douches,” muttered Skwisgaar.
A bass guitar had started pumping. Charles looked up. It was like time stopped.
He had never seen anyone sling a bass that low.
The band - hilariously, the name was Righteous Babes o' War - at last started doing whatever the hell they thought they were doing, but the bassist was off in his own little world, carefully striking stadium poses and stadium pouts while the rest were sadly vamping to a largely disinterested crowd.
“Who's that guy? The bassist?” Charles asked as the band departed, to little notice.
There was chuckling.
“Dats guys?” laughed Skwisgaar.”
“What's the joke?” asked Charles, who was getting annoyed.
“He'll just tell you to FUCK OFF,” said Nathan.
“He tol' me t' feck ahf,” confessed Pickles.
“I ams not talk to dat guy,” grumbled Magnus. “Ams not mellows.”
“We ams recorded together,” Skwisgaar stated.
“Really, dood?”
“Ja. I ams tells hims he sucks, and he ams tells me I ams sucks!”
“Whatta douche!” nodded Pickles.
“I gotta talk to him,” said Charles, suddenly leaving the table.
There was a silence.
“Is that guy nuts?” asked Nathan to no one in particular.
“Yeah. Dat's why we hired him,” laughed Pickles.
In the Dreamtime....
“Heels down! And tighten that grip! Have you never ridden a horse before?”
“Uh, yeah, Raziel,” sighed Thor.
“Lady Raziel!”
“Lady Raziel.”
“Thor, are you paying attention?” scolded Wotan, who had just ridden abreast of them.
“Yes, Dad,” mumbled Thor.
“Remember when you got bucked off last month?”
“Ow” said the boy, rubbing his head. “Yeah.”
“I'm not surprised, with your technique!” lectured Raziel, receiving a blue-eyed glare.
“Your feet get caught in those stirrups when you fall, you could get an even worse thumping!” his father told him.
A raven alit on Wotan's shoulder. He cocked his head, listening. He reigned in Sleipnir. “Everybody form up!” he ordered as the company came to a halt.
“We've got some sign of prey up ahead. But I don't want to scare them off with this thundering herd. Thor, you and Vali come with me. The rest of you stay here for now. And no monkey business!”
Sariel could hear Thor sighing as they rode off. “You've got to quit leaning back when you stop. It's stupid!” nagged Raziel. He grinned at Ganesh as they dismounted. Despite a few attempts, the god had not said a word to Sariel since the hunt began.
“Well, as we're stuck here for a while, perhaps I will relate to you some stories of my brave deeds,” Baldr told them as he gracefully leapt from his horse.
“Yeah,” said Skanda. “You need to tell us again about the time you rescued the fair maiden from the troll!”
“Why, yes, that's one of my best!” agreed Baldr. “I should commit all these to writing some day!”
“So,” Sariel, who was standing in the back, whispered to Ganesh, “he rescued a maiden?”
“Er,” said Ganesh. Sariel looked at him questioningly. Ganesh flicked his eyes at Baldr, who was paying him no mind, and leaned over to Sariel. “Not actually yet.”
“This is a story about how he didn't rescue a maiden?” Sariel asked.
“Well. There are, as you know, challenges along the way. And he has completed some of them. Bravely! But. Er.”
“The maiden's still twiddling her thumbs?”
“Er. Combing her long golden hair. Er. Yes.”
“Maybe you could tell us about your adventure with the demon wolf!” Skanda prompted.
Sariel cocked an eyebrow at Ganesh. “Er. No, not yet. The demon wolf still roams the mountains. But, in the meantime, he has had many, er, interesting, events.”
“Has this guy actually finished anything? Ever? I mean, other than polishing his ego?” Sariel asked. Ganesh made a “quiet” gesture, but he was also smiling.
“Yes, that is one of my favorite adventures as well,” agreed Baldr, who appeared slightly irritated to be interrupted in his tale by other tales.
“I should tell you my thoughts about your many brave tales!” Skanda insisted, to a frank glare from Baldr.
“The obsequiousness is blinding,” Sariel muttered to Ganesh, who let out a chuckle.
“What's that, Shorty?” asked Skanda.
“Hey, are we making up nicknames?” Sariel grinned at Skanda. “Would you prefer Stupid, or Stupid?”
“Dad asked us not to fight, Sorry-El,” scolded Baldr.
“Baldr, Sariel is new,” interjected Ganesh.
“Shut it, Chubs,” grumbled Skanda.
“You could be civil to him,” Ganesh shot back.
“Is that your new boyfriend, Nesha?” taunted Baldr to general laughter.
“Whatsa matter?” asked Sariel, now stepping close to Baldr. “You jealous?”
“Oooo,” said Skanda.
“No!” said Baldr. Sariel was now uncomfortably close. “Back off.”
“Not without a kiss,” grinned Sariel, leaning ever so slightly closer.
They locked eyes.
“Boys! You need to stop fucking around and come with me!” Everyone was suddenly attending to the sound of the little voice. It was Raziel, who had ridden up alone on Thor's horse.
“Is Thor all right?” asked Baldr.
“He's fine. He's just an idiot,” she grumbled. Her feet were nowhere near the stirrups, but she didn't seem to have any problem at all guiding the horse. “Demon sighted! You guys follow me NOW!”
The boys mounted. Sariel quickly pulled abreast of Raziel. “You enjoying yourself?” he asked.
“This is great!” she told him.
“I thought you always told me you couldn't rid for shit?”
“Anyone can ride better than that idiot, Thor. Hmpf! And how is Baldr?”
“Another blond idiot.”
“I swear, if my son grows up to be an idiot, I'll thump him on his blond head!”
They grinned at each other and rode ahead.
Many years ago....
Charles found himself in a dark, cramped, crummy backstage room. He had never held much fear of the dark, as his night vision was sharp, but he felt an odd chill run up the sensitive area on his back, just where his wings would have jointed were he in True Form.
He heard a rustling, and glanced towards a corner. A glint of eyes, amber, reflective, like a cat's eyes. And was that a flash of wings? Slick, dark, and leathery.
Charles blinked and shook his head. He was apparently in the presence of William Murderface, who was sullenly packing away his own gear. The guys had described him as a bit of a prima donna. Charles wondered which Murderface he would find.
“You William Murderface?” asked Charles.
“Who wantsch to know?” grumbled the bassist.
“I'm-”
“I know who you are!”
So, the dickhead, thought Charles. He took his sweet time fishing out the pack of cigarettes and then taking one out. He handed the pack towards Murderface, who waved him off.
“You're that schlick lawyer who'sch been following thosche douschebagsch around like a little fucking puppy.”
“That is correct, I am their little fucking puppy,” Charles agreed amiably.
“Haven't scheen them produsche anything yet,” Murderface told him.
“Well, we have a pressing issue.”
“A pressching isschue?”
“We need a bassist.”
The weird yellow eyes were suddenly curious. “Schtill offering that schmoke?” he asked. Charles extracted the Marlboros and tipped one towards Murderface. The bassist lit up, standing and sliding his eyes around the dark, cramped backstage room.
“Thosche guys, they're asschholesch. You know that,” he stated simply.
“And you are playing in a Christian rock band.”
“It'sch not so bad! Well. Yesch it is.” Murderface sighed in frustration. “Schit. When I joined, they were schupposedly almoscht schigned! Schome fucking religiousch label, but who gives a pissch? You know how much money they make from Chrischtian rock? Thats schit schells!”
“So, that's what you want? You wanna be signed?”
“Yeah, of coursche! What elsche schould I want?”
Charles shrugged, blowing grey smoke. “Some guys got an artistic vision, some guys-”
“Fuck that schit.”
“Yeah?”
Murderface tapped ashes out in an empty beer can. “You wouldn't believe the schit I've gone through to get where I am. How many yearsch. You would not believe me. I'm tired of paying my fucking duesch.”
“So. Would you be willing to give my band a try?”
“What about the other guysch?” Murderface asked suspiciously.
“I'll take care of them.”
“Oh yeah? I heard you take care of Pickles.”
“What have you heard?” Charles inquired pleasantly. “Specifically?”
“I heard you schuck his cock!”
“Uh-huh. He occasionally sucks mine. So, it seems fair.”
They locked eyes for a moment.
“I won't schuck anybody'sch cock,” Murderface declared.
“All rightie. We'll have a clause in the contract.” Charles stubbed out his cigarette in Murderface's beer can, and inclined his head. “You wanna come meet the boys?”
Murderface tossed his own cigarette to the floor and gave it a squash with his boot. Then he followed Charles silently through the maze of backstage cubby holes, and out into the main, smoky, noisy club.
The guys, though they had acquired some female companionship, were still arrayed around the same table. The pile of empty beer bottles had grown.
“Boys,” said Charles. “Meet your new bass guitarist.”
“What!” said Nathan. “Noooo! Not him!”
“Why the fuck not?” said Charles.
“He ams assholes!” declared Skwisgaar.
“I'm an asschole? You're an asschhole,” said Murderface.
“You ams bigger assholes!” rejoindered Skwisgaar.
“Yeah, I am a bigger asschhole!” declared Murderface. “I'm the biggest asschhole!”
“Yeah,” said Pickles, “Dood's gaht a point.”
“How do we know you're a bigger asshole than Skwisgaar?” rumbled Nathan. “That guy's a pretty big asshole!”
“Heys!” said Skwisgaar.
“You guysch want me to schow you how big an asschhole I can be?” The weird eyes now flicked around the assembled group. Charles stayed silent. He had to shut up and let this happen, he knew.
Murderface turned and stalked off. The band scrambled to follow him, save for Magnus, who earned a parting scowl from Skwisgaar. Charles frowned. That girl on Magnus' lap - wasn't she the one who had been with Skwisgaar earlier? This was gonna be a problem. Charles bit his lip and gestured to Magnus, who reluctantly shooed his new friend off her perch and rose.
Murderface had just marched boldly up to the guy who owned the club. Charles recognized him: English accent (which he suspected was a put on), expensive clothes, flashy watch, shiny shoes. A real dick. This wasn't the kind of club he'd let his own band play, even if they were new on the scene, because he had long suspected the dude was sleazy. He held back, wondering what Murderface was gonna pull on him.
“Thisch club is full,” said Murderface.
“Well, jolly good,” sniffed the owner. He wasn't a small guy: about as tall as Murderface, and burly as hell.
“I schaw our take. It wasch pretty thin,” growled Murderface.
A sneer. “We only pay for people who came to see you,” he sniffed.
The entire band let out huffs of annoyance. One of the oldest tricks in the book. Which didn't keep the crappy places from pulling it on you.
“Yeah?” said Murderface. “You aschked each and every one of them who they came to schee?”
“Christian rock?” retorted the manager. Roger was it, Charles thought.
Murderface made a show of scanning the club. “It isch a fairly religiousch looking crowd, if I do schay so myschelf.”
Roger stared down Murdereface. “You ain't getting any more of my money,” he said, the British accent thinning over something that sounded a lot more midwestern. He straightened, brushing imaginary lint from his perfect lapels. “Now, piss off!” he said with a dismissive gesture.
Murderface's grin was black and wide.
“Aiiiiiiiii!” screamed the manager as the yellowy stream of piss hit his feet, soaking into his shoelaces. “Aiiiiii!” He danced in the little yellow puddle of urine, splashing more of the horrible liquid onto his pantlegs.
A bouncer was there, poised about to grab Murderface by the collar. But then, just as quickly, the smack of flesh to flesh, as Nathan, with the snap of a predator, laid him out with one magnificently aimed punch.
Then Murderface had kicked someone in the shins, Skwisgaar whacked another guy in the stomach with his heavy guitar case, and there was another bruiser about to pounce on Pickles, but Charles had him by the belt and had tossed him onto a nearby table, collapsing it, beer and hot wings and all.
Charles now grabbed Pickles by the collar. “This way!” he said. He ducked down and hauled the drummer outside, where he was relieved to see his band - including Murderface - emerge in the alleyway beside him. They could still hear the sound of a small riot from inside.
“THAT WAS AWESOME!” said Nathan, pounding Murderface on the back. “YOU'RE AN ASSHOLE!”
“Ja,” agreed Skwisgaar, inspecting his guitar case for damage. “Ams completes assholes.”
“Guys, I would suggest we get far from here before the cops show up,” Charles told them. He could barely hear the sound of sirens off in the distance.
For once, there was not much of a debate, as the musicians chattered amiably with one another while they climbed into cars to get back to the hotel (by way of a very sleazy strip club Murderface knew). Charles let himself fade into the background, silent and grey, though barely believing such a stupid move had actually worked. Maybe he could do this. Maybe.
“Dood!”
It was now very late. He had been about to slip the card key into the slot at his room. He hadn't noticed Pickles behind him.
“Dat wuz pretty cool, gettin' dat guy off me like dat,” Pickles told him. “Back at da club.” He hadn't mentioned it up until now.
Charles shrugged and nodded. “My job,” he muttered, flicking his cigarette.
“Wuz pretty cool,” said Pickles, now standing up against him, locking eyes.
“Pickles,” Charles said softly. “We have.... This is business....”
“Yeah, business,” said Pickles. His mouth was so close now, and he was gently pushing Charles' feet apart with pressure from his tennis shoed feet, holding his hips.
“I'm not sure....” whispered Charles.
“Jest a splash,” said Pickles. And his soft mouth was on Charles', the warm taste of booze, and gently grinding into him.
Want me to show you? I'll take the wings out. I'll show you. But Charles banished the thought.
This can't end well, he thought as he backhanded the card through the slot by the door and took a step back, into his room.
In the Dreamtime....
“The game is afoot,” Wotan explained. “We are going to outflank him. Now, pay attention. We're going to head through the woods and flush him out. Vali and Thor, you two will ride to the stream on the other side and wait for us. Be ready catch him when he comes out. A Hoping demon! He'll be quick!”
The boys jumped on their horses. Charles noticed with amusement that Raziel was now riding with Wotan on Sleipnir. Thor must have grown weary of the constant riding lessons.
The giant mount was amazingly swift and agile in the tangled overgrowth. “Demon! There!” shouted Wotan. It had a stripe of silver on its back, just visible as it slipped through the underbrush.
Charles urged his mount, but was nearly knocked over by Baldr. “Watch where you're going, idiot,” Baldr shouted at him as he rode off.
“That wasn't very nice,” Charles told Ganesh, who had just ridden up beside him.
“No,” admitted Ganesh. “It wasn't.”
Soon they had the hopping demon chased to the edge of the woods, where it streaked out into the clearing, right between Vali and Thor, who sat mounted, rather stupidly watching it pass. “I've got it!” Thor announced, giving chase. The little demon streaked over the stream and made a line for a thicket beyond. He slipped underneath. Thor galloped towards it. “Thor! Don't....” Vali warned.
Thor's horse made it somewhat awkwardly over the stream, losing a step, but then, just at the edge of the hedge, the horse stopped short, sending its rider tumbling headlong into the bush. Vali was there at his side a moment later.
There was the sound of hooves: Ganesh had cleared the woods. He also hurtled straight for the thicket. But this time horse and rider as one bounded cleanly over the stream, then the thicket, barely missing a step as they hastened after the demon.
“Thor!” thundered Wotan to the moaning boy as the bearded god too emerged from the wood, astride Slepinir.
“Oh, lord,” sighed Raziel, riding behind him.
“I think he's OK, Dad!” Vali told him.
“Damn idiot,” said Wotan, dismounting. “Where's Ganesh?”
“Up ahead.”
“Made the jump, huh?” laughed Raziel as a groggy Thor glared up at her.
“Sariel! Baldr!” urged Wotan as the two boys emerged from the wooded area. “You go around, take the path, and wait for Ganesh on the other side!”
The two boys instantly obeyed, Sariel following Baldr down a well-worn path to a clearing on the other side of the rough patch where the hopping demon had disappeared.
Baldr dismounted, throwing an unpleasant glance Sariel's way.
“Alone at last,” joked Sariel, who also hopped down from his mount.
“Stay away from me, Shorty,” sneered Baldr.
“What are you afraid of?” asked Sariel
“Not you,” Baldr told him, taking a step back.
“Really?” said Sariel, moving another step closer. “Maybe you should be.”
“Why would I be afraid of a pipsqueak like you?”
Sariel grinned, unbuttoning his shirt. “Wanna look? You know you do.”
“Stay away from-” started Baldr.
And then Baldr's blue eyes grew very, very big. Just a glint of sliver reflected in them.
And then Baldr was on his horse, riding like the very devil was upon him.
Sariel gave his wings a satisfied flap.
“What.... Are you?”
Oh. Shit.
“Uh. Ganesh. Hey,” said Sariel. No time to transform back. Now he knows I'm a monster, Sariel thought sadly. But if Ganesh was frightened, it wasn't apparent from his manner. He dismounted and approached cautiously, but determinedly. He looked intensely curious. He walked around the other boy, staring quite openly.
“I realized.... You're something different,” Ganesh muttered.
Sariel nodded. I'm radiating power right now, and he sees all that, he thought. He tentatively poked out a wing, and Ganesh put a hand through the feathers.
“You can … fly?” Ganesh asked tentatively.
“Yeah. We can actually make ourselves lighter when we do that.”
Ganesh nodded. He then traced the wing along, following the long digit bones back to the radius and ulna, and the humerus, to where they jointed in Sariel's back.
“Oh!” said Sarel, feeling the gentle hand rubbing down his back, where the wing jointed.
“Sorry!” said Ganesh, removing his hand.
“No. It actually feels good.”
Ganesh had moved around to face Sariel.
“Why do you cover yourself up like that?” he asked.
“Why don't you wear the elephant head?” Sariel snapped before he could stop himself.
Ganesh winced. “I'm sorry,” he said.
“No, no. It's OK. You see. I scare the shit outta people,” he said, waving in the general direction where Baldr had ridden off. “And these things are a pain in the ass. They pick up dust, and catch on stuff, and, you know, try and ride a horse with these on your back.”
He saw himself, just then, reflected in Ganesh's dark eyes. A glint of silver. He couldn't help himself. He had Ganesh by the collar. He was so used to pulling him down, it was strange, a Ganesh as small as he. And he was tugging Ganesh towards him, for the kiss. So sweet and gentle. He didn't smoke yet, of course, so there was none of the tang of a beedi, just the elusive hint of an exotic spice.
I'm going to faint, Sariel thought, regretfully pulling back. And he probably thinks I'm some kind of creature.
But then he felt the light touch, two fingers of Ganesh's hand, tracing along his cheek.
“I'll.... I'm going to see you again?” Ganesh asked hopefully.
Sariel nodded. It was all he could do. Too much to explain. Too much.
“I got the demon. Did you see?” Ganesh pointed shyly to his saddle, where the carcass of the unfortunately hopping demon now hung.
“That was very impressive riding,” Sariel managed to croak out to him.
Ganesh blushed.
The present day....
“Ganesh.”
“Sariel.”
“Do NOT try to love god me!” declared Charles, crossing his arms as Ganesh sat back casually on the couch and batted his lovely dark eyes at him.
“Would I attempt that? Well, possibly.” And now the ingratiating grin was added to the arsenal.
“Our son. Our son! Wings out! In front of....”
“In front of people who are aware, if they own a television, that you are an angel, and thanks to your encounter in your office, that you have a son.”
“I don't give a shit about me! We agreed to keep him out of public view until he's 18!”
“And he is out of public view. He is in Mordhaus, our home.”
“Yeah! Along with those video game dudes!”
“Sariel. Bréagán has vetted each and every one of those workers. She is, in her way, as paranoid as you.”
“Ganesh!”
“Oh, mightn't we avoid the quarrel and proceed to the make up sex?” inquired Ganesh, now pulling Charles onto his lap.
“Ganesh, I can't discuss this with you groping my ass!”
“Then we'll need to quit discussing it.”
“Ganesh!”
“I meant to ask you, by the way, about a recent dream,” murmured Ganesh into Charles' neck.
“Uhhhhhh....” explained Charles.
Ganesh was now holding Charles' face, looking into his eyes. “Was it you and Lady Raziel?” he asked.
“OK. All right. I'm caught. I just... I just.... I definitely can't talk when you're doing that!”
“Mmmm,” said Ganesh, who was otherwise occupied.
There was a knock at the door.
“Mumblemumble?” mumbled Charles into Ganesh's chest.
“What was that?” asked Ganesh, grabbing the beside clock radio and frowning at the readout.
“You gonna get that?” repeated Charles.
“Well, 'tis your house.”
“Our house,” muttered Charles.
Ganesh sighed, and, disentangling himself from a sleepy angel, threw on a robe and went to the door of their suite. Charles wiggled up in bed just a bit and mashed himself into the pillow. No, not as nice as Ganesh. That's what he would do! He would manufacture a line of pillows that were just as nice as Ganesh. All soft and a nice smell and warm and comfy. He drowsed, thinking happily of money.
“Charles. Come here please."
He pushed himself up on both elbows, blinked sleepily, and grabbed his glasses from the bedside table, where they more or less made it over his ears. Then, stopping to stumble into a pair of pajama pants, he padded to the door.
“Ashleigh?” he yawned.
“Charles,” she said. Odd, thought Charles. No, “Daddy?” Was she gonna try to sell him angel rocks? Charles tried to search his memory for what the hell his "daughter" wanted.
Ganesh looked concerned.
“Have you..... Have you seen my mother?” she pleaded.
“As I was explaining,” Ganesh told him, “I had a brief meeting with Ashleigh's mother a month or so back, and at that time, er, persuaded her to depart the premises. We have had no further encounters.”
Charles nodded and straightened his glasses. Ganesh hadn't exactly told him how he'd chased her off, and Charles hadn't exactly asked.
“I actually haven't seen your mother for years Ashleigh,” Charles told her.
“That's just it. No one's seen her. No one.”
Charles and Ganesh exchanged a glance.