Hellrise

HELL RISE

David Lee Howells

Copyright 2013

Smashwords Edition

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1 – Hell’s Beginning

Chapter 2 – Changes in Routine

Chapter 3 – Revelations

Chapter 4 – Bowled Over

Chapter 5 – Postures and Imposters

Chapter 6 – Healing Hands

Chapter 7 – Clean Up

Chapter 8 – Enlightenment

Chapter 9 – Strategies

Chapter 10 – Second Thoughts

Chapter 11 – Restructuring

Chapter 12 – Searching For Advantage

Chapter 13 – Regroupings

Chapter 14 – False Fronts

Chapter 15 – Death as a Statement

Chapter 16 – More Meat on the Bones

Chapter 17 – First the Calm

Chapter 18 – Hell on Earth

Chapter 19 – Invasion

Chapter 20 – The Garden of Goki

Chapter 21 – Meetings

Chapter 22 – The Rise of the Arts

Chapter 23 – Brother Against Brother

Chapter 24 – Oz-ymandias

Chapter 25 – Green Storm Rising

Chapter 26 – Battleground

Chapter 27 – Loose Ends

About the Author

Other Books

Prologue:

"If Meat and Drink Thou Ne’er Gay’st Nane

Every Nichte and Alle

The Fire Will Burn Thee To The Bare Bane

And Christe Receive Thy Saule"

Lyke Wake Dirge, estimated 17th century

"Feed poor people? Half the time they were fat. Why feed them more?"

J Carson, Hades resident, Administrative Assistant

Wesley Overstreet became aware. He was walking, more shambling, down a long and torch-lit corridor. There was no recollection of initiating that activity. It was like someone turned on his conscious mind after his body had already caught the morning rush hour. He was not alone. Others beyond count were shuffling along the corridor at about the same pace. It was hard to say how many. The corridor was razor straight and the geometry of vision didn’t allow him to see more than glimpses of people five or six deep ahead. Turning around, he saw the same story behind him.

He wondered what had happened, why was he here, who were these people, where WAS here, and where were they all going?

No answering whisper responded to his mental queries; just the sounds of countless feet making contact with the unforgiving flat floor. He looked. Marble? Granite? Too dark to tell. It was black and shiny. Basalt? He tried to stop walking, but the press from behind would not allow it. Go with the flow was the only option.

Trace my steps, get a starting place. The verbalized request was received and promptly answered.

[Query made. Initiating download sequence, Life-Review protocol.]

To his mind came the words; Time Snap. That initiated a flood of memories having great clarity and no small potential for misery. Those two meddling kids that had defeated his perfect plans. Peter Stahl and Melanie Culpepper. Then there was that Angel masquerading as a foreign preacher, Barna. That bearded hippie-type Angel Armonk pretending he was Arny’s friend. And foremost among the treacherous was his own Hell’s Angel, Moriah. Beautiful, powerful, and a turn-coat against him.

From what he could remember learning, after his capture at that college campus dorm building, Heaven’s machinery that controlled time short circuited leaving the world inhabited by motionless zombies, or whatever you’d call people who were frozen in Time with a capital T, as Host liked to imbue it. He remembered the events of his life leading up to meeting Moriah, though she was Marcia to him then. Parading unbidden before his mind now came his rise in influence, his dreams of power, his talents at manipulation of weak and even not so weak minds. Other thoughts and events wafted through his theatrical memory stage. Yet, they didn’t have the strength of emotion they might have elicited before, before...before this place. But more memories came, bidden or unbidden, like they needed and yearned for center stage. Lovers, conquests, clubs, booze, parties, first grade, birth. Birth? Yes, even that memory now was clear. How could this be?

[Query made. Memory review paused. Awaiting insight.]

Wesley looked again at his fellow shamblers. They all looked and walked forward, but their expressions suggested that his stroll wasn’t the only memory lane. He looked at the man to his right. His features were vaguely familiar. Black man, outlandish hat that screamed pimp, ditto the outfit. Pimp-man noticed the attention and asked, Whattya lookin’ at, cracker?

More than the half-hearted challenge, what struck Wesley’s attention was the man’s face. When Pimp-man. turned his head to address him, half the right side of his face was missing. Three quarters of a face prompted the recollection that he had seen the man, frozen in time. He was the pimp Melanie took that wad of money out of his pocket and later gave it to people in that religious soup kitchen. But that head-wound? Skull and brain were visible, yet there was no drippage or spurting. That kind of wound was made by something high caliber, like a shot gun. Oh dear. Was it one of his traps he forgot about and left after the restoration of Time? Sorry, but did you know your face is shot off, part of it, that is?

Noticed that, did ya?

Look, if it was one of my traps that did that to you, I’m really sorry.

The man smiled a little at that. Nah, wasn’t anything you did. Weren’t no trap. One of my girls’ fathers tracked her down and I wouldn’t let him have her. So, he let me have it.

Bummer.

S’cool. Now if you’ll excuse me, I got me some thinkin I need to do.

The memory dump pause remained in place, suggesting he think about what he had just heard and seen. Ok. There’s a man with a fatal head wound, a pimp he had seen before during the Time Snap, who was walking next to him, and was conversant. The man should have been killed, had to have been killed. There’s no way he could have survived that!

Wesley looked to his left. Jack? Jack Manceau?

Oh, hey Wesley. How’s Amelia and the kids? Jack was a business competitor within his own company, but they were on friendly enough terms as they had mostly different territories. He looked normal, down to those out dated penny loafers that Big Spender Jack had put Mercury dimes into the slots.

Last I saw, they were fine. Hey, weren’t you involved in some kind of company dust up?

Jack seemed fascinated by the passing torches, and while he walked or talked, would watch each guttering light source go by, then focus on the next one in the distance. Yeah, managed to divert our pension fund to an off shore. I was all ready to take Marcie and Jonathan on a permanent South American vacation when my ticker got ticked off. Shame. That seven million would have made a helluva easy life. Oh, sorry that it would have knocked out your pension and all that.

Wesley took this in, thought about his previous chat partner. At least Wesley was talking with a full face…he assumed. S’cool. Doesn’t look like I’m going to use it anyway. There didn’t seem much more to say, so the two went back to forward looking and ambling

Respecting the silence the others seemed to prefer, he thought, They’re dead, they’re both dead. Dead to the right, dead to the left. Pimp-man had three quarters of a head. What did Wesley Overstreet have, he began to wonder. Afraid, but more afraid not to, he forced his eyes to look down. It required some effort, because his neck didn’t have the pliability it used to have."

His clothes were burnt remnants and tatters that displayed skin charred to where he could see fat and muscle underneath.. He raised a hand before his face. It reminded him of a cross between a bar-b-que failure and an action figure found after a house burnt down. Then, the other hand rose to compare to its partner. Same story. Marshmallow Man Loses Battle With The Human Torch, film at eleven. Fascinated, and mildly surprised he didn’t have the revulsion one might expect at such a discovery, he flexed fingers of both hands. A few skin-pieces that were hanging by a thread dropped off, but other than that there was no feeling of discomfort. Dropping his left hand he raised his right to his face. He could feel the same story there with crags and cracks of dry char outlined by moist subdermal tissue. What seemed most interesting was that he COULD feel almost normally despite the Joan of Arc look.

Wesley Overstreet had learned to look for patterns, and was beginning to see purpose emerging in this seemingly endless trek. He’d thought queries before, and nothing happened. He spoke them, and... Aright. I want to get this over with. Do what you need to do.

[Query initiated. Life-Review protocol unpaused.]

The memories began to glide back into main stage. Those last moments in that cubicle in Heaven, where he killed those two hated youth. Then, before he could pop the two remaining Angels, Moriah grabbed and pulled him back to Earth just as Time was restored.

What an anticlimax that Time restoration was, like starting a movie you had on pause. It was at that point in Time that he realized that he had great knowledge and therefore great leverage. Plus, he had his Marcia/Moriah again. Why else would she make sure the two of them were together when the change hit? She was back in his camp and the world was his oyster. But when he smiled in triumph at her, she didn’t smile back. Those eyes, like something out of a horror movie or DC comic, glowing red. He remembered witnessing the tail end of a fighter jet engine on afterburner, or as close to that as a guy could get. Now he knew, at least, what he was.

I’m dead.

[Insight achieved. Discontinue download protocol. Initiate transport to Incorporation Room.]

Chapter 1: Hell’s Entry

"Israfil, Arabic. One of the four Islamic arch angels. The Burning One. Also known as the Angel of the Trumpet".

"It’s funny. Never went to church. Did a lot of volunteer work, though. Guess that was my church.

M. J. Whittington. Heaven resident. Praise Department Coordinator.

Wesley’s next step went from torch lit tunnel to a torch lit vestibule where a score of people now stood before a dais of umber glowing stone foundation. And what stood in front of the crowd? What else? A Demon. Maybe shooting Angels wasn’t such a smart idea?

Really, a Demon straight out of Disney Meets Heavy Metal. There were the hairy hips to goat-like legs with kick-your-skull-in hoofs, an evil looking tail, classic glowing yellow eyes, a muzzle that was just slightly wolf-like, and of course the horns. They looked more ornamental than functional, but were a nice touch, he thought. The Demon, after sizing up the crowd raised himself up to full height and gave what had to be his version of a smile. Ewww.

OK, listen up recruits! This is the Vestibule of First Insight, and I’m Bob. You had your life review and figured out you’re dead. Don’t worry, it won’t kill you. Chuckles arose from the crowd. Some of you with half a brain already figured out that this ain’t Heaven. Why ain’t this Heaven? Because those prissy wimpy winged lah te dah prima donnas determined that you weren’t worthy of their almighty attention. That’s why! Grumbles from the crowd. Now here, we appreciate you! We realize you got worth, talents, can make a difference. Now, no one get their briefs into a pinch over what you’ve heard Hell is like. It ain’t like what you think, well, mostly. Here you gotta chance to think for yourself, serve a greater cause, and even throw down a few from time to time if you please your masters with faithful service. And you think there might be sex in Hell? HELL YEAH! That last part was greeted with a responding cheer, and helped dampen the reaction to serving masters. Wesley liked Demon Domo. Good crowd control.

And what is it you’ll be doing to serve in Hell? Well, welcome to the new Hell. We got methods to place you where you’ll do the most good, (winking) or bad, for the most Hell Host or fellow Humans. More chuckles, but a bit confused. So, form up, single file. Each of you take a clip board from the wall in the entry way and find yourself a comfortable rock. Fill out all the spaces clearly and legibly. If you have to erase, do so thoroughly and neatly. When you’re done, exit through the clearly labeled exit hallway at the far end of the room and you’ll be directed by another staff member. Hold your questions until the end of the orientation, as most o them will be answered if you’re just patient. So, welcome to Hell! We’re glad you’re here.

Clipboards? He looked at his own. English. Multiple choice and fill in the blank. He glanced at an Oriental’s board next to him. Gobbly gook. Odd, the boards didn’t have any particular order in the stacks. Smart boards?

The Survey Room was large, still having torches, but with gloomy lighting that flickered from within the rocks of the walls, ceiling, even the odd shaped ottoman sized stones on the ground. It was hugely different than his previous brief stay in that cubicle in Heaven.

He put a hold on comparisons, it being early in the new game. Now, what’s this survey about?

Name, date of birth, birthplace. Standard so far, but what use could those things have in Hell? He was mildly relieved they didn’t require today’s date. No clue.

"Are you aware of how you died?" Yes.

"If yes, please describe in 50 words or less the mechanism of your demise. This information will be kept strictly confidential; and is for internal use only." Cremated alive by Angel fire delivered by one Moriah, after she defected from her allegiance to Hell.

Wesley smiled. So, it appears Hell is a bureaucracy. No big surprise there. Any large body of individuals that had a primary ongoing task couldn’t survive long without one. Surveys? Trying to pigeon hole masses of minions to get the most bang for their buck. The more he remembered of Moriah, which Wesley felt to be his only playing card dealt him in this mess, the more he recalled her fear of being discovered by Beelze-badass-bub. With just a little bit of luck, this is going to buy him the present he never tired of receiving...leverage, the gift that keeps on taking.

The rest would be just fluff, but might as well be thorough. What is your favorite color?

Oh, no. I saw Holy Grail. I’m not falling for that one!

Chapter 2: Changes in Routine

"Raphael", Angel of Healing. Purported to have healed the blindness of Tobias, then announce that he was one of the Seven who stand before the Lord.

Tobit 12:15

"I was so glad to hear I would have work in Heaven. I don’t think I’d of liked it here if was going to be a cloud potato."

E. Haversham, Heaven resident, Book of Life Department, Trainee.

Second semester General Chemistry. Friday. Adjunct teacher Ms. Melanie Culpepper addressed the first day’s students. She recognized every one of their twenty one faces from the previous semester, including, she sadly sighed, her love-sick adorer Marvin Campbell. Sure enough, there he was with that same determined confidence that he would be her knight in aluminum beer-can armor in time. But today would manifest a changed agenda. A very becoming Afro-American beguiler had managed to score a seat next to Marvin and, from the look of it, had already shared a few distracting words emphasized by a few strategic touches-for-emphasis on the man’s shoulders. The 42 minute class ended, with what she had hoped would give a good foundation for later delving into the Lanthanide series on the periodic table. Yet Melanie never got her inevitable cornering by Marvin with some obscure question that would somehow lead to the man’s inevitable conquest of her heart and soul. She watched Marvin talk to the new student auditing the class as the woman laughed, did a forward lean, then deftly placed her index finger to Marvin’s forehead.

Marvin looked odd, even for Marvin, for a second. Then he smiled and then left the room looking totally uninterested in the former Peach of a Teach. Melanie felt a bit insulted.

After the students had left, Moriah handed Melanie’s’ borrowed-for-a-prop text book. That should do it. The thought will grow in Marvin’s mind that you’re way too smart for him, will make him look stupid in front of his peers, and would have expected him to outperform Einstein in his scholastics. You, in his eyes now, are much too high maintenance.

Moriah, that seemed almost too easy. Are we Humans so easy to fall in and out of love?

Oh, One, no, dear one. What Marvin felt was nothing like love. You were a symbol to him on several levels, from the snapshot I got of his mental state. You were the teacher he had a crush on in third grade but could never speak to. You were the woman on a pedestal that put you above the crowd, a place he wanted to be. You were the resource of some grade fudging if necessary, too. So, we still on for bowling tonight? Always wanted to try that.

Definitely. Hey, think you can hex the men’s balls?...Wait...

Marcia screeched merrily at the unplanned entendre.

Peter Stahl rated a cubical, not a window-facing office. Still, it was one of the larger end cap cubicles that was half again the square footage of the others at Kodak R and D Department. His niche had the general heading of Medical Imaging, which included anything in a lab or hospital setting that produced a diagnostic picture. Buzz words that put responsibilities into his lap included; thermographic, laparoscopic, and tomographic to name a few.

That had the built-in consideration that most of the things he was trying to guide progress in with fourteen individual researchers would never actually result in a profitable addition to the Kodak portfolio of product lines. The world-wide competition was just too fierce. But all it took was one roaring success to make his year. If nothing else, he kept Kodak up to date on just what the cutting edge in any of these topics was and make sure his company didn’t fall any further behind than they already were.

Before him was the latest article on tomographic imaging, for example. You could scan an entire body, top to bottom, in less than 15 seconds and yield a manipulable 3D image displayed in a holographic projection that could show just the skeleton or just soft tissue, magnify a region of interest to full screen, and dissect said image into slices that were clean enough to come off a deli’s meat cutter. He was able to spot three areas where his tomographic team might make some positive modifications to come out with a new and improved model down the pike.

Mr. Stahl, emergency! It was Harry Preekman, the optics supergenius in coke bottle glasses standing at his stall’s entryway...one of his team. The man’s voice timbre was just short of irritating when he was calm. He wasn’t calm now. Peter’s eardrums hurt.

Hi Harry. What’s the calamity this time?

Toilet paper, Mr. Stahl! The employee washroom on the north side is almost completely out! Someone’s really slacking! We shouldn’t have to stand for this, Mr. Stahl.

Peter placated, which was actually written in his job title. OK, Harry, I’m on it. Thanks for getting this right to me. You go on back and get that progress report I need for tomorrow on advance lens coatings in the meantime. Until then, use the south side restroom. We’re men, Harry. Sometimes we have to rough it.

Satisfied and standing proudly, Harry Preekman marched back to his Optics Department door while Peter punched in a line to maintenance. Yeah, it’s me. This time? Toilet paper, north bathroom. And please, no single ply. You know how they reacted to that last time. Yeah, George, thanks. War is Hell. Bye. Peter shook his head. The last disaster involved a royal clash between full spectrum versus cool light bulb devotees. That one required a Division Supervisor to settle the waters.

Barna was back at Peter’s apartment, breaking bread with his fellow Host, Armonk. On the table were various cheeses, crackers, pickles, olives, cold cuts, cookies and nuts. The operative word was were, for almost all of what was there was there no longer.

Barna, Peter’s going to hit the roof when he sees he’s had a locust plague hit his kitchen.

Couldn’t be helped, ol’ man. We were hungry, and surely Peter wouldn’t deny us a bit of charity, would he? He’s very generous for a Human. Besides, I made sure to save a sample of each item for a loaves and fishes solution. Barna placed three trays on the dining area table and took a hoarded sample of all the aforementioned victuals on them. Barna placed his hands together, blessed the food, stretched out his arms over the table and was reasonably pleased with the result. The trays were full once more, though with the peculiarity on any close inspection that each food item was identical to its original template. There was only one Host who could do the trick with each reproduction appearing unique.

Not bad, Barna. I failed at Comestible Replication, but I can turn water to a Merlot with a reasonable nose. How’s your charge getting long with her penance requirements?

Moriah’s doing just fine. Chief Masati may still glower, but I can see the glow in glower. She’s done a half dozen public services, a score of covert enlightenments, and all that, but what’s more important is that she debriefed on everything she knows about the internal changes in Hades’ workings. Some of it’s almost funny, like aptitude tests to new entrants. Some is not so funny, like organized combat competitions, both individual and groups of various sizes. What’s really nuts is that there’s a huge drop in wailing and gnashing of teeth. She says they’ve gone from Pits o Torture to Pittsburgh. That’s got me a bit worried.

Worried? How so, Barna? I don’t like souls to suffer any more than you do no matter what they did in life. I mean, what’s the point of eternal punishment?

What’s got me concerned is that an army travels on its stomach, but fights based on its morale. If Lucifer’s building their morale up, I doubt that it’s out of any love for Humans. What does that leave?

Two Angels placed trays of food back in the refrigerator and, once more, grabbed Peter’s last two Michelob’s out of the freezer. They had cooled down nicely after Barna’s last refill blessing-spell. Armonk asked, sipping the rebrewed brew, You saying the fabled battle is imminent?

Maybe. It’s possible. Or maybe they’re just tired of hearing screams and cries. That’s gotta be rough on the ears.

Another sip, followed by Armonk chuckling. Yeah. Imagine the energy drain on a Fallen Angel doomed to an eternity of raising spoiled teenagers.

Quin, Chief of the Projection Department of Heaven, located in the Mortal Experience Mansion, or MEM for short, was the Host of highest authority over the operation of millions of observation cubicles. Each cubicle could be called upon to allow the occupant to covertly observe past and present scenes on hundreds of populated worlds (classified as Primitive, Early Evolving, and Advanced), with four of those worlds garnering the vast majority of attention thanks to their colorful cultures, technological advancements, and social dynamism. Each of those worlds rated their own section of the Projection Department, which seldom interacted with each other as the One had made sure to keep those worlds separate by distance and dimension shifts. Quin’s sole dominion was the Earth continuum.

Quin was also the main brain behind the Big Board that kept track of every Earth Human’s life, birth to death, as well as its elevation or regression away from its potential highest plane of spirituality. After each life track ended, marking the death of that life on Earth, data would be transmitted to the Book of Life Department to be used in assessing the station and perks that soul would be assigned. The higher a level achieved, the better the final accommodations. At the other end of the scale, something entirely different awaited.

Across from him in the conference cubicle was Chief Masati, topmost Host of the Intervention Department, Earth Division. Under her jurisdiction fell tasks of active participation of trained Host in the affairs of mortal beings. The scope of such active involvement may be to guide the path of an individual who is determined to have potential for great good if he or she was lightly pushed in the right direction. It may also involve assisting or hamstringing groups of individuals. Such actions depended on what the think tanks of the Social Engineering Department combined with observations of Projection Department afforded as wisdom and insight. She had the unenviable task of maintaining the requirements of free will societies, while pruning with supposed precision the factors that might turn said societies into irrevocable self-annihilation.

Chief Masati, shall we begin the meeting? You called it.

No, Chief Quin, I did not. She pointed her finger upstairs. Quin got the reference immediately.

So be it. I am ready to do whatever is asked. Please, proceed, but, where are the other Department Chiefs?

"There is no need for Praise to be here. They and Social Engineering are for the living mortal populations, and this meeting concerns not them, at least not directly. Book of Life Department is likewise unaffected by my concerns. Observation provides the eyes in the One’s universe and the keeper of the most complex of the Big Boards. Your information gathering will be essential in this matter. From what Moriah has informed us during her debrief, there has been a major shift in Hell’s mortal soul-handling protocols. It may be a prelude to the final war between our opposing realms. It may also represent that Lucifer got bored and decided to give Hell an interesting face lift. We don’t know, and Moriah was unable to speculate. What I need from your Department is to ramp up your present-Time observation of Earth, focusing on detecting Opposition presence and/or activity changes.

I understand, dear Host, and will comply. Can you tell me what kind of activities we are to keep watch for?

I wish I could. Use your best intuition. Utilize Heaven’s Human Brethren if you feel their natural sensitivities and insights would be a boon in detection. At the least, look for something that might score Lucifer more fodder for Hell’s cannons on an accelerated schedule. Look for wars and rumors of wars, saber rattling, and such. Keep tabs on political leaders, and see if they’re being influenced in any coordinated way on either the road of best intentions or the road to perks and power. Report back to me on anything you even suspect is fishy so I can send my best covert ops in better prepared and informed. Any questions?

Quin thought for a minute. Masati, Moriah was prepping Overstreet to a position to bring many souls down below Book Of Life minimum standards. Since he rated Hell’s powerhouse protection, I think we snipped a cancer in the bud there. But what if she wasn’t alone in her mission? I smell a recruitment push possibility even before I start looking for one.

Masati sat back and took that thought in. Hell was always recruiting, Heaven was always guiding and supporting. It was like a celestial cold war. This added more suspicion that the war was gearing to warm up. After a moment of reflection, Consider this Double O as officially shaken and stirred. One more thought. As far as we know, Moriah’s survival of the Time restoration is not known by the Rebels. She’s supposed to be keeping to the covert, but, she has had a track record of being hard to keep reined in. Take whatever steps you can think of to protect that asset. Good luck Brother Host.

Another nod, and Quin left the room. As he walked down the hallway, he thought, How am I supposed to protect someone who could lay waste half a continent as part of her aerobics warm up routine? What about her ex-Mission target, Overstreet? Did his soul survive a point blank Angel-fire blast? From the biggest bazooka on Masati’s arsenal, no less? Are Human souls that resilient? I don’t think that’s ever been researched. And if Overstreet’s soul DID survive, how much time do I have to enact safeguards?

First thing was first. Quin called an emergency meeting of the Projection Department to get the required observation protocols ramped up.

Chapter 3: Revelations

"In ancient Norse mythology, Hel is the ill-favored goddess of the underworld. Only those who fall in battle enter ValHalla. The rest go down to Hel in the underworld."

Catholic Encyclopedia

"We were only following orders!"

Peter von Hagenbach, 1474 trial under the Holy Roman Empire. Defense statement was disregarded, and the prisoner beheaded. Hades resident, assigned to organizing 12 Step Post Assassination Depression and Execution Depression (SPADED) programs.

Wesley Overstreet was one of the first to finish the questionnaire. He strode up to the exit portal with growing confidence. There were arising some familiar touchstones to people management he learned in his own world. Surely he’d be able to turn this to his own advantage. Just show his worth to the new management structure he was entering.

The Demon who took his clipboard was a bit shorter and portly than the one he first heard from, the one who gave them their welcome speech. He was far more stocky, dressed in general bagginess held together with an oversized belt. He wore pants that suggested legs, and boots that suggested feet instead of hooves. Hi, I’m Wesley Overstreet. And you are?

Bored and not interested. That stopped Wesley short. The grumpy Demon looked up, scratched his belly, took the clipboard, and said, Hey, sorry about that. It ain’t your fault. Name’s Hideous. I’m supposed to go by Frank here, according to Committee. The way the Demon pronounced his new name strongly suggested that it left a bad taste in his maw. So, um, have a nice eternity and all that. Go down the hall, turn left at the third door, knock and tell them Frank sent you.

Interesting, and a chance in the making. "So, Hideous, what’s a scary looking Demon like you doing in a position like this one? It doesn’t seem to be your forte, if you know what I mean? What happened?

The Demon gave a baleful yellow-eyed stare, scratching his hedge hog hair with three inch talons, and harrumphed. Then, looking back to the room to make sure no one was coming, he said, Look, I’m only talking to you because your board hit a major catch word. That room I’m sending you to, it’s for special treatment", so maybe you’re marked for something different than average. This whole smiley feely thing got put in about three decades ago. Don’t think it means all cushy lives now, ‘cause it don’t. But it sure ain’t what it used to be.

I sense some thing different in you. Maybe you’ll get yourself some influence along the way. If you do, then maybe I can use you. I got some influence in Hell, they tell me, but I could always use more.

Sure will, Hideous. Thanks for the heads up. Look me up when you get a chance. I’d like to hear what you have to say about how things work here.

At that, the Demon gave a sardonic smirk and nodded Wesley to get moving. As the Human walked down the hall, Hideous/Frank took in a deep sniff, smelling the scorched flesh from Wesley’s demise. Mmmmm, extra crispy.

The apparent walking distance to the third door on the left seemed like about a hundred feet, but it might as well have been an attempt to cross the Grand Canyon. No amount of walking got him more than a foot or two in perceived progress. The rules are still being learned. He used what he knew. Tell me what I need to know.

[Query made. Purpose request. Initiate review of subjects of interest to Committee.]

Moriah. That was the key that got their attention. That wasn’t any surprise. That it got him noticed so quickly showed that Hell had accomplished the impossible; an efficient bureaucracy. He let the Moriah-related memories parade before his attention as his feet continued to move in normal gait. The more he remembered, the further down the hall he achieved. There was much he would rather not remember towards the end. His humiliation and cowing had been personally devastating. By the time he was re-visioning her final fireball rejection notice, he was standing in front of the assigned portal.

[Review complete. End transmission. Notify authority. Subject prepared.]

The door opened. Inside the room, there was an average length conference table with high back wooden chairs. Wooden chairs? In Hell?

There were people seated at the table. At least, they looked like people. Slacks, sport shirts, pants suits, heels, oxfords. Demons wear oxfords and heels? Five at the table, two female, three male, and all seem so...normal. Um, Frank sent me?

All five before him laughed, as if they shared some private joke.

Red and yellow pants suit said, Come in, Mr. Uberstreet. Please, have a seat.

Thank you, um. The name’s Overstreet, by the way. Wesley took a seat.

It is? She looked at a form in front of her. Must have gotten a glitch in the transmission.

Tan Chinos and open-collared sport shirt chimed in, Mr. Overstreet. Please bear with us. We’ve been undergoing some changes in organizational traditions. Now, according to your intake sheets, you mentioned a being of interest to us. Our records say that you were the Human of Interest that a Hadean Guidance Specialist, one Moriah, was assigned to. Seems you had enough positive reports on people management and influence skills to warrant one of our upper echelon reps. So, in your own words, please tell us all you recall of your interactions with our beloved comrade. You see, she’s missing, and we’re quite...concerned.

Game on. Wesley sized up the scoreboard. Hell’s Five to Wesley’s one. Head man center, letting subordinates do his querying for him. No names offered, so add arrogance to the mindsets. Human-seeming, like the Angels during the Time Snap he met. Fallen Angels, then, like Moriah. These are the Rebels, the Opposition. Let’s see if there’s room to jockey for position.

Sir, Madam, and assemblage, thank you for your hospitality. Before I can begin, though, how may I properly address each of you? You may be famous here, but I’m new in town. He waited for the response, and who would respond. Better yet, four sets of eyes diverted momentarily to the central character. Call that one Boss Man, now. Boss Man nodded to blue pants suit.

Forgive our manners. We used to handle such matters in a more interactive environment where introductions were less essential. I am Loah, and my feminine counterpart is Jeminah. While there are multiple ranks in our circles, you can usually be safe by addressing the feminine Host here as Lady, followed by their name if you are aware of it. It’s an address system that also dates back in your own history, and we’ve found it is easy for your kind to adapt to smoothly. The Host that addressed you first is Larok, and next to me is Chuck.

She saw Wesley’s eyebrows raise. No, that’s not his given Host name. He chose a pseudonym when he found out his Host name caused Humans to, well, giggle. With male Host members, use Lord instead of Lady. If you’re unsure of gender, Wesley saw Boss Man’s eyes go up to the ceiling on that one, ...some variation of Your Hostship usually will keep you out of boiling pitch. Boss Man ahemed. I mean hot water. Sorry. We’re still getting used to using your idioms.

That was enough to work on. The game was afoot, as Mister Holmes would say. Thank you, Lady Loah. And thank you for tolerating my appearance. I’m really not dressed for meeting Lords and Ladies of Hell.

For the first time, Boss Man spoke. Mr. Overstreet, if what you tell us has sufficient utility, we will arrange for a more becoming presentation. He snapped his fingers once. Observe your right hand, Human.

Wesley raised his hand to visual field. The damage from Angel Fire disfigurement had limited how much flexion his neck had. To his pleasant surprise, his right hand looked like it had in the past life.

Spiritual presentation of physicality in this realm, Mr. Overstreet, and how that presentation may be modified by ourselves or others, goes by very different rules than you are accustomed to. You may address me by Lord Goki. Please, continue with your narrative.

This was going too smoothly. Wesley felt they were playing him, which they were, for information which, chances are, they could have gotten with sterner measures far more quickly. What was with all this formality and civilized methods? Save that for later. Now was the time to show he could deliver product. Later, if he survived this stage, he’d show he had other talents that could serve those in authority and give him value and leverage.

Long or thumbnail version?

Lady Loah stipulated, We wish to hear all details that include Moriah. You may save your life story for another time.

Wesley nodded and began with his first meeting of the woman he thought was named Marcia Walker. He made sure to give her a reasonable amount of credit for his advancements in business and political venues, though made likewise sure his own natural abilities were alluded to. The hunger in their eyes for information was obvious. His story weaving showed them interested in the other members of that ill fated party, especially Barna and Armonk. His relaying more details regarding the Time Snap failure, restoration, and elements of how things worked or didn’t work confirmed some of their information, but other aspects seemed new to them.

When he spoke of Moriah’s turning her back on her mission of supporting him, even Lord Goki was left thunderstruck. Still, all held their tongues well until he relayed how he, a Human, had come damned close to blasting that traitor into non-existence with his double gauge trap. All mouths were open at this point, saying nothing. His piece d’resistance though was the last moments in the Heaven-cubical, where he assassinated the woman and man who helped lure Moriah away from Lucifer’s fold, and how he had come close to also nailing the two Angels, had not Moriah grabbed him back to earth a moment prematurely. The finale was his facing the Interventionist’s full fire and fury.

Lord Goki said; Gabriel’s Pink Panties! And your soul survived a point blank Moriah-blast? Mr. Overstreet! Truly there is more to you than one might suspect on first encounter. There will be made more opportunity to speak on what you’ve told us, after we’ve done a little follow up on details. If you have been fully honest and correct in your assessments, then we may have some better than average arrangements for you in store. In the meantime...

Lord Goki snapped his fingers. Slowly, Wesley looked down with no restrictions sensed at all. His clothes were immaculate, and there wasn’t a trace to be seen of charred dermis tissue other than a dark dusting on the floor, which seemed to evaporate quickly. Goki spoke into his fist. Possibly one of his rings was a communication device, Wesley thought. A few moments later, a familiar voice sounded at the door. Whatcha need?

Wesley engineered in a split second a happy smile and cried out, Hideous! Oh! I mean, Frank. Putting on a worried expression, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to cause him any trouble. It’s just that Frank and me kind of hit it off, but I like his real name better. Don’t be mad at him, please.

Goki smirked. So, Hideous, we’re done with Mr. Overstreet for now. We may have found the information resource we’ve been looking for. Will you watch over him for now? Who better to show him the ropes? Perhaps accommodations at Madame Tulane’s on my say-so?

Hideous/Frank grabbed Wesley’s collar as he was about to make his formal goodbyes to Lords and Ladies all. Hideous had little use for flair and formality; just not his style. In fact, many would say he had NO style at all, but that was part of his charm.