The Rather Confounding Ways of the Netherworld
Sometimes, just watching was enough. A boy racing his dog to the tennis ball. Several teenagers painting their shoes with nail polish. An elderly couple rowing on a clear lake. One image after another, shimmering like mirages across the large slabs of iridescent stone.
This was where the Guiding Forces of the Netherworld finally located the demon called Wyckyd- sitting in the white sand in front of the all-seeing rocks marking the entrance to the Netherworld, this being his usual spot whenever he grew bored of the afterlife. Before he could even acknowledge their presence with a sedate nod of his head, the officer activated Wyckyd’s restriction bracelets and watched with an apathy instilled in all members of the GF as the young demon’s eyes widened before he fell soundlessly onto the sand. Though he did not show his irritation, those eyes had always bothered the officer. The strange shade of violet amongst millions of pitch black orbs interrupted the uniformity of the Netherworld that the Forces worked so hard to maintain.
Though not a word escaped his lips, Wyckyd quickly became extremely confused and panicked, his mind too scrambled to even think of a reason for his arrest. The sensory shock from the restriction bracelets had been of a higher level than he had ever experienced. Many of the more hardened demons might have been able to ignore the sudden muscle relaxation, having grown used to it after several millennia, but Wyckyd had done next to nothing deserving such a shock since he began his existence in the Netherworld. So he could only distractedly observe the Guiding Forces officers activate a rather small, distortedly clear box around him that nullified any weight he once possessed and proceed to toss him rather roughly into the back of the transport pod they arrived in.
Time was not measured in the Netherworld; Wyckyd may have been in his box for hours, days even, or just half a second before the Forces officers brought him back out of the pod and into a pristine white room, seemingly endless on all sides. The only distinct feature in the space was a large marble door, standing imposingly only yards from the young demon. Once the confinement box dissipated, Wyckyd attempted to stand up again, nearly snarling at the officer that offered his assistance when he grew unsteady on his feet. His insides twisted themselves into knots as he slowly made his way to the grand entryway to what could surely be nothing good.
“Wyckyd!” someone inside the room said before the door was even halfway open. “Care to join us?” Wyckyd looked about in bewilderment at what could only be the Grand Council room. He’d heard rumors of this place: demons going in for a hearing and never reemerging, an angel of death acting as judge, a portal to the depths of hell beneath the accused’s seat. The one greeting him, an ancient, wizened demon, sat upon a high throne, while those around him descended until the demons seated on the thrones at the ends could brush the ground with their foot. Wyckyd cautiously approached a lone chair in the center of the pure white room, seating himself only after the old demon nodded his assent. “I suppose,” the demon said almost kindly, “that you know why you are here?”
Wyckyd widened his eyes and shook his head fervently. The old demon chuckled as if he was in the process chastising a child who had stolen a cookie before dinner. The demons sitting around him, however, all looked quite grim. They looked down their noses at Wyckyd with narrowed eyes and tight lips. He sensed belligerence, animosity, and… envy?
The shuffling of papers snapped his attention back to the demon he surmised to be a judge of sorts. “Then it looks like we have our work cut out for us today. Let us begin with the charges against the demon before us, who we shall refer to as Wyckyd for the time being…”
Wyckyd left the room feeling incredibly numb. The never-ending white space around did nothing but disorient him further, and if he’d been human he might have gotten a rather intense headache. The whole meeting, or hearing, or whatever the heck that had been, mystified him. All accusations were unbelievably vague and any questions pointed at him were so formless that he could not think of a single possible answer, to which the Council tittered and shook their heads condescendingly. The only common factor in the debate seemed to be the recurring implication that he was an impostor of some sort in the Netherworld, that his presence should not be there. Near the end of the meeting, Wyckyd began to pick up on a more dire tone amongst the Council members than before, and his innards froze up and stopped working when one of them suggested a death sentence.
The whole situation was preposterous! Nobody in there made any kind of sense at all. Wyckyd rarely broke the laws of the Netherworld, and even when he did, there were no infractions warranting a death penalty. Surely there had been a mistake somewhere along the line. But, when he thought of the incessant vindictive questioning, Wyckyd realized that it seemed as if the Grand Council wanted him to be guilty of something, instead of merely holding a trial for a demon that may have been falsely accused.
Was there some sort of conspiracy he had unwittingly become a part of? The thought worried him extremely. The Grand Council possessed a large influence over the Netherworld, akin to a small but powerful government system. If they wished to have Wyckyd put to death, there would be nobody to stop them. No, ‘put to death’ wouldn’t be right. Wyckyd lived on the uppermost level of the Netherworld, the least evil, torturous, dismal, hopeless level. If the Grand Council decided on a death sentence, he would be lowered several levels into what could only be referred to as Hell. Hell was inescapable; the only way to rise again was to become as good as possible, but the evils of Hell required heartlessness in order to avoid a life of eternal pain. All in all, a horrific paradox.
Finding the subject of his impending second death rather depressing, Wyckyd decided instead to lie on his back in the middle of the almost-anesthetic white antechamber and think about life. Not his own life, of course. He had long since forgotten all details of his former life. Rather, he thought of hot and cold and the feel of skin and of laughter and the taste of tears and the smell of a crisp autumn morning and of dreams. Humans themselves, however, he could live without. After watching the entrance rocks for so long, he had concluded that no human appreciates life until they’re dead, preferring to waste precious hours on stupid self-centered trivialities. Honestly, he was sick of it. Still, he continued to watch the rocks, hoping against hope that he might be able to see just one of them get it right someday. However, there were no entryway rocks in Hell.
Wyckyd stood quickly when he heard the groaning of the gargantuan door opening. Only the head of the Council emerged. With no preamble, the head simply stated, “For crimes against the Netherworld,” (What crimes? Wyckyd wanted to shout) “you have been issued a Level Four death sentence.” Wyckyd could only nod as he was besieged by emotions he hadn’t thought he was even capable of experiencing any more. “However,” he continued, looking quite pleased with himself, “there is a way you can evade it: instead of going down to Level Four, you may go to earth. You would have one month to find a human willing to die in your place. Which do you choose?”
Wyckyd contemplated his options thoroughly. He could either be exiled to a place of nightmares forever, or potentially shorten a human’s life. Supposing they were a good human, they would just go straight Up. But ending a good human’s life seemed rather cruel… Wyckyd then remembered the simple fact that no human was good, and his choice was made. The old demon chuckled as he watched a fire light in the younger’s eyes.
“I think,” Wyckyd said evenly, with only the barest hint of determination tinging his tone, “that we should go over the details of this mission a little more thoroughly.”
This was where the Guiding Forces of the Netherworld finally located the demon called Wyckyd- sitting in the white sand in front of the all-seeing rocks marking the entrance to the Netherworld, this being his usual spot whenever he grew bored of the afterlife. Before he could even acknowledge their presence with a sedate nod of his head, the officer activated Wyckyd’s restriction bracelets and watched with an apathy instilled in all members of the GF as the young demon’s eyes widened before he fell soundlessly onto the sand. Though he did not show his irritation, those eyes had always bothered the officer. The strange shade of violet amongst millions of pitch black orbs interrupted the uniformity of the Netherworld that the Forces worked so hard to maintain.
Though not a word escaped his lips, Wyckyd quickly became extremely confused and panicked, his mind too scrambled to even think of a reason for his arrest. The sensory shock from the restriction bracelets had been of a higher level than he had ever experienced. Many of the more hardened demons might have been able to ignore the sudden muscle relaxation, having grown used to it after several millennia, but Wyckyd had done next to nothing deserving such a shock since he began his existence in the Netherworld. So he could only distractedly observe the Guiding Forces officers activate a rather small, distortedly clear box around him that nullified any weight he once possessed and proceed to toss him rather roughly into the back of the transport pod they arrived in.
Time was not measured in the Netherworld; Wyckyd may have been in his box for hours, days even, or just half a second before the Forces officers brought him back out of the pod and into a pristine white room, seemingly endless on all sides. The only distinct feature in the space was a large marble door, standing imposingly only yards from the young demon. Once the confinement box dissipated, Wyckyd attempted to stand up again, nearly snarling at the officer that offered his assistance when he grew unsteady on his feet. His insides twisted themselves into knots as he slowly made his way to the grand entryway to what could surely be nothing good.
“Wyckyd!” someone inside the room said before the door was even halfway open. “Care to join us?” Wyckyd looked about in bewilderment at what could only be the Grand Council room. He’d heard rumors of this place: demons going in for a hearing and never reemerging, an angel of death acting as judge, a portal to the depths of hell beneath the accused’s seat. The one greeting him, an ancient, wizened demon, sat upon a high throne, while those around him descended until the demons seated on the thrones at the ends could brush the ground with their foot. Wyckyd cautiously approached a lone chair in the center of the pure white room, seating himself only after the old demon nodded his assent. “I suppose,” the demon said almost kindly, “that you know why you are here?”
Wyckyd widened his eyes and shook his head fervently. The old demon chuckled as if he was in the process chastising a child who had stolen a cookie before dinner. The demons sitting around him, however, all looked quite grim. They looked down their noses at Wyckyd with narrowed eyes and tight lips. He sensed belligerence, animosity, and… envy?
The shuffling of papers snapped his attention back to the demon he surmised to be a judge of sorts. “Then it looks like we have our work cut out for us today. Let us begin with the charges against the demon before us, who we shall refer to as Wyckyd for the time being…”
Wyckyd left the room feeling incredibly numb. The never-ending white space around did nothing but disorient him further, and if he’d been human he might have gotten a rather intense headache. The whole meeting, or hearing, or whatever the heck that had been, mystified him. All accusations were unbelievably vague and any questions pointed at him were so formless that he could not think of a single possible answer, to which the Council tittered and shook their heads condescendingly. The only common factor in the debate seemed to be the recurring implication that he was an impostor of some sort in the Netherworld, that his presence should not be there. Near the end of the meeting, Wyckyd began to pick up on a more dire tone amongst the Council members than before, and his innards froze up and stopped working when one of them suggested a death sentence.
The whole situation was preposterous! Nobody in there made any kind of sense at all. Wyckyd rarely broke the laws of the Netherworld, and even when he did, there were no infractions warranting a death penalty. Surely there had been a mistake somewhere along the line. But, when he thought of the incessant vindictive questioning, Wyckyd realized that it seemed as if the Grand Council wanted him to be guilty of something, instead of merely holding a trial for a demon that may have been falsely accused.
Was there some sort of conspiracy he had unwittingly become a part of? The thought worried him extremely. The Grand Council possessed a large influence over the Netherworld, akin to a small but powerful government system. If they wished to have Wyckyd put to death, there would be nobody to stop them. No, ‘put to death’ wouldn’t be right. Wyckyd lived on the uppermost level of the Netherworld, the least evil, torturous, dismal, hopeless level. If the Grand Council decided on a death sentence, he would be lowered several levels into what could only be referred to as Hell. Hell was inescapable; the only way to rise again was to become as good as possible, but the evils of Hell required heartlessness in order to avoid a life of eternal pain. All in all, a horrific paradox.
Finding the subject of his impending second death rather depressing, Wyckyd decided instead to lie on his back in the middle of the almost-anesthetic white antechamber and think about life. Not his own life, of course. He had long since forgotten all details of his former life. Rather, he thought of hot and cold and the feel of skin and of laughter and the taste of tears and the smell of a crisp autumn morning and of dreams. Humans themselves, however, he could live without. After watching the entrance rocks for so long, he had concluded that no human appreciates life until they’re dead, preferring to waste precious hours on stupid self-centered trivialities. Honestly, he was sick of it. Still, he continued to watch the rocks, hoping against hope that he might be able to see just one of them get it right someday. However, there were no entryway rocks in Hell.
Wyckyd stood quickly when he heard the groaning of the gargantuan door opening. Only the head of the Council emerged. With no preamble, the head simply stated, “For crimes against the Netherworld,” (What crimes? Wyckyd wanted to shout) “you have been issued a Level Four death sentence.” Wyckyd could only nod as he was besieged by emotions he hadn’t thought he was even capable of experiencing any more. “However,” he continued, looking quite pleased with himself, “there is a way you can evade it: instead of going down to Level Four, you may go to earth. You would have one month to find a human willing to die in your place. Which do you choose?”
Wyckyd contemplated his options thoroughly. He could either be exiled to a place of nightmares forever, or potentially shorten a human’s life. Supposing they were a good human, they would just go straight Up. But ending a good human’s life seemed rather cruel… Wyckyd then remembered the simple fact that no human was good, and his choice was made. The old demon chuckled as he watched a fire light in the younger’s eyes.
“I think,” Wyckyd said evenly, with only the barest hint of determination tinging his tone, “that we should go over the details of this mission a little more thoroughly.”