Diabo: Rebirth

[Lusankya]

Now, this has some rather obvious self-insertion (but I don't particularly care). If it gets too Mary-Sueish and annoying, please tell me. I also put a couple of my RL friends in there. You can be in it too, if you ask. Just choose to be on the side of good or evil. (Good being defined as "anyone who's not allied with the Prime Evils”. You could eat babies for breakfast and still be considered "good".)

Prologue

The Lord of Destruction found himself to be quite pleasantly alive. He was trapped inside some kind of pentagram, which was not-so-pleasant (but still better than being dead, he reminded himself), and his brothers seemed to be similarly revived inside their own cages. That was alright, he supposed. They’d always worked well together in the past, and they probably would do so in the future. Of course, now he’d have to put up with Diablo going on and on about the “baseball” results, which was tedious to say the least. Baal didn’t even know what “baseball” was. Diablo tried to explain sometimes – something about hitting people with clubs. Personally, Baal could never understand why you wouldn’t just set them on fire. It would be so much simpler and quicker.

Baal shoved the problem of Diablo’s baseball obsession in the the back of his mind. That was a problem for later. The immediate problem was how to get out of the damned pentagram. Cautiously he poked the edges and immediately realised that the magic that held him was stronger than he could break at the moment. That left one other option – sweet-talking the wizard who had bound him here. He scanned the room to see who that could be. Dozens of robed wizards were scattered around. Some were dead, others unconscious, and a few were staggering about drunkenly. All of them were human, which was a bit pathetic. Three stood out – one, a severe-looking warlock with what even Baal admitted was a snappy beard. He was shouting commands and getting the other wizards into some semblance of order – and doing quite a good job of it, too. They especially picked up the pace when he disintegrated one who questioned his orders. Baal approved. The second was a woman who, from her pink hair, seemed to have at least some faerie blood in her. She was bouncing around taking notes about the situation. It seemed unnatural for one human to have so much energy, but Baal supposed that given the number of humans in the world, at least one had to be like that.

The last one who stood out was a woman reclining on a sofa. She seemed to follow the “long flowing scarves” school of fashion, which suited her quite well. A small table by the armrest showed that she was the kind of woman who brought tea and scones to a demon-summoning. In human terms, she would be considered quite beautiful save for the huge scowl on her face. Naturally, Baal found her quite endearing. Something had twisted her features into the most perfect visage of rage that he had ever seen. Back in the old days, Baal probably would have played with her for at least five minutes before he skewered her liver. All he could do now was admire her from afar. His brothers did the same, and Baal felt a twinge of jealousy as they looked at his woman.

It took some time for the woman to notice the three demons staring her. Her attention was far too focussed on her hands, which seemed to hold the source of her anger.

“I hope you’re happy,” she said. “Look what I did to bring you back.” She held her hands up high.

Baal was the first to speak. “Yes, very nice,” he said. “Lots of dead humans. We appreciate your sacrifice greatly.”

“Huh?” said the woman. “Oh, you mean them.” She waved her hand at the dead bodies. “They’re not important. I’m talking about this.” She walked up to Baal and held her fingers so could see them. “See?”

Baal examined the fingers carefully. They seemed perfectly normal, as far as he could tell, though, so he examined them again. They still looked fine to him. He looked to his brothers for help, but they offered no help. Mephisto just shrugged and Diablo ignored him. “Umm… what’s wrong?” he finally asked.

“You can’t see?” the woman sounded upset. She curled back all of her fingers except one. “See? I broke a nail!”

Now that it had been pointed out to him, Baal could see that the nail was indeed a bit cracked. “Ah,” he said. “I’m sorry. Perhaps if you let me look at it, I could fix…”

“Ah, ha! No!” the woman said, snatching her hand away. “I know what you’re thinking of, and it won’t work. We won’t let you out until we’ve explained exactly the terms of our agreement.”

“And when will you tell us?” Baal asked.

“In good time,” the woman said. “When the others are ready.”

“Oh, tell me now. Please,” Baal said. “If you do, I promise I’ll kill you last when I break the agreement.”

“Oh, alright, but you won’t break the agreement,” said the woman.

“And why not?” asked Baal.

“I’ll show you.” With one hand, she drew her scarf to one side, revealing a jewel set into her chest. “Recognise this?”

“Of course. It’s mine!” Baal said.

“Not quite. It’s ours now.” The woman tapped the stone. “This ties our life forces together. If you die, I die, and if I die, you die. Do you still want to kill me? Or shall we be partners?” She smiled sweetly. To his surprise, Baal found her smile to be just as endearing as her scowl – possibly because it was the kind of smile that, while conveying an arua of exceptional innocence, also managed to promise that its owner would quite happily torture you if things didn’t go her way.

“I’m not sure.” Baal did his best to give a smile as sweet as the woman’s. “How can you convince me that you’re telling the truth?”

“Oh, easily.” The woman called across the room. “Roccondil, I need a knife. And a healing potion.”

The man with the snappy beard turned his head. “Yes, Lady Lusankya,” he said. “Immediately.”

“You’re Lady Lusankya?” Baal asked.

The woman nodded. “Yes. Though my title was stripped from me by a traitorous wretch. Only a few of my loyal servants still call me ‘Lady’.”

“I take it you have plans for this traitor?”

“Oh yes,” Lusankya smiled. “I shall crush her mercilessly. And you will help me, I think. Oh, look. Here comes Roccondil with the knife.”

Sure enough, the man had arrived with not one, but several knives. “I’m sorry, My Lady,” he said sheepishly, “I wasn’t sure which one you wanted.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright,” Lusankya said. “I’ll take this one.” With her right hand, she picked up a vicious-looking stiletto which crackled with lightning. Her left, she held up to show Baal. “Now, I’m going to stab my hand,” she said. “Tell me how it makes you feel.”

“Ooh, I’ll enjoy this.” Baal began to laugh, but soon screamed in pain as the knife entered Lusankya’s hand. Bolts of lightning coursed through his bones. He held his face in his hands, and found that one side of his face came away wet. His hand was bleeding. This woman had cast some kind of spectacular spell on him. Until he figured out how to break it, he would have to leave her unharmed.

Lusankya looked pale as the pulled the dagger out of her palm. “Do you believe me now, or should we try again?”

“No, that is sufficient,” said Baal. “I’ll believe you for now.”

“Good, so we’re partners then?” Lusankya smiled sweetly once more and wiggled the knife suggestively.

“Yes. Partners,” Baal said. “For now.”

“Excellent,” Lusankya said. “Roccondil! Where’s that healing potion I asked for?”

“Here, My Lady,” Roccondil said, handing her a red vial.

“Ah, excellent.” Lusankya drank the potion and Baal immediately felt his wounds begin to heal. “Now that we’ve sorted that out, perhaps we can talk about what I want from you.”

“Yes, I guess we can,” said Baal.

“Good,” said Lusankya. “Klavier! Come here!”

The pink-haired girl trotted up. “Yes, dearie?” she asked.

“I’d like to discuss our plans with the demons now,” said Lusankya. “I assume you’ve taken all the notes you wanted.”

“Have I ever!” said Klavier. “There’s so much magic around here! It will take me at least three months to organise my data.”

“Right, then,” Lusankya said. She stood back and addressed Diablo and Mephisto. “I take it you two saw that my life is linked to your brothers?”

“We saw,” said Mephisto. Diablo just nodded.

“Well,” said Lusankya, “you two are in the same situation. Roccondil has your stone, Mephisto, and Klavier has your brother’s. As it happens, that was the only way we could bring you back..”

“It was difficult,” Klavier volunteered. “You’ve been gone for almost 1900 years.”

“And now you want us to be your errand boys, is that it?” Mephisto asked.

“Oh, not at all,” said Lusankya. “I want us to be partners. I want my lands back, and you can do with the rest of the world as you please. I’ll even help you.”

“We’re not very good at ‘partners’,” Baal said.

“Do you have a choice?” Lusankya asked, tapping the jewel on her chest.

“Bah,” said Baal. “I’ll find a way to get around that eventually.”

“Of course you will.” Lusankya smiled the sweet smile of someone who’s about to eat a kitten. “But in the meantime, I think you’ll agree that harming us is not in your best interests. Don’t you agree?”

“For now,” said Baal. Mephisto and Diablo followed with similarly insincere agreements.

“Excellent!” Lusankya said. “Just remember not to try any funny business. We are quite capable of putting you through a world of pain if you do. Why, if you decide that you won’t help us, then we may even die from the disappointment. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

With a swift movement, Lusankya broke the seal of Baal’s pentagram with her foot. Roccondil and Klavier did likewise for Diablo and Mephisto. The three brothers were now both alive and free! It was a shame, thought Baal, that they were forced into an alliance with these pathetic humans. Still, the balance of power had a habit of changing. This time would be no different.

Baal stepped over the edge of the pentgram – the last symbolic step towards his freedom. As he did so, Lusankya brushed her lips against his ear. “I need to talk to you privately when we have time. We have much to discuss.”

How intriguing, Baal thought. The humans were already turning on each other. Perhaps this wouldn’t be as tedious as he had first thought.

[Lusankya]

Chapter One

Ford considered his life to be pretty good. Sure, as Prefect of Nadireth, his job description consisted of a whole bunch of pretty dangerous things – leading the army against armed invaders, for example – but there hadn’t been much of that going on in living memory. Sure, there was that one time with the “bandits” last year, but it turned out that it was just a bunch of kids from the next town over who’d gone on a bender. He felt quite proud of the way he’d handled that, though. He’d given the youths a strict talking to, and then made them clean up the mess they’d made. The whole town considered it to be quite an achievement, and since there had been no troubles like that since, it must have worked.

The job of Prefect had a significant number of perks to it as well – significantly, the Prefect could have as many mistresses as he wanted. Ford currently had only three, but since they had a combined bust size of almost four yards, he thought that it was a fine achievement. The last Prefect had at least five mistresses, and their bust size wasn’t anywhere near that amount. The last Prefect’s mistresses all hated each other as well. Ford suspected (though he had never ben able to prove it) that that had something to do with his unfortunate end, whereupon he was found burnt to a crisp and stuffed unceremoniously in a barrel of nail polish. After assuming the position, he had sworn not to make the same mistake. As such, his mistresses were not only wonderfully endowed, but they also got along quite well with each other. They had even sent a messenger to his office this morning inviting him for a picnic up in the Silver Moors today. All things considered, life was good.

“You’re a lucky man, Ford,” he said to himself. “Meeting three lovely ladies, alone, in such a beautiful location. I wonder what shennanigans they’ll want to get up to today?”

He looked at his map again. It looked like Bunny had drawn it – she never was particularly good at using pens and ink. He had to go past the smudge and meet them at the asterisk with a love-heart next to it. The smudge, he guessed, was Lake Flame, which, incidentally, was neither a lake nor on fire – it was a kind of boggy patch which sometimes flooded in Spring. And if that was the case, then the asterisk would be… somewhere. Ford was beginning to give up. He’d hoped that the asterisk was the tall tree just past the lake, but he couldn’t find any sign of the girls there. The only other place that he could think of was the rocky spire, which was a right pain to climb. Also, Ford did not like heights much. Naturally the girls loved to go up there. Oh well. At least they weren’t dousing him in nail polish. That was always something.

Ford left his horse at the base of the spire and started looking for the way up. He was quite convinced that it was in a different place every time he looked for it. After much searching, he finally found the path up. “Of course,” he said. “There’s a bush in front of it now. With a skunk in it. How could I have forgotten about the bush with the skunk in it?” He looked up. The spire suddenly seemed taller than it did a moment before. That, however, was something that it always did, so he didn’t bother complaining.

Fortunately, as fate would have it, he didn’t have to climb the dreaded spire.

“Ford!” someone called out. “Over here!”

“Lilah?” Ford looked around for his girl.

“I’m by your horse! You don’t have to climb up there.”

“I don’t?” Ford called back. “That’s excellent – er, I mean, too bad.” He made his way back to the horse, to find Lilah patting its nose gently. “Where are the others?”

“Oh, we found a new place,” said Lilah. “Bunny said she’d given you directions, but then we remembered what her directions are like, so I came to look for you.”

“Thank you,” said Ford. “What’s this new place like?”

“Oh, it’s very nice,” said Lilah. “Lots of pretty flowers and mushrooms. It’s just over the hill. I’ll show you.”

“Alright,” Ford said. He immediately vaulted into his saddle gallantly. He’d been practicing that move for some time, and clearly his hard work had paid off. Lilah applauded his efforts.

“Such a noble knight!” she said.

“What kind of a knight would I be without my princess?” Ford asked. He’d read that line in a book, and thought it sounded good. “Please, ride with me.”

“My pleasure.” Lilah giggled as she took the hand he offered.

The place Lilah was talking about turned out to be quite literally just over the hill. They had barely started riding before they arrived there. Ford felt rather disappointed. He’d just been getting into his whole “gallant knight” act as well, and now it was over. The place was just as pretty as promised – lots of purple little flowers (the technical name for them was, Ford believed, “those purple flowers”) and a ring of mushrooms that went all around the edge of the little vale. The girls’ three horses were tied happily to a tree near the edge, and set in the centre of all this was a lovely-looking picnic lunch. There was just one thing missing. Well, four things actually. Four things that were actually all the same kind of thing, but on two different people.

“Where are Rachel and Bunny?” Ford asked.

“I’m not sure,” Lilah said. “They were here when I left. Maybe they went to pick flowers. Let’s go look for them.”

“Alright,” Ford said. He dismounted first and helped Lilah down gallantly. That was his favourite word for the day he decided. Gallant.

Rachael and Bunny turned out to be quite near to the little vale. They had found some ugly, grey, fungussy… thing, and had cornered it in amongst some rocks.

“Ford!” Rachel called out. “Look what we found. This thing just came out from nowhere and then ran off.”

“Be careful,” Ford said. “What is it, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Bunny, “but isn’t he cute? I want to keep him as a pet.”

“Look, Bunny,” said Ford. “We can’t do that. We don't know what it is. For all we know it might be dangerous. The best thing we can do is leave it alone.”

“Oh please,” said Bunny in her most wheedling voice. For added effect, she squeezed her arms together in such a way as to make her cleavage even more impressive. She also did that puppy-dog eyes thing that she often did. The puppy dog eyes always won.

“Oh, fine,” said Ford. “But the first time it bites someone, we’re letting it go, ok? What will you call it?”

“Hurray!” said Bunny. “ Thank you! Well, he came out from the mushrooms, and he looks a bit like a mushroom. I think I’ll call him ‘Shroomy’.”

“Shroomy,” said Ford. “That’s a ... very … nice name.”

“I know!” said Bunny. “Could you catch him for me?”

“What? Me? How?”

“Maybe with your cloak or something,” said Rachael.

“Ooh, yes!” said Bunny. “You can do that. It would be very gallant of you!”

That settled it. Ford had to take any opportunity that presented itself to show his gallantry. He took his cloak off and began circling the thing.

The thing eyed him warily and shuffled around in what seemed to be an attempt to dodge the cloak. Ford was faster than the thing, however, and soon had it tangled up securely in folds of cloth. It struggled in his hands, but Ford was the stronger one, and soon all of his girls were congratulating him on how manly he was, and how fantastic it was to have such a strong and resourceful Prefect in their town.

Within a few minutes, they found a rope and used it to tie the thing to a tree. It had poked a few holes in Ford’s cloak, which was disappointing. He looked far more gallant with it on, he thought, but wearing a ruined cloak was not becoming at all. Still, although his cloak was ruined, it was ruined for the sake of gallantry, and the girls certainly seemed to be happy. Bunny had already started testing to see which foods the thing liked from the picnic hamper (all of them apparently), and Rachael and Lilah were competing to find the best way to tell him how brave and handsome and gallant he was for catching the creature.

Yes, life was pretty good. There was still the question of what their thing was, and how it got there, but that’s not the kind of question one worries about when there are three beautiful women to keep happy.

[Ford Prefect]

Man, life is pretty good. I must admit to giggling more than a few times throughout.

EDIT: I love being characterised as this massive, self-important geek. It's amusing.

[Shroom Man 777]

I am a thing, and Lusy-chan is a total slut for demons! Good! Good!

[The Grim Squeaker]

Ford currently had only three, but since they had a combined bust size of almost four yards, he thought that it was a fine achievement.

Most amusing . I think I'll read at least one more update of this fic, even though I normally avoid self-inserts

[Lusankya]

It's probaby worth mentioning right now that my computer at the moment doesn't have spell check, and sometimes I'm too lazy to proof read properly.

Chapter Two

The small fungussy demon had never had a name before. As a nuers, he was the lowest of the low on the demon pecking order. Lower than the lowest carvers. Lower than the lowest zombies. Lower than… well, he didn’t know what was lower than zombies, except for nuerses. And a mere nuers certainly wasn’t considered powerful enough to get a name.

He had one now, though. “Shroomy”. These strange humans had given it to him. They were also giving him bits of food. That was pretty good. It was mean of them to wrap him in that blanket, though. And now he was tied up, too, which wasn’t very nice either. Still they were better than that other human. That one was really, really mean! All she did was summon him sometimes and say, “Nuers, do this.” “Nuers, do that.” “Nuers, dig here.” “Nuers, bring me that rock.” And it never said “Thankyous” or “Pleases” or gave him cakes or anything like that. Just, “Mwah, mwah, mwah, do as I say or you won’t even be a nuers anymore – you’ll just be dead.”

These ones didn’t try talking to Shroomy much, and he didn’t talk to them. He still had his important mission to keep. It wasn’t a very good mission. He didn’t even want to do it. It was boring, but he had no choice, mang! If he didn’t do his mission, then he would bleed! Bleed from the… Well, he didn’t know where he would bleed from. Usually nuerses that were hit didn’t live long enough to bleed from anywhere , but it had been made perfectly clear to him that if he didn’t fulfil his mission then he would live through an awful lot of bleeding. He didn’t even want to think about that. Mang! Why did he get this kind of luck?

These humans were alright, though. Three of them… well compared to that other human, they were hueg! They were really hueg! And bouncy! Like whores! Shroomy liked that. He wasn’t sure about that non-whore one, though. He was hogging the whores! The sweet, lovely, big-breasted whores! It was so unfair that he got two of them and Shroomy only got one. Mang! At least his was feeding him cake. She was a good whore. She also had the biggest breasticles of the lot! Mang! That was awesome!

The whores and their utterly hueg breasts made it difficult to remember what his mission was, though. Something about listening and reporting back. It’s hard to concentrate, though when a whore with hueg breasts is feeding you cake. And chicken. And breads. And cheese. And Ham. And berries. And some kind of something or other. Ok. That last one wasn’t really very nice, whatever it was. But it was given to him by a whore! That was totally worth it, mang!

After some time, the non-whore managed to convince the whores to take their dressses off. Shroomy wished he could do that. It all looked like smashing fun – with the dresses off, you got to play with breasts and cunts and everything! When he had his harem, Shroomy was going to do all kinds of stuff like that! With breasts! And Cunts! And whatever else there was!

After a long while (during which Shroomy got quite bored, since he wasn’t allowed to join in), the whores and the non-whores finished their fun, and it was apparently time to go home. The lovely whore who had fed Shroomy wanted to carry him home herself, but the non-whore disagreed.

“Look, I’m the Prefect,” he said. “It’s my job to protect pretty ladies like you. It’s still a wild animal, and I don’t want any of you to get bitten. No, we’ll have to take it back in my cloak.”

With that, Shrromy was promptly wrapped up in the cloak and shoved onto the back of somebody’s (presumably the non-whore’s) horse.

As he was jolted along inside the cloak, Shroomy began to remember exactly what his mission was. That woman’s horrible, mean voice whispered in his mind, “Find out what forces await us there, and tell me of their preparations. And don’t be seen. If they find out about you, I will grow you a pair of testicles, just so I can rip them off.” He’d already failed the second bit, and it wasn’t even his fault! Mang!

“Calm down, Shroomy,” he said to himself. “You’re not getting your testimicles ripped off yet. They still don’t know that you are a demon. You can pretend to be a pet! Yes – be a cute little animals for them for a while. That non-whore one – he’s a Prefect. You can listen to their plans while you pretend to be their pets! They will suspect nothing!” He laughed in glee.

“Oh, is he alright?” he heard one of the whores say. “He sounds sick.” (As it would happen, the laughter of a nuers sounds an awful lot like an attempt to vomit.)

“Oh, it’s fine,” said the non-whore one. “Besides, the cloak’s ruined anyway. What does it matter if it throws up in it?”

“Oh, but what if he dies? I don’t want my Shroomy to die,” said the whore who had fed Shroomy the most. She really was a good whore. Very lovely. With breasts the size of watermelons. Both good points. Shroomy decided that when Hell finally conquered this bit of Sanctuary, he’d totally save her and put her in his harem. He didn’t have a harem yet, but he figured that he’d be allowed to have one after he got all the information he needed to get here and became the most famous nuers in the world.

“Oh, fine,” said the non-whore. “I’ll check on it. But if it runs away, I’m not chasing it, ok?”

“Oh, my Shroomy wouldn’t run away,” said the whore. “He likes me.”

“We’ll see.” The non whore unwrapped the cloak from Shroomy. The moment his legs were free, Shroomy immediately bit the non-whore’s hand and leapt towards his favourite whore.

“Bunny! Look out!” said the non-whore., but it was already too late – Shroomy had already settled himself securely in her breasts.

“It’s alright,” said Bunny. “See? He likes me!”

“But it bit my hand!” said the non-whore.

“Of course he did. You wrapped him up in your cloak, remember? He doesn't like that.” She hugged Shroomy, dragging him further into her breasts.

“Look, do you remember what I said would happen if it bit anyone?”

“Please don’t make him go away!” Bunny said. “He only bit you because he was scared. Look – he’s quite friendly now.”

“Ok,” said the non-whore. “I’ll give it one more chance.”

Shroomy decided that now would be a good time to poke his tongue out at the non-whore. After all, this was his first victory!

“What the hell?” said the non-whore. “The rat bastard just poked its tongue out at me!”

All of the whores looked at the non-whore in puzzlement.

“Why would he do that?” one of them (not Bunny, though) asked.

“Yes, why?” said the other not-Bunny whore.

“I don’t know,” said the non-whore. “Maybe it thinks it won something.”

“How would he know that?” asked the first not-Bunny whore.

“I don’t know. Maybe it was listening to our conversation.”

There was an awkward silence for a moment. Then the first not-Bunny whore spoke again.

“So, what you’re saying that Shroomy deliberately sounded as though he were sick so he could bite you and then cuddle Bunny. And then, after you agreed that he could stay with Bunny, he decided to poke his tongue out at you, because that was his plan all along. Oh, and he’s understood every other word we’ve said today and hasn’t bothered even once asking us to let him go. Is that about right?”

“That doesn’t sound like a very gallant way to think,” said Bunny.

“Erm,” said the non-whore. “Well, when you put it like that, maybe I am just overreacting. You just be careful with it. Ok, Bunny? I’d feel just awful if it bit you.”

“I’ll be careful,” said Bunny. “I promise.”

“Alright, then,” said the non-whore.

Naturally, Shroomy took this moment to poke his tongue out at the non-whore again. The non-whore looked furious, but he couldn’t do anything about it without loooking paranoid. Mang! This was hilariously fun! He spent the rest of the ride home poking his tongue out at the non-whore whenever he could, but after a while, the non-whore just stopped looking at him, so it got boring. Mang! This non-whore was no fun! Shroomy haeted him. Fortunately, there would be many opportunities to annoy the non-whore in the future. Shroomy planned on taking full advantage of them. No human had never fallen on the wrong side of a nuers before, and after Shroomy was finished with this non-whore, no human would dare do so again!

[Shroom Man 777]

Ahaha! FROD!





Oh, Lusy-chan, you're so sillies! What the hell, mang! That's so me! And I've been waiting for AGES to do that to FROD! That fun-sucker!

[Ford Prefect]

I am quite amused. Shroomy's perspective is funny to read, with his black and white distinctions between 'whores' and 'non-whores'. I look forward to him continuing his antics in future. As well as further antics of the hueg bouncy whores.

That fun-sucker!

oh ho ho

chances of our fungal friend sexing up three fictional bosomly wenches

less than zero

[Shroom Man 777]

asshole


You'll get what's coming to you! If Lusy-chan doesn't give me testicles and then rips them off first.

[Zablorg]

I like this although I haven't played Diablo so it's kind of "whaaa" for me.

I totally want to assassinate the Shroom Demang.

[Lusankya]

I like this although I haven't played Diablo so it's kind of "whaaa" for me.

I totally want to assassinate the Shroom Demang.

Excellent. I'll give you a role in there somewhere.

[Shroom Man 777]

Goddamn, it just occurred to me that LUSY-CHAN wrote me as a horrendous and pathetic creature!

[Ford Prefect]

Nestled within the cleavage of a woman with a 140cm bust.

There are upsides and downsides to all our characters.

[Lusankya]

Goddamn, it just occurred to me that LUSY-CHAN wrote me as a horrendous and pathetic creature!

I like the way it took you four and a half hours to notice that.

[Shroom Man 777]

Why did you make me so... ugly?!

[Lusankya]

Well, if you'd chosen a prettier name than "Shroom Man 777" (say, Dandelion or Daisy or Tulip), then I would have given you a prettier starting body. But you chose Shroomy, so shroomy you are.

Oh, and here's chapter three. Enjoy.

Chapter Three

Nineteen hundred years ago, the three Prime Evils had been vanquished good and proper. They’d supposedly been vanquished long before that, but as it turned out, that had been their plan all along, and it's not really being vanquished good and proper if you con your enemies into putting you exactly where you want to be. Everyone knew, though, that the last time they’d been vanquished, they’d been vanquished for good, and their loss left several gaping holes in that brilliant socio-political patchwork quilt that is Hell.

One of those holes, Flibble discovered, was penguin-shaped. This was especially convenient for him, since he himself happened to be a penguin. Over time, he’d managed to carve out a nice little kingdom for himself, with all of the benefits that entailed. The other demons no longer merely called him “Flibble”. Now they called him Mr Flibble. He wore a smart red tie to show his status. He could even engage in his occasional foibles – the speaker for his senate was an animated hand-puppet called Rimmer. Mr Flibble had enchanted it to be a complete and utter twat. The other members of the senate hated it when Rimmer dismissed their motions based on some obscure point of order, but they never had any leg to stand on, since it was, after all, in the rules. Besides, if they argued too hard, Mr Flibble would just shove them in the airlock. (That was where Mr Flibble shoved them in a room and locked all the air out. Then he set them on fire. Or electrocuted them if they were one of those dickheads who was immune to fire. Then, if they were still alive, they got two hours without oxygen.)

All of Mr Flibble’s power and benefits relied on the fact that the Prime Evils were well and truly vanquished. If there was any thought of them coming back, the Old Guard would have retained their positions and Mr Flibble would not be where he was now. That was just logic. It was common sense. Mr Flibble considered himself to be empirical evidence that the Prime Evils were not returning. That was why he didn’t believe it when the first messenger tried to tell him that the Prime Evils were back. Such an idea was so wrong and sacreligious that Mr Flibble put the messenger straight in the airlock.

He didn’t believe it when the second messenger tried to tell him either. This one was doubly wrong and sacreligious, because he came less than a week after the first one had been put into the airlock for saying the exact same thing. So Mr Flibble subjected him to ten hours of Vogon poetry, shoved him in a block of ice for a few days and then threw him into the airlock.

Then the third messenger came along telling him about the Prime Evils. This one didn’t seem particularly concerned that the previous two messengers had been put in the airlock. He just told Mr Flibble that the Prime Evils had been resurrected and that Mephisto wanted all of the current warlords of hell to meet with him in one week’s time. Then he gave Mr Flibble a letter sealed with Mephisto’s personal seal and teleported out of the room before Mr Flibble even had a chance to think about putting him in the airlock.

Mr Flibble sighed and read the letter. It basically said the same thing that the messenger had said, except it used more words to do it:

Dear Sir/Madam/Misc. Other Warlord,

I am certain that it has been brought to your attention by now that my brothers and I, the Three Prime Evils and rightful rulers of Hell have returned from Oblivion. It is our desire to march upon the mortal world, while they are still unsuspecting. We request and require your support in this endeavour, and to this end expect your presence in Chaos Sanctuary forthwith, thereupon to swear alliegance to our rightful overlords and aid us in our conqest of Sanctuary. If you are unwilling to comply with this order, you should bear in mind that we are prepared to secure our reign down here should that be necessary.

Signed

Mephisto,
Lord of Hatred, etc. etc.

Mr Flibble considered the proposal for at least three seconds before he crunched it up. The Prime Evils were dead. Everybody knew that. This was probably just some poser who had the right horns and the right lightning bolts who was trying to get a free ride off of Mephisto’s legacy. Supposedly there were a few of them back just after the Prime Evils had been defeated. You’d think they would have given up on trying by now, though. This poser might actually be serious – perhaps it was best to discuss the matter with Rimmer.

He motioned to one of his servants, and soon Rimmer was summoned to him. As usual, Rimmer was on the hand of one Aldus R. Proxy – a night lord who had once tried to lead a coup against Mr Flibble, but Mr Flibble hadn’t been at all pleased with that. He’d felt generous at the time, so instead of throwing him in the airlock, he’d just had him possessed by Rimmer. Strangely, nobody else viewed this as a sign of mercy.

As usual, Mr Flibble ignored Proxy and spoke directly to Rimmer. “Have you heard about this new Mephisto running around?”

Rimmer whispered into Proxy’s ear. “Rimmer says he has,” said Proxy.

“Well what do you think of him?” Mr Flibble asked.

Rimmer whispered into Proxy’s ear. “He certainly seems to be convincing. People are taking him seriously.”

“So what would you say if I said I was going to ignore him.”

Rimmer’s eyes glowed red. “That violates Article I, Section IV, paragraph 3 of out constitution,” Proxy said. “And you know what happens to naughty boys and girls who violate the constitution, don’t you, Rimmer.”

Rimmer nodded. “They go in the airlock,” he said.

“I… see,” said Mr Flibble. He began inching away.

Rimmer whispered into Proxy’s ear.

“What’s that, Rimmer?” Proxy asked. “You think that Mr Flibble wants to violate the constitution?”

Rimmer nodded. Then he whispered into Proxy’s ear again.

“Oh, what are you saying, Rimmer?” Proxy asked. “Surely we can’t kill our glorious Mr Flibble. Not like that. It’s far too quick.”

Rimmer whispered into Proxy’s ear.

“Oh, that sounds much more fun,” said Proxy. “Now where has that horrible Mr Flibble gone?”

As it happened, Mr Flibble hadn’t gone very far at all. He kept a pair of nunchucks nearby just for situations like this. With a deft flick of his wing, he sent one baton arching out to hit Proxy on the head.

Proxy turned around. “Ah, there he is!” His eyes (and Rimmer’s too) glowed bright red.

Mr Flibble was not worried. He counted. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 … and then Proxy ruined the grand plan by not falling down dead. “Oh, Smeg,” said Mr Flibble, as he dived behind a chair to avoid Rimmer’s energy bolts. He quickly checked his nunchucks: they were indeed the same insta-death ones that he had planted there. What the hell was wrong with them?

He didn’t have much time to wonder about that. Rimmer’s eye-beams had recharged, and had demolished the chair in short order. Apparently choosing chairs based on how conveniently you could set them on fire meant that they didn’t provide great cover when you were being blasted with hand-puppet energy bolts. Who would have guessed?

Mr Flibble quickly jumped up and did a flip midair. With his unnatural penguinny grace, he landed square on Proxy’s head and quickly pecked his eyes out. Then, not a moment too soon, he dived away. His tail feathers actually got singed by Rimmer’s bolts.

He hid behind the throne to decide on his plan. With Proxy blinded, the fight was evened somewhat. It was now him verseus Rimmer. Mono a mono. Penguin against puppet. Whoever won this battle would surely rule this hellish kingdom.

Mr Flibble checked the nunchucks again. There was still no clue as to why they had decided not to work, but now that he had time to think, Mr Flibble remembered the warning label that the nunchucks had come with. “WARNING: Product will fail to activate on 5% of its usages. This feature is not a bug, but is rather specifically crafted into this item so that your battles remain fresh and invigorating throughout your whole career.” At the time, Mr Flibble had wondered why the crafters always chose to engage in such a pointless charade when it was quite plain that they simply couldn’t craft a reliable item, and had then promptly forgotten about the whole “5% failure rate” thing. The only other two times he’d had to use the nunchucks, they had worked perfectly. Besides, on those occasions, he wasn’t at risk of being shot at with eye lasers.

Mr Flibble quickly worked out the maths. By using his penguin-jutsu, he could reliably hit Proxy three times before getting hit by Rimmer’s energy beams. With a 5% failure rate, that meant that there was a 99.9875% chance of successfully killing Proxy (and thus rendering Rimmer powerless) before he died. Given the circumstances, those were odds that he was happy to take on.

With powerful leaps, he jumped to the top of his throne and dive-bombed the unsuspecting puppet and Proxy. For some reason, Rimmer had never been particularly good at looking up. As if to make up for Rimmer’s shortcoming, Proxy looked up often but he didn’t have eyes any more. That suited Mr Flibble just fine. As he came in from above, his nunchucks moved in a lightning-swift motion. One! Two! Three! He hit the unsuspecting Proxy square in the head, and then (just to be on the safe side) began a penguin-slide into cover. He counted to five once again, and at the end of it, instead of the hideous zap of energy beams destroying his cover, he heard the satisfying clump of a dead demon. He peeked around the corner and saw Proxy slumped on the floor, with Rimmer half-fallen off his hand, and completely helpless.

Mr Flibble want back into statesman mode and waddled over to the fallen duo in a dignified manner. With one foot, he poked Rimmer’s fallen body. It was sad, really. Despite the puppet’s flaws, he actually quite liked the bugger. He was a good powerbroker in the senate, and as he lay there, all flat and puppety, he looked completely helpless.

At once, Mr Flibble decided. He would give Rimmer a new host to control, and in order to keep the peace, he would at least go and talk to this so-called “Prime Evil”. If it was a fake, he would know, and Rimmer would not try to kill him based on some random constitutional amendment, and if it was a real Prime Evil… well, it would be better to be on their side, Mr Flibble thought.

With that sorted in his mind, Mr Flibble straightened his tie and went off to look for a kipper or two to eat for breakfast.

[Shroom Man 777]

POKEY!

Little girl.

TV PUPPET PALS!

Aw, man, if I was a tulip I'd be a vegetable, that'd suck too!

[Ford Prefect]

What you're doing to Diablo is probably illegal in some countries.

[Lusankya]

Ok. After a long break (which was mostly me being on holiday and having a wild time instead of writing), I have written chapter 4. In this chapter: stuff happens. Zablorg also makes his triumphant debut. Exciting stuff.

Chapter 4

Amongst the barren wastelands of hell, and seemingly unimpressed by the legions of demons and the wailing of the damned sat a creature of beauty. While Baal may have been entranced by Lusankya’s deadly eroticism, and Ford and Shroomy were clearly quite taken with the large-breasted harem girls, this woman had a more refined charm and grace. So striking were her looks that even those who usually shrugged off the idea of physical beauty with phrases like “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” and “it’s what’s inside that counts” admitted that she was really quite fetching. As she worked, the sound of strings and flutes wove a beautiful and mysterious harmony around her, creating a tune so magical that one could almost see thenotes floating delicatey around her.

Now, the fact that she was an angel meant that initially she did get some hassle from the locals in spite of her beauty, but it was soon realised by all that she was not necessarily one of those angels. Those angels tended not to write scrolls using the blood of still-screaming infants fresh from their mother’s womb. It was always quite bemusing to the more skilled magic users amongst the demons. Why deny yourself such a valuable tool for something as ephemeral as “morality”? Once this lack of morality was noted, it (along with the fact that any demons who attacked her were turned into little piles of ash) served to eliminate one source of annoyance for the angel.

Hell, however, being, for want of a better word, hellish, meant that the elimination of one petty annoyance was accompanied by the creation of a new one. In this case, the new annoyance was the death knights.

They had started off innocently enough. Three death knights had set themselves up nearby as a set of body guards. Out of the kindness of their whatever-demons-have-instead-of-hearts, they had taken it upon themselves to warn away potential annoyances. At first, this involved whacking said annoyances on the head until they turned into piles of goo, but later it became much more civilised and involved things like warning demons away before they came too close. It was all very convenient, really, and the angel was quite happy to take advantage of it. Now, however, the honeymoon was over. It seemed that a couple of the death knights wanted to actually talk to her. And that meant that she’d have to talk to them, which would distract from her scroll-making. It would be easy enough to just turn them all into jelly, or some other delicious dessert, but she had been asked not to go around killing needlessly. They’d made themselves useful too. You don’t kill useful things without prior consideration to the matter. That would just be stupid. Besides, she was finished with her work here. She tied up her scroll, dropped the baby on the ground and turned to the two death knights who had approached her.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Oh, I was just wondering,” said the first death night. “What’s a fine lady like yourself doing in a place like this?”

Not to be outdone, the second death night chose to say something even more pathetic. “Nice legs. What time do they open?”

The angel sighed and said, “I am here with my husband. I’m flattered by your interest, but you should really discuss the matter with him frst. You may have heard of him. He’s a sorceror working with Mephisto.” To the second death night, she said, “Never for you, if that’s what you want to know.” She smiled sweetly. As she did, an invisible choir began singing an Ave Maria about her.

“Ooh, a fiesty one, eh?” said the first death knight. “Tell me, why wait until you see your little hubby when you have some perfectly good lovin’ right here?” He wiggled his hips back and forward provocatively.

The second knight, showing that he possessed a far greater wit than his skill with pick-up lines suggested turned pale. “Shut up,” he said to his partner. “How many sorcerors are working with Him?”

“Lots now that he’s working with that Roccondil fellow,” said the first. A look of comprehension dawned upon his face. “Oh, shit,” he said. “I mean, would you like us to escort you back to the Sanctuary, Milady? Whenever you’re ready, of course.”

“I’m ready now, thank you,” said the angel. “My name’s Nimthiriel, by the way. I’ll be certain to mention your behaviour to the higher-ups when I see them.”

“Oh, please don’t do that,” said the first death knight.

“Yeah,” said the second. “We don’t want to get eaten.”

“You’d really get eaten?” Nimthiriel asked.

“Maybe,” said the first death knight. “It’s hard to tell exactly what will happen when you deal with demons.”

As they walked away, the baby’s screams subsided. It was hard to tell whether it was the gusts of flame that intermittently washed over her body or the blood that still dripped from the wound in her chest that finally put her out of her misery. Some hours later, the corpse was scavenged by a mob of bickering carvers.

***

Roccondil and Nimthiriel had an entire suite to themselves within the Chaos Sanctuary. This was a privelige of their rank, and was quite convenient for them, given their family situation. Unlike with most families, where the situation involved Mum, Dad, a couple of kids and maybe a dog that liked shitting all over the carpet whenever guests arrived, Roccondil and Nimthiriel were in a rather unique position. Seven years ago, they had been blessed with the usual bundle of joy. They did the usual things – fed him, cleaned him, made funny faces at him, named him Zablorg – and it all seemed to work quite well until his third birthday, when he suddenly and inexplicably turned into a giant, gilled snake-thing with enormous horns on his head and poisonous spiked ridges along his back. That was weird.

When faced with a situation like that, every couple behaves differently – some try to kill the new mutant, some try to act as though it’s all normal and others don’t react in time to put their newly-gilled offspring in water before it dies. Roccondil and Nimthiriel decided instead to focus their energies on finding a cure for this strange and debilitating condition. For a year they tried everything they knew from their vast repertoire of knowledge, each time without luck. Eventually Roccondil found himself going cap in hand to Lusankya – an absolutely dispicable woman who he knew from his youth, who just happened to be an expert in all kinds of dark magic which could possibly help. It was then that the first real progress was made in treating Zablorg’s condition. By his fifth birthday, he’d turned into a strange monkey-lizard with bug wings and a bite that infected you with rabies if you weren’t careful (he tried to bite people often). This was considered an improvement by all, as he was now able to leave his aquarium and start interacting with his family in a more normal environment. At this point, Nimthiriel immediately set about teaching him to read.

Over the years, Lusankya became more and more involved in their quest to turn their son back into a normal child. Despite the setbacks, her suggestions always seemed to be the only ones which worked, and Nimthiriel found herself following her instructions on a regular basis. Certainly she could see how some – such as this scheme with the Prime Evils – worked to benefit Lusankya more than others, but the processes that Lusankya proposed were always sound magically, and it was often hard for her to refuse without sounding as though she didn’t really care about her son. Which she did.

Upon reaching her suite, Nimthiriel bid farewell to the death knights who had accompanied her, and entered the rooms. She gave a quick kiss to a large toad which was sprouting dandelions (Zablorg’s treatment had taken a turn for the worse recently) and then rushed through to her husband’s study.

“I’ve finished the scroll,” she said.

“Excellent,” siad Roccondil. “Did you remember to follow all of Lusankya’s instructions?”

“Yes, I did,” said Nimthiriel. “But I don’t like it.”

“Is this about the baby?” Roccondil asked. “Because if it is, you know how we chose it–”

“No, it’s not about that. It’s that woman. She’s evil.”

“Evil.” Roccondil held his wife’s hands. “You know that, and I know that. But she’s the best help we have right now, and we promised ourselves that we’d do anything to help little Zablorg out of his predicament.”

“I know,” said Nimthiriel. “But I still don’t like her. She’s up to something. I can feel it.”

“Well, whatever it is, it won’t affect us,” said Roccondil. Once she has her kingdom back, and we’ve cured Zablorg, we can some quiet little place to retire to and then I can get back to my translations, and you can teach him things like science and art, just like you always wanted to. It will be fine. I’m sure of it. Whatever Lusankya’s plans are, they won’t be able to interfere with that.”

“I guess,” said Nimthiriel. “Are you ready to cast the spell then?”

“Yeah,” said Roccondil. He undid his shirt. Set into his chest, Mephisto’s soulstone glowed brightly. Here in Hell, it could feed on the evil magic that surrounded it, and Roccondil had already mastered his ability to control it.

Together they went into the lounge to see Zablorg. “Honey,” Nimthiriel said, “Can you stop playing and help us for a moment, please?”

Zablorg and looked up at his parents with trusting eyes. He knew what was about to happen. Whenever his mother had that tone of voice, she always meant to turn him into something new. It was quite exciting, really. “Glurp!” he said cheerfully.

“Excellent!” Nimthiriel said. “Come over here, then, and sit tight while Mum and Dad cast the spell, okay?

“Glurp!” said Zablorg. He sat still and closed his eyes.

Nimthiriel and Roccondil began casting the spell together. Dark magic had a greater power here, and Nimthiriel could feel it corrupting her even as she chanted. The red lettering slid from her scroll and pooled around Zablorg’s feet, while the yellow glow of the soulstone in Roccondil’s chest grew ever brighter. As the spell reached its climax, lightning crackled, and Zablorg’s new form was revealed.

He was certainly a lot more humanoid (and less toad-like) than before, which would be marked down as an improvement, however he was also a lot taller and more mature-looking than your average seven year old, which could be placed in the neutral column. After all, what’s a few years here and there when you’re trying to stop your offspring from being a giant monster? He had a few extra legs, too, although that wasn’t really the number one priority on his parents list of issues.

“Erm, Nim,” Roccondil said after an awkward pause. “You didn’t happen to sleep with any of the Prime Evils just before Zablorg was born, did you?”

“No, Dearie,” Nimthiriel replied. “They were all dead, remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Roccondil. “So why does he look exactly like Mephisto then?”

“Probably because of your soulstone, dear,” said Nimthiriel. “I bet it will make us have more of these problems in the future, and I bet that woman knew this would happen as well. I told you she was evil.”

[Ford Prefect]

Man, Zablorg and Shroomy have such a raw deal in this story, Lus.

[Lusankya]

Man, Zablorg and Shroomy have such a raw deal in this story, Lus.

Dude, Zablorg's currently a Mephisto clone. Sure, he's only seven, but Mephisto clone.

[Ford Prefect]

That's not necessarily a positive.

[Lusankya]

I'll have you know that being a Mephisto clone is a huge health benefit. I, and the rest of the Liberal Party agree on this.

[Shroom Man 777]

With the mind of a seven year-old child! How sweet!

Just like Master Blaster from Mad Max 3! ENTER THE THUNDAH DOME!

[Lusankya]

Well, here's the next chapter. I think the ending's kinda crap, but whatever.

Chapter Five

Ford hated Shroomy already. More accurately, since Ford had loathed the creature from the very beginning, he already hated him even more. The horrid little creature seemed to be everywhere he turned. It was now almost impossible for him to look at his harem without seeing that disgusting face poking out from their bosoms. In fact, the only time Ford had seen Shroomy when it wasn’t hiding in his mistresses breasts was the time when it had tried eavesdroping on a Highly Sensitive Secret Meeting On Secret Stuff. Ford had taken great pleasure in literally kicking Shroomy out the window (it travelled 60 yards, which was pretty good, Ford thought). He then found himself reciting a whole series of precedents to the shocked members of the meeting in order to justify his actions. For some reason, they still thought he was being unreasonable kicking a small creature out of a fourth-storey window, even though they still didn’t know what kind of animal it was and it could be a demon for all they knew.

After the meeting, one of Ford’s senior Lieutenants remained behind. “Look, I’m going to talk to you for a moment,” he said, “and you’d better listen or I’ll fuck your mother so hard tonight that they’ll hear her screams in Tristram. Hell, I might do that anyway. It sounds like fun.”

“Erm, okay, Mr Coffee,” Ford said. “What is it you want?”

Ford tried very hard to be polite to Coffee. After all, he was a veteran of lots of wars and stuff. It’s just that Mr Coffee was, well, an arsehole. And he may or may not have been sleeping with Ford’s mum. It was very hard to tell. He’d tried talking to his father about it once, but his father had just made some vague mumbling noises and they never really returned to that topic again.

It really didn’t help either that Coffee was a particularly handsome man who had managed to age well in the fifty years he’d been alive. His long blond hair fell down his back in artful locks, and the scar that crossed his left eye somehow managed to not only not blind him, but also improve his looks to the point that all of the girls in the town drooled over his rugged charms. Ford had commented once that it was as though he’d been drawn into life by some crazed fangirl with no idea about how scars really worked. Bunny had agreed, saying, “Isn’t it wonderful, though?” Ford had then replied with some vague mumbling noises, and they had never really returned to that topic again. It was probably for the best.

“It’s about that Shroomy character,” Coffee said. “We need to do something about it.”

“I know,” Ford said gloomily. “It’s just…”

“You don’t know the half of it,” said Coffee. “Why, just the other day, I was going to meet me with this gorgeous redhead, and then do you know what happened? I found the little fucker watching her undress! Ogling her too, he was. Despicable, I say. That’s my job!”

“And you sure you weren’t imagining it?” Ford put on his best Prefect face.

“Damn right, I’m sure,” said Coffee. “When you’ve ogled as many women in your life as I have, then you’ll be able to tell when someone else is ogling your piece of arse.” He looked very proud of himself.

“And what should we do?” Ford asked.

“Easy,” said Coffee. “Kill it dead.”

“I can’t do that,” said Ford. “There are obstacles.”

“What obstacles?” Coffee asked. “We just put it in a bag and then clobber it with hard things until it stops moving. Easy as your mother’s sweet warm pie.” For reasons that he chose not to fully contemplate, Ford decided that he hated that last metaphor.

“You know,” Ford said, miming the appearance of voluminous bouncy things in front of his chest. “Obstacles.”

“Ah, I hear you,” said Coffee. “Do you think we could accidentally drop an axe on it?”

“No,” said Ford. “I already thought about that.” Once more, he mimed the appearance of bouncy things in front of his chest, except this time, instead of remaining happy and perky, they suddenly fell to the floor in an expertly mimed bloody mess.

“Good point,” said Coffee. He and Ford sat deep in thought for some time.

Eventually, Coffee spoke. “I have an idea,” he said. “If we had proof that Shromy creature was a demon, then we would be forced to kill it, yeah?”

“I guess,” said Ford. “But I’ve looked through the archives already. It’s not in any of our records.”

“But I know someone whose records they might be in, though,” said Coffee.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Marina,” Coffee said. “I was a mercenary for her army in Zeon’s civil war seven years ago. If anyone can identify Shroomy as a demon, then she can.”

“The Duchess of Zeon?” Ford asked. “That traitor?”

“Hardly,” said Coffee. “The previous Duchess was batshit crazy. Crazy demon fetishes, full-on dark magic rituals, baby sacrificing, that goat business, the works. It’s not treachery if they’re that evil.”

“You’re not serious, are you?” Ford asked. “That’s what everyone says about their enemies. Remember when we had that soccer game against those guys from North Uptershire, and they’d all convinced themselves that you’d slept with their mothers?”

“Yeah, about that…” said Coffee. “Sometimes these rumours are true.”

“What?” said Ford. “You really did sleep with all their mothers?”

“No, of course not” Coffee said. “Remember that Rudo fellow? The fat one? Well his mother was so fat, she made him look anorexic. Seriously, there was no way I was going there. Seriously, that last Duchess was crazy-nutso. I could describe the stuff she did in all the detail like you wouldn’t believe, and then if you saw, you’d say, ‘Man, Coffee, this is worse than you described!’ Seriously, there was some fucked up shit going on there.”

“That’s pretty crazy,” Ford said. “Are you sure she’ll have the records?”

“If they exist at all,” Coffee said. “She made a pretty good go of it herself during the fighting, and she managed to capture some of the old Duchess’s notes as well.”

“It’s worth a try, I guess,” said Ford. “I’ll write a letter to her tonight.”

“You do that,” said Coffee. “ Anyway, I’m off to see your mother. Told her I’d teach her how to tango tonight. You’re doing a good job, kiddo. I’ll tell her you said hi.” Coffee stood up and gave Ford a nice fatherly pat on the shoulder before leaving the room.

Ford remained still for a moment, trying to put the thought of Coffee tangoing with his mother out of his mind (what exactly was that supposed to mean anyway?). “Right,” he said to himself. “I’ve got to write this letter.” He headed off to his study.

When he arrived at his study, Bunny was there waiting for him.

“Fordy-wordy,” she said menacingly.

“What is it, Bunny?” Ford asked. “Can we talk about it later? I have an important letter to write right now.”

“No, it can’t wait!” said Bunny. “You kicked Shroomy out of the window!”

“Oh, yeah,” said Ford. “That was an accident.”

“An accident?” Bunny looked furious. “You kicked him really far! He’s lucky to be alive!”

“It’s still alive? That’s good to hear.” Ford failed at faking sincerity.

“You don’t care at all!” Bunny screamed. “You hate Shroomy and I hate you too!” Tears began welling up in her eyes.

“Look, wait Bunny…” Ford began. He reached out to give her a hug. Usually that made her feel better.

“Leave me alone!” Bunny slapped Ford hard across the face and ran out the room. Ford almost ran after her, but stopped himself short. The problem here wasn’t himself, nor was it Bunny. The problem was Shroomy. What he needed to do was prove to Bunny that the fungussy monster was a menace, and then she would be only too happy to forgive him, and would be pleased that her brave and galland Prefect was looking out for her. That was the plan, anyway.

Ford settled down to write the letter, including in it a detailed diagram of the hideous harem-thief.



The moment the ink dried, he sealed the letter inside an envelope and gave it to his most trusted messenger. “Take this to the Duchess of Zeon, forthwith!” he said in his grandest Prefect voice. The messenger saluted and immediately set off.

That left Ford free to find a way to apologise to Bunny, which meant he had to find her first. He decided to start with the girls’ room. His harem were often in there together, chatting, brushing each others hair, oiling each others bodies, softly stroking the inside of their thighs, and so on. It was a good place to start.

He knocked on the door.

“Come in,” a voice said.

Rachael and Lila were alone in the room, looking rather less sexy than usual. Usually he caught them in the middle of some naughty act, but this time they were just in the room. Sitting. They looked angry too.

“Erm,” Ford said, “I was looking for Bunny.”

“She’s gone out,” said Rachael.

“I can’t believe you kicked Shroomy out the window,” Lilah said. “You know how much Bunny cares about him.”

“Yeah, well, I’m really sorry about that,” Ford said. “I’d like to apologise to her.” As much as he wanted to be honest with the girls about his true plans for Shroomy, he did not feel that now was the time to discuss it with them. “Can you tell me where she’s gone?”

“Out,” said Rachael. “I think she took Shroomy for a ride somewhere. Probably so she could stop you from being so mean to him again.”

“Alone?” Ford asked.

“No. She took a Redshirt with her.”

“That’s good to hear then,” Ford said. “I’d worry if she were by herself.” The Redshirts were Naderith’s elite guards. Nobody was exactly sure where they came from, not even the Prefect himself, but they were always available in sufficient quantities for whatever trouble arose, and the historical records showed them to be a fixture on the front line of every battle, always willing to die for the greater good. Best of all, however, was that they were castrated or lobotomised or something. Cases of Redshirts with personalities were rarer than hens’ teeth, and when they did crop up, they were usually accompanied by strange things such as Scottish accents and a propensity for fiddling with mechanical equipment. Ford could knew of no such Redshirt existing at the present time, so he felt safe in assuming that not only would Bunny be well protected from bears and stuff, but she would also be completely safe from any unwanted (by Ford) advances of a sexual nature.

“Is that all you wanted?” asked Lilah.

“Yeah,” said Ford. “I guess.”

“Good, then,” said Lilah. “We’re busy.”

Ford left the room and closed the door quietly behind him. For once, he was beginning to regret the close bond between his mistresses. Upsetting Bunny had upset them all. Of that he was sure. He made a mental note to himself to ensure that all non-essential nail polish was removed from the castle. He did not want to end up like the last Prefect. He shuddered as he recalled the grizly sight of that charred body being extracted from the barrel, all coated in bright pinks and oranges. A worse fate could not be imagined.

Ford began thinking. He now had worse things to worry about than the loss of one of his mistresses. If he didn’t regain Bunny’s affections soon, then soon he would be facing three angry women armed with nail polish and torches. Unfortunately, however, there was nothing he could really do right now except wait. So, being a practical sort of Prefect, he waited.

Five hours later, the sun had set, and Bunny still hadn’t returned. Ford returned to his mistresses room.

“Sorry to disturb you,” he said to his still-angry mistresses, “but did Bunny happen to say that she was going camping?”

“I don’t think so,” said Rachel. “Why?”

“No reason yet,” Ford lied. “Don’t you girls worry.” He left quickly, before the girls had time to call him on his dishonesty. That, he admitted, wasn’t very gallant, however there was no time for gallantry right now.

Ford called his lieutenants to the courtyard. “We have a young girl and a Redshirt missing,” he said. “I want you to organise into search parties and look for them. We have a full moon tonight, so I don’t want anyone to stop searching until the girl is found. This is of utmost importance.”

The search parties split up. Ford ended up in a party with Mr Coffee and some Redshirt called John. Or Barry. Or Fred. Something like that. Ford didn’t find him particularly memorable. Redshirts rarely were.

“Where are we looking first?” asked Coffee.

“Near the spire,” Ford said. “That’s where we found Shroomy. Maybe Bunny was trying to take it home or something.”

“Good thought,” said Coffee. “Say, can I have your job if the other girls kill you?”

“What?” Ford said in surprise.

“Well, you pissed them off something good,” said Coffee. “And everyone knows that disgruntled mistresses are the number one cause of death for Prefects in this town.”

“Yeah, well my girls aren’t going to kill me,” Ford said. “I just have to work through some difficulties, is all.”

“Whatever you say,” said Mr Coffee. “But if you do get killed by them, can I have your job?”

“Sure,” said Ford. “Whatever. Say, we’re just about there. How about you climb the spire and I’ll search over there.” He pointed in the vague direction of a hill. “Jim or Ted, or whatever his name is can look near the lake.”

It was at this point that the Redshirt, who had remained characteristically silent for the duration of the journey, emitted his first sound. It was a kind of painful gurgle which lasted for about half a second. Ford and Coffee turned around to see the Redshirt slumped forward over his horse with a bright quill poking out through his throat.

“Holy shit!” said Coffee. “That’s from a quill rat!”

“A what?”

“Demon!” said Coffee, drawing his sword. Ford wasted no time following suit. The two men charged the rat on their horses, but found it too small to attack from such a height. Ford recovered the quickest and leapt onto the ground ready to attack the demon.

The rat launched a volley of quills at Ford, and Ford flinched as they grazed his shoulder. He returned the favour quicky, however, dealing a gash in the monster’s side. The quill rat hissed and prepared to launch again, but was stopped short as Coffee came up to give support, plunging his sword deep into the monster’s brain.

“Are you alright, sir?” Coffee asked.

“I’m fine,” Ford said. “Geoff looks like he’s dead though.”

“I think his name’s Robert,” said Coffee.

“Whatever,” Ford said. “Jerry there–”

“Robert.”

“Robert, then – whatever his name is – can be replaced. Bunny can’t. What if she’s been eaten by a demon?”

“Demons don’t eat people,” Coffee assured Ford.

“They don’t?”

“No, not unless they’re really hungry,” said Coffee. “Usually they just rip you up and stuff.”

“That’s not any better!” Ford said. “How do these demons get here anyway?”

Mr Coffee paused for a moment, “I’m not so sure,” he said. “Last time, they usually just came from the army camps, but I guess they got into the army camps through portals or something.”

“That’s it!” said Ford. “The portal must be here somewhere.” A worried look crossed his face. “You don’t think they would have taken Bunny through it, do you?”

“Not unless she’s a virgin,” Coffee said.

“Good. That’s a relief then,” Ford said. “Well, maybe she’s hiding from the demons then. You look up the spire and I’ll look closer to where we found the monster.”

“Decent plan,” said Coffee, who soon began climbing the spire with ten times more dexterity than Ford could ever muster.

Ford took his horse towards the hill where the girls had found Shroomy. As he reached the crest, he could see an unnatural blue light shining through the trees. He spurred towards it and found himself facing what must be a portal. For a brief moment, Ford thought he saw silhouetted in the portal the shadow of a woman, at once beautiful and cruel. Even as he looked, though, both shadow and portal faded away, leaving a soft residual glow. Beneath the glow of the portal, two bodies lay still – one nondescript and forgettable, and one that Ford recognised instantly.

“Bunny!” he called out. He ran towards her, forgetting for a moment the risk of demons and other monsters.

Bunny didn’t move. Ford trembled as he knelt down to touch her body. She was still warm. He felt for a pulse.

“Thank god,” he said. “You’re alive!” He clasped her unconscious body to his chest and cried in relief.