1) Diary Entry

Date: November 12, 2024

Today was... insane. I don’t even know where to start. For a few months, I’d noticed something different about LeShawn (my little Dinglenutt) and me. I mean, beyond the whole “I’m half a weird alien hybrid” thing. We both knew about our powers, but I guess I never imagined that his powers would come from the rival side. I didn’t even know there were sides.

It started when we were supposed to meet up after school. LeShawn was already agitated, saying he’d overheard something his dad mentioned about my mom’s people—my people. How they were pushing into territories they didn’t belong in or something. I tried to explain that I had nothing to do with that, but his eyes started glowing this electric blue I’d never seen before.

Before I could say anything, it was like his energy just burst, pushing me back, and before I knew it, my own power flared up in response. That feeling… like my whole body was buzzing with static, and it was stronger than ever, like it was reacting to him. We must have exchanged ten or fifteen bolts before I realized how out of control it was getting.

I can’t say who threw the first real punch. Maybe it was me, maybe it was him, but after a minute, we were a whirlwind of energy. Everything around us went haywire. Lights flickered, car alarms blared—half the street probably thinks we’re just two teenagers who went a little too hard on the special effects.

But the worst part wasn’t the fight. It was when he looked at me at the end, with this mixture of anger and... hurt. Like he didn’t know if he could ever trust me again, like being on opposite sides of this alien war made everything between us pointless. And for a split second, I felt it too. Like maybe we couldn’t be anything more than rivals because of what we are.

But then he walked away, and I’m just sitting here wondering if either of us can truly separate who we are from where we come from. I thought being with someone who understood all this alien craziness would be easy. Now, I'm not so sure.

I wish I knew what to do. Or if I’ll ever even see him again.

...

2) Diary Entry

Date: November 14, 2024

I don’t think I’ll ever forget today, no matter how much I want to. I mean, it was bad enough that my fight with LeShawn left downtown looking like a tornado hit it. But apparently, “alien energy war zone” attracts a whole different kind of attention. Like the kind with mages. Blood mages, to be exact.

I was trying to sneak back into the city, hoping to fix at least some of the damage before anyone noticed. Maybe I could make it right somehow. But just as I’m clearing away debris, this guy appears out of nowhere, tall and draped in these dark red robes that practically scream “stay away.” And he felt dangerous, like the air around him was… crackling.

He didn’t give his name, just told me that blood mages don’t like it when “half-breeds” level their territory. I barely had time to process what he meant before he threw the first spell—something that turned the ground under my feet into jagged spikes of stone.

I dodged (barely), but he was relentless, casting spell after spell. I fought back with everything I had. And yeah, my powers have grown since the fight with LeShawn, but this blood mage was something else entirely. It was like he’d studied us, knew exactly how to counter every move I made. At one point, he got in close and whispered, “This is just a warning. Tell your boyfriend that you’re both on thin ice.”

By the end, I was exhausted, barely able to stand. He finally backed off, leaving with this ominous threat about staying out of mage territory or “paying the price.”

I don’t even know what to think anymore. My powers, my alien heritage, my ongoing war with LeShawn—all of it is causing problems I never anticipated.

...

3) Diary Entry

Date: …? I don’t even know.

So, this is Hell. Or something close to it. Everything feels… off. There’s no real up or down, just this endless stretch of darkness with flashes of fire and shadows that move like they’re alive. It’s like I’m floating, but I still feel heavy, like the weight of my own defeat is anchoring me here.

I thought I could take him. That blood mage. After what he did, I couldn’t just let it go. I spent hours tracking him, tapping into everything I’d learned, every bit of power I had. I went after him like I was on a mission—maybe I was. But I was wrong, so wrong. He was ready, and he wasn’t holding back.

I fought until I couldn’t anymore, until every muscle felt shredded, every bit of my energy drained. And then I felt it—my own heartbeat slowing, fading out like an echo. I’d never felt that kind of darkness before. But now, surrounded by it, I realize that feeling was just the beginning.

And now I’m here, in this nowhere, trying to figure out if this is where I’ll be forever. There’s a faint light way off in the distance sometimes, like a sliver of a door left open. I don’t know if it’s real or just some trick of this place, but I keep reaching for it. Every time I do, I feel something in me shift, like a spark of what I once was.

If there’s a way out of here, a way back to the real world, I’ll find it. I don’t care how long it takes or what I have to do. I don’t belong here. I can still feel my powers, faint as they are. And I know if I push hard enough, I can make them strong again. There has to be a way to turn that spark into a fire big enough to light my way out.

...

4) Diary Entry

Date: … I don’t even know what time is anymore, or if it exists here.

Today… I met him. The Devil. Or something close enough that it doesn’t matter what he calls himself. One minute I was wandering through this weird, fiery wasteland, and then he was just there, watching me with this amused little smirk, like he’d been waiting for me.

He looked… strange. Not red or horned like all the stories, but tall, sharp-featured, and dressed in this sleek, dark leather. He almost looked normal. And, of course, he knew who I was. “You’re lost,” he said, in this voice that was all smoke and honey. “But you don’t have to be.”

He made his offer pretty quickly. Said he’d seen people like me before, half-aliens with powers who thought they could take on anyone. He told me he could get me back to the real world, bring me back to life. But, naturally, he wanted something in return.

That’s when he mentioned his motorcycle. I almost laughed. But he was serious. Apparently, some demon or other stole it a while back, and he hasn’t been able to track it down. He wants me to get it back for him. “Do that, and I’ll give you your life back,” he said.

I played along, acting like I was desperate for the deal. But let’s be real: I have zero intention of playing his errand girl forever. I’ll find this bike, sure. But once I do, I’m keeping it for myself. If the bike has enough value that even the Devil wants it, maybe it has the power to help me get back on my own terms. I’ll use it to break out of here and leave him in the dust.

Tomorrow, I start searching. He told me where to start looking, this dark fortress place where things like stolen artifacts and cursed relics are held. It’s going to be dangerous, but I’m ready for that.

I won’t be stuck in this hellhole forever. And when I leave, it’ll be on the Devil’s own bike.

...

5) Diary Entry

Date: ... who knows. Time seems like a joke here.

I found it—the House of Hope. That’s what they call this place, anyway. A massive, crumbling fortress surrounded by dark, twisted trees and a moat of what I can only describe as liquid shadows. The irony of the name wasn’t lost on me. “Hope” is probably the last thing that survives in a place like this.

Inside, it was cold, empty, and somehow alive, as if every wall was watching. I wandered down a dim hallway, feeling like something was guiding me, and that’s when I saw him. Standing there in his dark robes, calm as ever, was the blood mage. The same one who killed me.

My heart nearly stopped. I thought he’d come to finish me off, to drag me even further down, if that’s even possible. But he just looked at me, a strange sort of pity in his eyes.

“You think I sent you here,” he said. “But I only ended your mortal life. Hell? That was all your doing.”

I wanted to scream, to throw every accusation I had at him, but his words struck deep. I’d been telling myself that this hell was his fault, that if I could just get back to life, I’d be fine. But his words... they forced me to look at things I didn’t want to see.

He told me that my own darkness—the anger, the bitterness, the hate I’ve been carrying since I was a kid—was what pulled me here. He said it was something like a magnet, that Hell has a way of collecting people who live their lives with... shadows in their hearts.

And just as I was about to demand why he even cared, I saw it. Behind him, propped up like some kind of twisted trophy, was the Devil’s motorcycle. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen—sleek, black, and gleaming with strange, otherworldly symbols that seemed to pulse with energy. It looked powerful enough to tear through Hell itself.

I tried to play it cool, asking the blood mage what he knew about it, but he saw right through me. He said the bike was one of the Devil’s “most prized possessions” and that it was designed to carry only those who were willing to risk everything.

I could feel my heartbeat quicken. The bike was right there, so close I could almost touch it. But there was something in his gaze, a warning, almost like he wanted me to think twice. He told me that if I took the bike without truly facing what brought me here, I might just find myself right back in this hellhole—or worse.

But I don’t care. I’ve come this far, and I’m not backing down. Tomorrow, I’ll find a way to get past him and take the bike. I’ll deal with whatever consequences come my way once I’m back in the real world. I won’t let Hell hold me here forever.

If it’s really my own darkness that binds me here... then maybe it’s time I used that darkness to fight my way out.

...

6) Diary Entry

Date: … Still in Hell. But hopefully not for long.

I did it. I actually did it. I didn’t waste any time after my last entry. I knew the blood mage would keep his guard up, but I had a plan. I focused every bit of energy I had, feeling the familiar crackle of my powers building up, and I froze him. Time stopped around him, just for a few seconds—but that was all I needed.

I darted past him, practically lunged for the Devil’s bike, and swung myself onto the seat. The second I touched the handlebars, I felt this surge of raw power rip through me, like the bike was connecting with my energy. It roared to life, and I tore out of that fortress as fast as it would carry me.

The ride was… incredible. I’ve never felt that kind of speed before. The landscape around me was a blur of dark plains, fire-lit skies, and strange shadows racing past me. I thought, This is it. I’m actually going to make it out of here.

But then, out of nowhere, the bike started to slow down. I pushed harder on the throttle, tried to channel more of my power into it, but it was like it hit some kind of invisible wall. The hum of the engine faded, and the glow in those strange symbols on the handlebars flickered and died. Now it’s just... dead. Completely unresponsive. I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere, with no idea what went wrong or how to fix it.

It’s just me, the bike, and this empty stretch of Hell as far as I can see. I thought the hard part was over, but I should have known better. Nothing here is ever as simple as it seems.

Maybe the bike has some kind of magic barrier. Maybe it only works for certain people, or it needs to be “unlocked” in some way. I don’t know. I feel like the Devil’s laughing at me right now, wherever he is.

But I’m not giving up. There has to be a way to bring it back to life, to get it running again. Maybe I can recharge it with my energy or find a way to break through whatever magic is binding it. One way or another, I’ll figure it out. I’m not letting this place hold me. Not now, not after everything I’ve been through.

For now, I’ll keep looking for answers. I’ll rest if I have to, then keep going.

...

7) Diary Entry

Date: … I’ve lost track, but maybe that doesn’t even matter.

So, this is where I’ve ended up. Trapped, alone on a dead bike, and somehow things just got worse.

I was stranded for what felt like hours, trying every trick I could think of to get the bike moving again. I was almost ready to give up when they appeared: the blood mage and another figure, a young man with an air of arrogance so thick it was practically stifling. He introduced himself as Raphael and barely held back his amusement as he explained that he’d been sent by Hell’s overlord himself, tasked with recovering his “most prized possession.”

That’s when it hit me: the bike. The Devil had set me up, hadn’t he? This was all just a game, a twisted test to see what I’d do. And I’d taken the bait, thinking I could actually double-cross him.

I tried to think fast, shifting the blame onto the blood mage. I told them it was him who’d been tormenting me, that it was his actions that had driven me here. But he just looked at me, calm as ever, and then he said something I never expected.

“Tell the truth,” he said, “about the last thing you did on Earth.”

I froze. I didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to face it. But he went on, laying it out in the open. He spoke about the darkness in my heart, the way I’d hurt people, the lies I’d told. And he mentioned something I’d tried so hard to bury, a moment I’d never wanted to think about again. Bongo, the family dog. My face burned with shame, a shame so deep it felt like it was burning my very soul.

As Raphael looked down at me, disgusted, I realized the truth I’d been running from: Hell wasn’t just a place. It was a mirror, showing me every part of myself I’d tried to hide.

I thought coming here was something that happened to me, something done to me by others. But now I see it’s where I was always headed.

...

8) Diary Entry

Date: … Lost to the dark.

I can barely write this. I don’t even know how to put it into words. I thought I was already at the bottom, but I was wrong. So wrong.

After everything, Raphael—the Devil’s son, as it turns out—looked at me like I was a speck of dirt. And Helsik, the blood mage, finally told me his name. It’s funny. After everything, only now do I know the name of the person who sent me here.

Helsik said I was “under judgment.” That Raphael would decide my fate. And Raphael just looked at me with this cold smile and said that Hell was orderly and, most importantly, just. The way he said it sent a chill through me. It was like he was looking through my soul, weighing every terrible thing I’d ever done.

Then, without another word, he snapped his fingers. And just like that, everything went black.

When I opened my eyes, I was… here. In the Abyss. It’s a place I can barely describe—a swirling void of shadows, fire, and thunder, a never-ending storm. There’s no ground, no sky, just a constant, furious tempest that pulls and pushes in every direction. The air feels alive, like it’s clawing at my skin, trying to tear me apart from the inside out.

I can hear voices here. Whispers, taunts, echoes of things I wish I could forget. Memories I tried to bury, parts of myself I didn’t want to face. They swirl around me in the storm, each one sharper and more cutting than the last.

There’s no escape here. Every direction I turn, I’m pulled deeper, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched—judged by something beyond even Raphael or Helsik.

I thought I could outsmart Hell, thought I could lie and cheat my way out. But now I see how foolish I was. Hell is justice, and it’s found me out.

If I have any chance of getting out of here, it’s not by running. I don’t know how, but somehow I have to find a way to face this… face myself.

...

9) Diary Entry

Date: … Falling endlessly. Time has lost all meaning.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any stranger, he appeared—Raphael, or at least some kind of projection of him, hovering in the chaos like he owned it. I’m still falling, tumbling endlessly through this dark, screaming storm, but there he was, calm as ever, floating right alongside me.

He had that same smug look on his face, but this time there was a flicker of… I don’t even know. Amusement? Like he was enjoying himself.

“You know where you’re headed,” he said, his voice cutting through the thunder and madness like it was nothing. “The bottom of the Abyss. Straight into the grasp of Orcus himself.”

I didn’t need an explanation. Just hearing that name felt like a weight crushing down on me. Orcus—the arch-demon of chaos. The one even demons here fear. I could practically feel him, somewhere far below, waiting with claws ready to sink into my soul. Raphael explained that Orcus would feed on me, use me as an endless source of energy for eternity. It was like every ounce of hope was draining out of me.

But then Raphael gave me an out. A single, strange, surreal offer.

He said I didn’t have to end up in the belly of the Abyss. Not if I agreed to a… deal.

“If you agree to be my date to Hell’s annual prom,” he said, with a half-smile that looked all too pleased with itself, “I’ll pull you out. You’ll be my honored guest, right at my side.”

A prom. In Hell. As his date. It’s like he was asking me for a perfectly normal favor, in the middle of the storm that’s tearing me apart.

At first, I thought it was some kind of trick or game. Maybe it still is. But he looked so serious—well, as serious as a devil prince can look, I suppose. And what choice do I have? Face Orcus and eternal torment, or be Raphael’s prom date. It’s an absurd choice, but in Hell, I’m learning fast that absurdity seems to be the rule.

So here I am, still falling, still torn, wondering if I can trust him even a little. But he’s left me with no real choice. And maybe… maybe part of me is curious about this whole twisted “prom.”

I can still feel myself being pulled downward, but I know he’s watching, waiting for my answer. So I guess this is it.

Tomorrow, I’ll say yes.

...

10) Diary Entry

Date: … Somewhere between the Abyss and… Hell’s prom night?

Well, I said yes. And true to his word, Raphael pulled me out of that endless fall. One moment, I was plunging toward the clutches of Orcus, and the next, I was somewhere… else. Somewhere cold.

I didn’t expect this—an icy, frigid palace with towering, frost-covered walls that sparkle like black diamonds. I didn’t think Hell could be cold, but this place bites right through me, chilling me to the bone. Helsik was waiting when I arrived, still as unreadable as ever, and he told me I’d be staying here until I was “prom-ready.”

I’m being prepared for my date by Helsik’s attendants. They’re… not what I expected. Every single one of them is breathtakingly beautiful, with flawless skin, bright eyes, and dark, elegant wings that drape around them like cloaks. They’re dressed in this bizarre mix of formal and seductive, like twisted playboy bunnies, but with an otherworldly elegance. They barely speak, just move around me, adjusting my hair, my makeup, slipping me into a dress that feels like it was woven from shadows and silk.

The dress itself is something else—a deep, midnight black that shimmers faintly with shades of red when the light catches it, almost like embers buried in the fabric. The attendants keep telling me to sit still, be patient, and “enjoy the process.” One of them hinted that they don’t get many “honored guests” to prepare. I guess there aren’t too many who end up as Raphael’s date for the night.

It’s a strange mix of excitement and dread. I can’t shake the feeling that this is all some grand setup, that maybe the Devil’s son has something planned for me that I haven’t begun to understand. And yet… there’s a small part of me that’s intrigued, maybe even a little curious about what’s coming next. It’s not like I can pretend this is normal, but there’s something about it all that feels so surreal, almost like a dream I can’t wake up from.

Helsik’s watching from the corner of the room, cold and unreadable as ever. I wonder what he thinks of all this. What anyone here thinks of all this.

Whatever happens tonight, I just have to keep my wits about me, stay on my toes, and remember that this is still Hell.

...

11) Journal Entry: Helsik

Date: Hell’s Annual Prom Night, an occasion I endure rather than enjoy.

Tonight, I find myself uncharacteristically invested, not in the frivolity, but in Googlia—our latest “honored guest.” I must admit, I find it fascinating that Raphael chose her of all souls, especially one as reckless and cursed with her own darkness as she is. But it was clear he had his reasons, and it’s not my place to question Hell’s prince—no matter how peculiar those reasons may appear.

The evening took a turn once the drinking began. Raphael and his father dove headfirst into their cups, laughing and boasting, as Hell’s finest (and least reputable) souls gathered to watch the spectacle. It isn’t often the Devil and his son let loose so openly, but when they do, it’s as chaotic as one might expect. And this year, their attention has certainly landed on Googlia, with a bit of mischievous delight.

Then came the challenge, unexpected and somewhat absurd: the Devil’s wife, the Lady Inferna herself, issued a square dance duel to Googlia. The Lady was seething with a barely concealed disdain from the moment Googlia arrived. Perhaps it was jealousy—or simply Hell’s unforgiving nature—but she seemed determined to break Googlia in one way or another.

I watched from the shadows as Googlia took her place in the center of the dance floor, facing Lady Inferna with a tense sort of courage that, I’ll admit, I found unexpectedly admirable. The music began, a feverish, haunting tune, and they danced.

Or, at least, they tried to.

Lady Inferna tore into her, matching every dance step with biting words. Her insults were sharp, questioning Googlia’s sense, her skill, and even her reason for attending—“Did you actually think you belonged here, little Earthbound fool?” she spat, her voice carrying across the room with deadly elegance.

And then there were my attendants. Fina and Cirrus, my two “most faithful” companions, saw fit to stand at my side, offering whispered commentary on Googlia’s every awkward misstep.

“She’s too stiff,” Fina murmured, a satisfied smirk on her lips.

“And look at that turn—she’s lost all rhythm,” Cirrus added, barely containing her laughter.

Googlia was struggling, true, but she held her ground, ignoring the taunts as best she could. There’s something to be said for resilience, even in Hell, and she has it. I’ll give her that.

Yet, as I watched, a darker thought crossed my mind. Perhaps this trial—this cruel initiation—is precisely what Googlia needed. In Hell, strength only grows through fire, humiliation, and hardship. And if she is to survive here, she’ll need to weather far worse than Inferna’s barbed insults and Fina’s petty criticisms.

For now, she’s holding her own. But this night will test her. If she makes it through, perhaps she’ll prove worthy of Hell’s notorious “honored guest” title after all. If she doesn’t… well, there’s always next year’s prom.

...

12) Journal Entry: Raphael

Date: Who cares. Prom night.

Let’s get one thing straight. This “Googlia” (what kind of name is that anyway?!) is a menace. A disgrace to every corner of Hell, and—let’s be honest here, Raphael—just the stupidest name in the history of names. Googlia. Googlia! Every time I hear it, I want to incinerate something. In fact, just writing it out makes my skin crawl.

But here I am, at prom, forced to watch her square off with my mother, Lady Inferna herself, in a square dance competition, of all things. Watching them twirl around like two demented banshees in a nightmare ballet. I would laugh if it weren’t so absolutely infuriating. There she goes again, her steps all clumsy, her rhythm practically nonexistent. And the worst part? She’s still going, as if she thinks she can actually win. Ha!

I’ve had a lot of… punch tonight, and by Hell, it’s not helping. Every time she stumbles, every misplaced step, every second she’s still on that floor, I feel the rage of 10,000 suns roaring inside me. Who does she think she is, thinking she could ever match my mother, or that she could hold her head high here, with a name like Googlia? I almost wish I hadn’t dragged her out of the Abyss. I could have let her fall straight into Orcus’s grasp, let her be chewed up by chaos itself. But no, I had to be merciful. I had to give her a second chance.

I’m regretting it. Deeply. I’m actually considering going back in time, bending Hell’s own rules, just to not have her here.

Even Helsik’s attendants, Fina and Cirrus, are whispering about her form, her absolute lack of grace. And there’s Mother, sneering and taunting her, calling her out for every pathetic attempt at a spin. But she just keeps going, her eyes wide and defiant, as if she thinks there’s a shred of dignity to be found in what she’s doing.

I need another drink. Or five. If I’m going to survive the rest of this night—and her idiotic dance—I’m going to need every last drop in this bottle.

...

13) Journal Entry: Helsik

Date: Prom Night (Chaos Level: …escalating)

Just when I thought I’d witnessed all the absurdity Hell’s “prom” had to offer, Levistus—the Devil’s flamboyant, flambé-loving brother—arrived in grand, typical Levistus fashion. A rainbow-painted, double-decker limousine rolled up outside the dance hall, glowing like some beacon of… well, defiant style, I suppose. The doors opened, and there he was, draped in iridescent silks that shimmered every color under the fire-lit sky.

He sashayed his way through the crowd, setting every demon and underling in his path ablaze with gossip. And then he spotted me.

Of course. The bright flash of his eyes, that smirk. I knew what was coming before he even opened his mouth.

“Helsik,” he purred, his voice like molten honey, leaning far too close for my comfort. “Still lurking in the shadows like always, hm? Come now, don’t hide that handsome face of yours.” He reached out as if to adjust my collar, but I took a step back, keeping my distance, which only seemed to amuse him more.

“Levistus,” I replied, voice steady, “the pleasure, I’m sure, is all yours.”

His laughter was loud enough to drown out the music for a moment, as though he found me to be the world’s most delightful jest. Before I could manage a polite exit, he’d spun off onto the dance floor, drawing the attention of the entire room with his gliding, effortless movements. It was clear he had something in mind.

Googlia and Lady Inferna were still locked in their absurd square dance duel, Inferna whipping out every insult in her extensive vocabulary. And Googlia, to her credit, refused to back down. The poor girl was just barely managing, with Fina and Cirrus’ critical whispers echoing in her ears, and Raphael and the Devil leaning against each other, trying to contain their drunken glee at the spectacle.

Then Levistus took the floor, and I’ll give him this: his entrance was… something to behold.

With a confident twirl, he stepped into the dance, practically swiping Googlia’s hand away and spinning into the square opposite Lady Inferna. For a moment, there was silence. And then, much to everyone’s shock—and clear delight—he began to out-dance her. His steps were crisp, his rhythm flawless, his flamboyant flair unmistakable. Lady Inferna’s mouth tightened as she realized she was losing ground.

The Devil was practically in tears with laughter, his arm slung over Raphael’s shoulders as they slouched against the bar, barely able to stand. Raphael, drunk and more amused than I’d seen him in ages, managed a slow clap, slurring, “That’s how it’s done, Googlia—watch and learn!” They were a sight, clinging to each other and swaying like two tipsy schoolboys who’d found something unthinkably hilarious.

Meanwhile, Levistus continued to lead Inferna, spinning her around with flourish, much to her growing irritation. By the time the music swelled to a close, he’d clearly claimed victory. Inferna’s expression was a barely contained storm of fury, but even she had to acknowledge that he’d bested her.

As for Googlia, she stood off to the side, breathless, watching Levistus with what could almost have been relief.

Once the dance was over, Levistus, ever the performer, took an exaggerated bow, blowing a kiss in my direction as the hall erupted in applause.

Hell’s prom is always an ordeal, but tonight, I have to admit—Levistus stole the show.

...

14) Journal Entry: Helsik

Date: Prom Night (Rapidly spiraling into a literal hellscape)

I should have known. I should have known that the moment Levistus stepped onto the dance floor in that iridescent mess of silks, we were in for chaos. I should have left then. But here I am, watching an unholy showdown unfold between Levistus and Lady Inferna, the air itself nearly cracking with tension.

After Levistus stole the show with his victorious dance against Inferna, she stood there, simmering in a fury I have rarely seen contained by mortal or immortal flesh. But she didn't keep it contained. Oh no. Lady Inferna unleashed a string of words that burned through the air like poison, each syllable searing, a sound that was physically painful to endure. It hit like a wave—pure, biting rage infused with enough venom to make even the stones of the hall quake.

I could barely stand it, but Levistus? He simply raised an eyebrow, rolled his eyes in a theatrical display of disgust, and then, in a display of bravado that honestly may have been the most reckless thing I’ve ever witnessed, he snapped his fingers in her face, swaying his head and muttering, "Bitch, you did NOT!" with each snap.

The entire room fell silent, every demon and damned soul staring in stunned horror as Levistus delivered his response. He launched into his own tirade, voice dripping with disdain, ridiculing her "eternally outdated, tragic wardrobe," mocking her "irritable obsession with Googlia," and culminating with a merciless, glittering smile as he delivered the words, "Face it, darling, you’re no queen. Just a washed-up relic.”

And then he slapped her. A slap that echoed across the hall, the sharp crack of his hand against her cheek enough to halt time itself. For a moment, no one moved.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at Inferna’s face, but the rage radiating from her was intense enough to singe the very air. Googlia, poor, terrified Googlia, was huddled in the corner, eyes wide with horror, cowering. I’m fairly certain she’d soiled herself—either that or she was on the brink of fainting.

Meanwhile, Fina and Cirrus, standing beside me, were struggling to stifle their laughter, their hands clasped over their mouths as their eyes watered with the effort. It’s not often one sees the unshakable Lady Inferna put in her place, and Levistus had done so with style that, dare I admit, I almost admired.

The Devil and Raphael, however, missed the whole show. They’d passed out at the bar, oblivious to the feud unfolding around them.

As for me? I’ve decided I’ll need at least three more drinks—strong ones—to make it through the night without losing my sanity entirely. Watching Inferna and Levistus go head-to-head is entertaining in a way, yes, but even Hell has limits. And I think, perhaps, I’ve reached mine.

...

15) Journal Entry: Raphael

Date: Prom aftermath. Head throbbing.

I came to with the worst headache imaginable, just in time to see Helsik and his attendants disappear in a flash. I could barely make sense of it—Cirrus had leaned over to whisper something in his ear, Helsik nodded, snapped his fingers, and poof, they were gone. Not a trace left.

And then I looked across the hall and saw them: Mother, looking utterly deranged, and Levistus, looking smug as ever. Even in my foggy state, I knew instantly that something terrible had happened. Mother’s eyes were like fire, her hair almost hissing with fury, while Levistus stood there, one eyebrow raised, arms crossed, like the victorious brat he’s always been.

The sight alone sent my stomach lurching. This wasn’t going to end well. And just as I was piecing together fragments of memory—the slapping, the snapping, Levistus’s unforgivable finger snaps in Mother’s face—a shadow loomed at the door. A dark, ominous shadow, stretching across the floor, swallowing every flickering light in the hall.

Glasya.

My aunt, the Devil’s sister, had arrived.

If anything was worse than Mother and Levistus facing off, it was Mother and Levistus in the same room as Glasya. And the look on Glasya’s face as she took in the scene made my blood run cold. Her eyes zeroed in on Inferna—her eternal rival—and then on Levistus, who somehow had the audacity to look almost relieved to see her. And that, above all, is when I knew how bad things really were.

Glasya’s voice, smooth and deceptively calm, cut through the silence. “What’s going on here, dear sister-in-law?” Her words dripped with malice. I could feel the room tense, every demon within earshot frozen, waiting to see which of them would make the first move.

Mother spat back, her voice trembling with rage. “Your dear little brother here thought it wise to lay his hands on me. And you think I’d stand by and—”

But Glasya had already turned to Levistus, her eyes softening just a bit. “My poor, sweet brother,” she cooed, her tone practically syrupy as she cast a protective glance his way. “Did she hurt you?” Her gaze darted back to Inferna, her expression now as cold as ice.

For the first time in my life, I actually felt a pang of sympathy for Mother. Glasya’s arrival meant things had escalated to a level beyond any of us. I was about to try to say something, to call for order, but my voice caught. I was just sober enough to realize that if I spoke now, I’d be caught in the crossfire.

So instead, I slumped back, pretending to still be asleep, and watched the storm unfold. It wasn’t long before the voices rose, each word sharper and colder than the last. I could feel the walls shaking as Glasya and Inferna squared off, each one defending their “family” with all the hatred Hell could muster.

It’s going to be a long night. And judging by the way this is headed, it might very well be the longest one Hell has seen in centuries.

...

16) Journal Entry: Mephistopheles

Date: The night infernal antics finally reached my threshold.

I arrived at the dance hall tonight to find chaos. Not the natural order of Hell’s chaos, but the kind of disorderly, juvenile bedlam that would make even the densest imps pause. The air was thick with tension, drunken giggles, and the scent of scorched pride. But when I stepped in, silence fell like a shroud.

The room froze. I caught Glasya and Inferna mid-spin, their square dance halted as though time itself had paused. Their faces went blank with that particular terror only I can evoke when I’m forced to intervene. All eyes shifted toward me, including Raphael’s, whose faintly open eyes betrayed his pathetic attempt to feign sleep. I let him be; he was the least of my concerns tonight.

Then there was my brother, slumped on the bar, snoring off what was likely the gallon of spiced fire-whiskey he’d taken in with Raphael. I didn’t bother with ceremony. With a snap of my fingers, I teleported him straight to his bed at our family estate. If he’s wise, he’ll stay there and sleep this off, oblivious to what his disastrous little soirée nearly unleashed.

Then, of course, came Levistus, pouting and strutting up with a look I’ve seen one too many times. "You just had to kill the vibe, didn’t you, Mephey?" he sneered, with that dreadful little nickname he insists on using. "We were just getting to the best part."

My reply was swift: “Shut up, brat.” Another snap of my fingers, and he vanished from the hall, likely cursing all the way to wherever I sent him—a place fitting for his level of maturity.

Inferna was next. She tried to pull herself together, smoothing her gown, adopting that calm, lofty air she always uses to mask her insecurity. But I could see straight through it. “Don’t bother,” I told her, my voice low but certain. “You should be with your husband.”

The look of sheer mortification that crossed her face almost amused me. I teleported her away before she could respond, sending her to the Devil’s house to resume her duties, or perhaps to confront what her unchecked wrath nearly cost.

And then, naturally, Glasya took her cue. She gave a dignified nod, cast me a knowing, grudging look, and vanished on her own, clearly wanting to avoid a similar fate.

Finally, I turned my attention to the remaining soul in this den of disorder: Googlia.

Poor, bewildered Googlia, standing as if frozen in place, her eyes wide, her body all but trembling. She had survived quite the night, yet here she was, drenched in the aftermath, her name an insult to order itself. I observed her carefully, assessing the small, unfortunate mortal soul who’d somehow found her way to the center of Hell’s most recent disaster.

What to do with her?

She looked at me, half-hopeful, half-terrified, as though she wanted to speak but feared the consequences. I let the silence linger, allowing her to feel the weight of her choices, her path, her very existence here in Hell. And then, with a slight nod and one final calculating glance, I turned and left her to her fate.

For now.

...

17) Diary Entry: Googlia

Date: …Some awful night in Hell

I don’t know how long I stayed on my knees, crying. It was all too much. The Devil, his insane family, the shouting, the dancing, the way everything fell silent when Mephistopheles arrived. And then… they all left, one by one, leaving me there in the middle of that empty, dark hall.

I don’t know why I started sobbing so hard. Maybe it was because I was finally alone, or maybe because for a split second, I thought someone might have cared that I was there, that I was… I don’t know, real. Or maybe I was just exhausted and overwhelmed. But I bawled like a child, hugging my knees, barely able to think through the mess in my head.

Just then, Raphael, still swaying on his feet, managed to stand up. He staggered over and looked at me, his gaze blurry and unfocused, like he was trying to make out some faint shadow or lost ghost. He squinted, as if trying to figure out what I was, and I opened my mouth, wanting to say something, anything to make him stay.

But he just shrugged, and then with a wave of his hand, he was gone.

That’s when the emptiness really settled in. The room was vast and silent, the echoes of distant demons and devils carrying through the empty air. I cried harder, feeling smaller and smaller as the sounds of Hell filled the dark spaces around me.

I don’t know how long I stayed like that. Time lost all meaning. I just kept sobbing, imagining I’d be left here forever, alone, a forgotten nobody in the Devil’s dance hall.

And then, as suddenly as they’d left, Helsik, Fina, and Cirrus appeared before me. I gasped, wiping my eyes, feeling somehow even more ridiculous with them staring down at me.

Helsik looked at me, expression unreadable as ever, and simply said, “Mephistopheles wishes to speak with you.”

Fina and Cirrus didn’t even try to hide their smirks. They exchanged glances, snickering, and I could feel their eyes judging me, taking in my tear-streaked face, my messy hair, the remnants of all my failed attempts to “fit in” here.

I stood up slowly, my legs shaking, feeling like some pathetic shell of myself as they continued to laugh. Their giggles echoed in my ears, like nails on glass, and all I could do was try to stand a little taller, even though I knew that no matter what I did, I was nothing to them.

Nothing.

...

18) Diary Entry: Googlia

Date: Right after the worst night of my existence (so far)

I can’t believe I agreed to meet with Mephistopheles. I don’t know what came over me—maybe I just wanted something to change, some chance to stop being humiliated. But the moment I nodded, Helsik gave a curt nod himself, and with a flick of his wrist, I was yanked from the dance hall and back into his frigid, miserable abode.

The same attendants were there waiting for me, still dressed in their ridiculous bunny costumes, like some nightmare out of a twisted magazine cover. They smirked as I stumbled in, eyes red from crying, and wasted no time in jeering.

“Oh, look who’s back,” sneered one, Cirrus, if I remember right. “Did you come to treat us to more of your tragic dancing?”

“Maybe we should help her out with a stage name. How about ‘Googly-Eyed Googlia’?” Fina added, feigning thoughtfulness, her lips curled in a wicked smile.

They all laughed as if I wasn’t even there, as if I were just some joke, and no amount of pretending could make me feel anything but small and humiliated.

Then, they dragged me toward the dressing room, but this time it wasn’t for some glitzy prom dress or heels that cut into my feet. This time, they brought out a stiff pair of combat fatigues and heavy, scuffed boots. One attendant—smirking all the while—tossed me a belt weighed down with strange gadgets and weapons I didn’t recognize.

“She’s going to war!” laughed one of the demons, twirling a pair of earrings with pointed tips. “Good luck out there, soldier!”

They kept at it, taunting me about my dancing, my name, even my posture. Every time I tried to ignore them, they just laughed louder, like they were determined to tear me down to nothing.

And so here I am, suited up in this military gear that feels cold and foreign. My reflection in the mirror barely looks like me—I’m a tired, messy shell of myself. And yet, underneath the embarrassment and humiliation, there’s a small flicker of something else. Anger. Frustration. Something in me is beginning to snap, and I don’t know how long it’ll be before I can’t take it anymore.

Whatever Mephistopheles wants, he better have a plan, because I’m done being Hell’s joke.

...

19) Diary Entry: Googlia

Date: Back on Earth (sort of?) in the most absurd way possible

Well, I did it. I signed the contract. Or rather, something deep and dark inside me practically leapt to sign the contract before I’d even finished weighing my options. The words were written in this impossibly small font, and even when I tried to squint and read it, all I could make out was a line here and there—something about my soul, my life, my “eternal loyalty.” But I was so desperate to escape Hell that I went for it.

Mephistopheles seemed almost… amused as I scrawled my signature at the bottom of the page. He didn’t even try to hide his smirk when he handed me this strange, old-fashioned-looking box with a thick handle and an enormous red button right on top. He tapped the button lightly with one long finger and said, “Once your ex is dead, simply aim this at his body and press. I’ll handle the rest.”

He didn’t wait for any questions, didn’t care that I was blinking back confusion and disbelief. Instead, he gave me one last, knowing look, snapped his fingers, and everything went black.

And then, just like that, I found myself here: the men’s bathroom of a Hooters. There’s a dripping sink, a broken paper towel dispenser, and the whole place smells of stale beer and… regret.

I can still hear the restaurant noise just outside—the clinking glasses, the obnoxious music, the hum of people chatting. It’s bizarrely familiar and comforting, in a twisted way, after Hell, and yet there’s this creeping sense of dread in my stomach.

So here I am, stuck in this dingy bathroom, holding this strange device, knowing I have exactly 72 hours to hunt down my ex and send his soul straight to Mephistopheles. I could try to walk away, maybe even hide the box, pretend I never signed. But I can already feel the pull in my bones, this dark compulsion to go through with it, to see the contract through and buy my way back to freedom.

I hate this. I hate him. And I hate that I’m even thinking about going through with it. But if this is my only chance to escape Hell, what other choice do I have?

Let’s just say the clock has started ticking.

...

20) Diary Entry: Cirrus

Date: The Delightful Day I Got to Visit Earth, a.k.a. Googlia’s Pathetic Hooters Adventure

Oh, how the underworld spoils me sometimes. One moment, I’m lounging in the frost of Helsik’s abode, polishing my nails and giggling with Fina about Googly-Eyed Googlia’s latest embarrassment, and the next—poof!—I’m on Earth, in a Hooters uniform, no less! I don’t know who thought of this plan, but I applaud their brilliance.

When I appeared in the men’s bathroom, poor Googlia looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights. She was clutching that big red-buttoned box like her life depended on it (which, I suppose, it does—how tragic). I cleared my throat, giving her my most dazzling smile. She looked half-scared, half-annoyed, which was perfect.

“Googlia,” I cooed, tilting my head ever-so-sweetly. “I’ve got news for you.”

The look on her face when I told her her ex-boyfriend, LeShawn Dinglenutt, was right here in the restaurant was absolutely priceless. You could see the pathetic spark of hope in her eyes. But I didn’t stop there, oh no.

I leaned in, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And, just so you know, he’s moved on since your… untimely demise. See, he’s at the bar right now, cozying up to one of these gorgeous Hooters girls.”

The way her face twisted—oh, the jealousy, the seething rage—it was all I could do not to burst out laughing on the spot. Googlia’s knuckles turned white around that box, her jaw clenched, and I could practically see her poor little mortal brain boiling over with anger.

“Hmm,” I mused, pretending to look thoughtful. “Guess he didn’t need long to replace you, huh?” That did it. She practically shook with fury. Beautiful.

So here I am, leaning against the grimy bathroom wall in this skimpy outfit, watching her, waiting to see if she’ll blow her pathetic mortal fuse right here and now. And if she does? Oh, I’ll be right here to witness every delicious second of it.

...

21) Diary Entry: Cirrus

Date: My First and Hopefully Last Day at Hooters, the Land of Mortal Debauchery

I have now seen the depths to which humans will descend when presented with beer, fried food, and the illusion of flirtation. And I must say, it’s both revolting and oddly fascinating.

After leaving poor, fuming Googlia in the bathroom, I decided to make the most of this Earthly experience and strolled into the restaurant. I’d cast a little glamour on myself to blend in—no horns, no icy aura, just a “hot Hooters girl” (or so I’ve read in mortals’ minds). But the moment I stepped into the room, I was hailed by a pack of rowdy, foul-mouthed human males. They immediately hooted at me, making all sorts of unsavory comments about what they’d like to do with “that Hooters babe.” Disgusting, really, but I suppose I looked the part.

One of them, a portly man with a hat that declared “I <3 Beer,” pointed at the menu and demanded I bring them wings, burgers, and—what was it?—“the biggest pitcher of beer you got.” Now, I may be a demon, but I’m no servant. Still, I figured this might be an entertaining experiment. So I smiled, snapped my fingers, and—voila!—conjured the food right onto their laps, plates and all. Wings scattered across one man’s pants, a burger balanced precariously on another’s knee, and a giant pitcher of beer poured itself directly onto the third’s head.

They were startled at first—eyes wide, mouths hanging open in stunned silence. But then, as if possessed by some primal spirit, they roared with approval. “That’s more like it!” one yelled, while another started grabbing at his pants, declaring, “Now if only you were covered in wings, babe!” They hooted and howled, suggesting in no uncertain terms that I replace my uniform with food.

The nerve! As if I’d waste my powers like that. But for a split second, I considered it, just to see their reactions. Imagine a skimpy outfit made of sizzling hot wings or dripping nachos, cheese oozing down my arms. The very thought was absurdly revolting, even for a demon of Hell. I made a mental note to share this story with Fina back home—she’d find it hilarious.

All this debauchery is exhausting, but I suppose a demon needs her hobbies. And if nothing else, it was amusing watching these mortal idiots practically drown in conjured beer and cheese.

...

22) Journal Entry: Helsik

Date: A Night at Hooters – As the Mortals Say, Priceless

Tonight was, without a doubt, one of my finer orchestrations.

After sending Cirrus to stir up a little chaos, I decided to treat Fina to a live show of the drama unfolding. We teleported to the side of the building—conveniently out of sight, of course—and slipped inside just as two servers in tiny orange shorts scurried past. Fina and I must have fit right in because the hostess barely blinked as she led us to a booth and handed us laminated menus. A fleeting thought crossed my mind to order something; then again, I doubted mortal “beer and wings” could satisfy a being of my caliber.

Settling in, I gave Fina a knowing look, letting her know that Cirrus was here on my orders. Fina’s eyes sparkled with mischievous delight, and she glanced toward the restroom just in time to see Cirrus—glamoured as a mortal, no less—sauntering out in her “Hooters” uniform. It was impossible not to feel a touch of pride as Cirrus entered the main dining area with that air of innocent cluelessness. Oh, this was going to be good.

She was immediately pounced on by a pack of lecherous men at a nearby table. Fina and I exchanged amused glances as the mortals fell over themselves with jeers and catcalls, demanding food, beer, and…well, other things I won’t dignify with a repeat. Cirrus, bless her soul, took them quite literally. With a snap of her fingers, she conjured burgers, wings, and pitchers of beer right onto the mortals’ laps. The wings, still steaming hot, stuck to their clothes and seared them in places best left unmentioned.

The initial shock in their faces, followed by uproarious approval, was more amusing than I’d dared hope. They actually cheered! Cheered, as if she was some saint of chicken wings. “Only on Earth,” Fina whispered, barely containing her laughter.

And just when I thought we’d reached peak absurdity, there came the pièce de résistance. The men’s bathroom door burst off its hinges with a thunderous explosion, sending shards of tile and metal flying across the floor. The mortals ducked and screamed, and when the dust cleared, there stood Googlia, her eyes nearly aglow with fury, face twisted into something I would almost call impressive. That seething hatred in her gaze? Pure Hellfire, just the way I’d intended.

I leaned back, savoring the tension that hung thick in the air, and glanced at Fina, who was grinning ear to ear. “Nothing like a bit of mortal chaos, wouldn’t you say?”

Tonight has been an absolute delight. And Googlia? Oh, I have plans for her.

...

23) Diary Entry: Googlia

Date: I’m back on Earth, and somehow it’s worse than Hell

Tonight has been… well, I don’t even know if words can capture it. I found him—LeShawn Dinglenutt, my ex, the one who threw me aside and moved on with some Hooters waitress mere moments after my tragic end. The audacity.

After I blasted the bathroom door off its hinges, I marched over to him, rage blazing in my heart, and shouted, “How dare you move on from ME so quickly!” I expected shock, maybe even shame on his face, some tiny sign that he still had feelings for me. But he just… looked up slowly, squinting through that half-drunk haze of his, and muttered, “Who even are you?”

It was like every ounce of anger I’d been holding in tripled in an instant. How could he possibly forget me? ME?

Through my fury, I managed to yell, “LeShawn Dinglenutt—that’s my pet name for you! How could you forget it?”

And then, then of all things, I started crying. Crying, like some lovesick mortal fool, right there in the middle of the Hooters, in front of his new “girlfriend,” who looked at me like I was some kind of lunatic. Maybe I am a lunatic, but that didn’t mean he could pretend I didn’t matter.

And then he said, with this disgustingly casual, half-drunk smirk, “Oh yeah, now I remember you. But LeShawn Dinglenutt was only an alias I gave you. My real name is Travis Clarence. Did you really believe my name was LeShawn Dinglenutt?”

It was like the whole world stopped, and I could practically hear my heart cracking. Travis Clarence? He gave me a fake name. A pet name that was just a stupid alias. All the times I screamed it in those…intimate moments, all the whispers, all the memories. It was a joke to him, just a made-up name he threw around. It was like he’d erased me from his life while I still felt every single detail of what we had.

I looked at him, into those stupid, smug, blurry eyes, and I felt this burning realization. I’ve been played. Used. Mocked. And if Mephistopheles’s plan wasn’t twisted before, it is now. Because if I was angry enough to blow a bathroom door off its hinges before… oh, Travis Clarence has no idea what’s coming next.

So much for mortal love.

...

24) Diary Entry: Cirrus

Date: So His Name is Travis Clarence? The Plot Thickens!

Tonight, I witnessed something so tragic, so laughably absurd, it’s almost poetic: LeShawn Dinglenutt—the alias, the myth, the apparently completely fake identity—is actually a Travis Clarence. Who knew? Certainly not poor, tragic Googlia.

When I followed Googlia out of the bathroom, I assumed I’d be in for a show. She stormed over to this guy, who was seated with a drink in one hand, looking wholly uninterested in anything that wasn’t his beer. And then Googlia, in all her fiery glory, screams, “How dare you move on from ME so quickly!”

And the guy… oh, the poor, poor girl…he looks up at her and says, deadpan, “Who even are you?” I barely contained my laughter. The whole place went silent, everyone frozen in anticipation—and there was Googlia, just standing there, face turning a shade of rage-purple I didn’t know was possible.

She practically shrieked, “LeShawn Dinglenutt, that’s my pet name for you! How could you forget it?” Tears were streaming down her face; honestly, I almost felt for her. And that’s when he drops the bomb.

“Oh yeah, now I remember you,” he says, all casual. “But LeShawn Dinglenutt was only an alias I gave you. My real name is Travis Clarence. Did you really believe my name was LeShawn Dinglenutt?”

I had to step back. I mean, Travis Clarence? This girl spent all that time thinking her boyfriend was named “LeShawn Dinglenutt,” probably screamed it a thousand times, poured her half-alien heart into it, and all along he was a Travis. Honestly, it’s so perfect, I couldn’t have planned it better myself. It’s like every time she thinks her story can’t get worse, life finds a way to dig the knife just a little deeper.

So here I am, back in Hades, recounting this deliciously awkward encounter to Fina and Helsik, who both looked absolutely delighted. Poor Googlia doesn’t even know how lost she is, tangled up in her own illusions and ridiculousness. And I have a feeling this is just the beginning.

...

25) Diary Entry: Cirrus

Date: Travis Clarence...and the Divine Comedy of Googlia’s Life

Oh, tonight was a gift. As soon as I stepped out of the restroom after that “Travis Clarence” bombshell, I caught sight of the most unusual crowd in the corner booth: Helsik and Fina were there, grinning like fiends, and across from them, Raphael, Levistus, Mephistopheles, and even Glasya, all gathered and clearly enjoying the unfolding drama. They looked like a row of immortal VIPs at some exclusive club event, except this “event” was our poor Googlia’s public humiliation. Hell’s inner circle doesn’t often gather like this, so you know it was something special.

Then, the fun got better. Travis’s new girlfriend—a tall, leggy Hooters waitress, no less—excused herself to grab another round of beer, and I thought, why not join the party? I sauntered right over to the bar where Travis was slouched, and I made sure to let my glamour really work for me.

“Hey there,” I purred, leaning just close enough to make him sit up and take notice. His face lit up like he’d just won the lottery. “I’m Cirrus,” I continued, twirling a strand of hair. “But…you look like the kind of guy who might have a secret side.” I batted my lashes a bit, letting my voice drip with sweet suggestion.

Travis Clarence’s eyes practically sparkled with interest. “Oh yeah? Well, maybe I do, Cirrus,” he said, puffing out his chest like a rooster. He was practically eating it up—couldn’t believe his luck that yet another girl had taken a liking to him, and this one with a bit of mystery.

I didn’t need to look behind me to know that Googlia was fuming. I could feel her glare boring into my back, her barely-contained rage vibrating through the whole restaurant. A part of me almost felt for her, but come on—after everything she’d been through, she still thought she had some claim to this guy? The guy who didn’t even remember her until she screamed his fake name across the room? The guy who is, frankly, about as deep as a puddle? This was too good.

So, I leaned in even closer to Travis, making sure to keep up that innocent-but-not-really innocent look, while he fell all over himself to talk about his “cool job” and “his love for fast cars” and “hitting the gym,” as if I cared about any of it. Meanwhile, I could hear Googlia’s strangled breathing, practically see the steam coming out of her ears.

All around, the corner booth was watching, amused as ever. Raphael raised his glass to me in a silent toast, Levistus smirked in approval, and Helsik, I think, gave me a barely-there nod. We might not have planned this evening to go this perfectly, but you have to admit, the mortals never fail to entertain.

And as for Googlia? Well, let’s just say tonight, I learned that a little well-placed jealousy can go a long, long way.

...

26) Diary Entry: Cirrus

Date: Enter Booglia, and All Hell (and Earth) Breaks Loose

Well, the night took a turn.

Just as I was enjoying Travis Clarence's ridiculous flirtations, a tear in reality itself ripped open right in the middle of the restaurant, crackling with unnatural energy. From it emerged… I can hardly find the words to describe it. A monstrous, writhing entity with countless eyes, dripping with slime and tendrils that seemed to pulse like veins. It was a hideous, gibbering creature, a terrifying sight that almost looked… familiar.

Then, in a voice that made my ears burn and echoed inside my skull, the creature screeched, “I AM BOOGLIA! And you are messing with my daughter!”

For a split second, I froze. Googlia’s…mother? I mean, I suppose the resemblance is there if you squint hard enough and imagine her tentacle form. But before I could even process what I was seeing, Travis Clarence—sorry, Travis Clarence—started to glow. And I don’t mean in the way that men think they glow after a few drinks; I mean, actually emanating light like some sort of…well, some sort of otherworldly being.

He sneered up at the monstrous Booglia, his eyes lighting up like two miniature suns, and bellowed, “Oh yeah? Your bitch of a daughter started it!”

That’s when things descended into complete chaos.

Booglia screeched in fury and lunged at Travis. He met her with a force that made the whole building shudder. They clashed with such ferocity that tables flew, chairs toppled, and every single person in the restaurant was either scrambling out of the way or gawking in sheer terror. Hooters waitresses and patrons scattered in every direction as they overturned everything in sight, tendrils and fists flying. It was like some twisted, apocalyptic wrestling match.

I wasted no time. I rushed over to the corner booth where Helsik, Fina, Raphael, Levistus, Mephistopheles, and Glasya were still seated, watching this cosmic train wreck of a family brawl. By the time I got there, Raphael was clutching his drink, slack-jawed, and Levistus was fanning himself in utter disbelief. Glasya just rolled her eyes, but Mephistopheles leaned forward, his face surprisingly serious as he watched the fight rage on.

“Um, guys,” I muttered, looking around the group for a sense of whether this was as serious as it felt. “Shouldn’t we… I don’t know…do something?”

Mephistopheles turned to me, his eyes calculating. “It appears,” he said slowly, “that this Booglia creature is a star-spawn—a cosmic being from beyond mortal dimensions. Not something you’d want overturning chairs and grappling like a street brawler. If we don’t intervene, things might get…very bad.”

There it was—the tone. When Mephistopheles sounds calm like that, it usually means trouble on a scale I’d rather not imagine. Everyone else in the booth exchanged glances, and the unspoken agreement was clear: Booglia and her daughter drama might be entertaining, but if they were allowed to destroy reality in the process, it would be rather inconvenient for the rest of us.

And yet, as we sat there, transfixed by this creature and her cosmic wrath, I couldn’t help but feel a thrill. How often do you get to witness a battle like this?

So here we are, Hell’s inner circle, leaning forward in our seats, waiting to see what will happen next, deciding just how far we’ll let this chaos go before we step in. I have to say, even though I know we should probably intervene…I’m not ready for the show to end quite yet.

...

27) Journal Entry: Mephistopheles

Date: The Night We Beat Up a Star-Spawn, Apparently

Well, this evening was certainly unexpected. I was just about to intervene in the chaos of Booglia and her glow-stick of a daughter’s mortal paramour when something—someone, rather—crashed through the ceiling of Hooters, breaking through the lights and landing in a heap on the floor. The entire restaurant froze as this strange figure staggered to his feet, bare-chested, hairy, and, strangely enough, equipped with a set of angel wings that looked like they’d been recently dipped in whisky.

He was short, swaying dangerously, and clearly drunk. He looked around in a bleary, almost comical daze until his gaze fell on our corner booth. His eyes narrowed, and he pointed a very indignant finger at us. “What are ya doin’, ya bunch of feckers? Get in there and help my boy!”

We all exchanged a stunned silence. Was this some lunatic cherub come to rescue Travis—or Clarence, or Dinglenutt, or whatever name he was going by now? Before any of us could voice our questions, the angelic creature gave an ear-piercing battle cry and leapt into the fray, fists flailing wildly.

It was perhaps the most absurd sight I’d ever seen—this inebriated angel hammering his fists on Booglia’s massive, writhing tentacles, dodging snapping mouths and glaring eyeballs, all while shouting a slew of drunken curses and stumbling over his own feet. The entire tableau was so ridiculous that I found myself standing up, almost in a trance.

There was a beat of hesitation, and then, as though an invisible force pushed us forward, Hell’s finest joined the brawl. Helsik launched himself at one of Booglia’s smaller tentacles, sinking his teeth in with a fervor I hadn’t seen in centuries. Glasya, with a determined flick of her fingers, conjured flames that sent one of Booglia’s smaller, chomping mouths shrieking in agony. Levistus was downright theatrical, weaving through the tendrils, his blade flashing with every swipe. Raphael, still somewhat wobbly, managed to land a rather impressive punch square on one of Booglia’s biggest eyeballs, leaving her screeching in confusion.

And as for me? Well, if we were to end this spectacle, it was best done with a measure of precision. I threw a blast of cold magic that sliced through Booglia’s monstrous flesh like ice through butter, freezing her tentacles into brittle shards.

Together, in a chaotic, violent ballet, we reduced Booglia’s towering form down to wriggling bits and squirming chunks. Booglia’s screams echoed, guttural and hideous, as she flailed under our combined force, limbs collapsing in on themselves until the once-menacing entity lay in a twitching heap on the floor.

Finally, that wretched drunk angel stumbled back, panting and grinning proudly as though he’d personally ended Booglia. He looked at me, then the others, and slurred, “Now that’s what I call teamwork!”

As the dust settled and the restaurant creaked with the aftermath of our unlikely brawl, I couldn’t help but feel a strange satisfaction. Ridiculous as it all was, there was something oddly gratifying about putting a cosmic horror in her place—especially with such an…unconventional team. Hell’s inner circle had rarely looked so, well, united.

Perhaps tonight served as a reminder. Even for the darkest among us, sometimes the bizarre and the foolish have a place. And though I am certain Booglia will crawl back from whatever hellscape she was born from, she’ll think twice before tangling with Hell’s best.

...

28) Journal Entry: Helsik

Date: The Night Norris Chuck and His Legendary Entrance

Just when I thought things couldn’t get more ridiculous, fate—or some cosmic prankster—delivered a spectacle even I couldn’t have predicted.

In the aftermath of our impromptu beatdown of Booglia, a loud, drunken bellow echoed through the wrecked remains of Hooters: “NORRIS CHUCK!” The angel, yes, a full-on angel with wings (which appeared a bit tattered from what looked like years of bar fights), puffed out his chest and yelled his own name with the kind of drunken pride only a true Irishman could muster. He stood there, wobbling yet exuding this bizarre, disheveled glory.

“And ye’ve already met my son!” he roared, thrusting a finger at Travis Clarence, whose expression morphed from horrified confusion to outright horror. “My son,” he repeated, with a proud slap on Travis’s back that nearly sent him crashing into the remnants of Booglia’s writhing tentacles.

And then—well, then came the climax of our show. Googlia, in the throes of hysteria after witnessing Norris Chuck’s proclamation, bolted for the door with such fervor she might’ve torn the door right off. But, unfortunately for her, she slipped—right on a slick puddle of beer, wings, and the remains of half-devoured burgers. She skidded and fell, impaling herself cleanly on the jagged leg of an overturned table. The leg punctured her throat, and her pathetic gurgling cries started to mix with a puddle of blood that began to spread beneath her.

I exchanged a look with Mephistopheles, who seemed to be delighting in the absurdity of it all. Calmly, almost offhandedly, he turned to Travis. “If you care to help her, would you kindly point that box in your hand at her and press the red button?”

Travis, still processing that he’d just been declared the son of an alcoholic angel, stared at the box for a beat, then at Googlia’s writhing form. Finally, with a disbelieving mutter of “What in Hell…” he aimed the box at Googlia and pressed the button.

The box opened with a whoosh of infernal wind, and, despite her strangled, gurgling protests, Googlia’s soul was sucked out and captured, spiraling in a silent scream as it was transported back to Hell. Her body fell limp.

Travis looked around, horrified and utterly baffled. “What in Hell was that?” he yelled.

Mephistopheles shrugged, an almost lazy grin creeping onto his face. “Well,” he said with an exaggerated nonchalance, “that’s Hell for you.”

So, there we stood, in a trashed Hooters, our strange new angel friend drunk and triumphant, Travis in stunned silence, and Googlia—well, Googlia was dead. Again.

I can’t remember the last time I laughed this hard.

...

29) Drunken Journal Entry: Norris Chuck

Date: Tuesda–er, Wednesday? Bah, who’s countin’!

What a feckin' night! Last I remember, I was havin’ a quiet drink in the clouds, mindin’ my own angelic business, then BOOM! There I am, dropped straight through a Hooters ceiling into chaos like somethin' outta a bad dream. Now here I am, one or two (dozen?) pints later, sittin' in the aftermath with me ol’ shirtless self, a dazed son, and Raphael demanding enough liquor to drown a small country.

And who do I have to thank for this peculiar evenin’? Mephistopheles himself, that smug devil! He invited me to his "tower on the Styx," the ol’ sly bastard, like I’m a man who just drops into Hell for sightseeing! (Alright, fine, I might visit… if they’ve got a good bar down there. And hellfire golf, ideally. Y’know, just to see what it's all about.)

But before all that, where do I start? That little demon lass Cirrus was flirtin' heavy with my boy, Travis, until she decided she had eyes for Helsik and planted one on him right in front of the lad! Poor Travis, he looked like he’d been slapped with a wet fish. I mean, hell, I almost felt sorry for him—but, ah, not that sorry. Kid’s got to toughen up somehow.

And wouldn’t ya know it, Helsik, Cirrus, and Fina vanished without so much as a “cheerio!” Off they went, leavin’ us like the punchline of a bad joke—me, Raphael, Travis, and a rainbow-colored limo drivin' away into the night with that prancin' fella Levistus, who honestly I’d love to share a pint with one day.

Then—then, just as I’m wonderin' what in all the hells is next, the manager of this fine establishment comes runnin’ out from the back, arms flailin’, screamin' about all the damage. Well, Mephistopheles, in a rare show of "charity," casually hands the poor sap a stack of cash taller than me arm. A stack so big, I think the manager forgot every swearin' word he knew and just nodded with dollar signs in his eyes.

So now, here we are, just me and my boy Travis, with Raphael hollerin' for every bottle of liquor in the joint for our merry little band. The manager dashed off to fetch it all, probably picturin’ his next yacht or some new fancy car.

And as for me? I’ve got meself a free pass to one of Hell’s finest towers, an empty table of beer and wings, and a rowdy angel-lovin’ son who’s not quite sure who his da really is yet. Ah, the look on Travis’s face…priceless. Aye, we’ll see about it all tomorrow—or is it Thursday already? No matter.

Here’s to Tuesday (or Wednesday), and the absolute beautiful chaos of family!

...

30) Journal of Orcus

I have sniffed it—the pungent, putrid scent of something foul, vile… delicious. Googlia’s spirit, tangled up in her writhing bitterness, twisted lies, bottomless jealousy… and that, of course, unmistakable pang of despair. The type of soul rarely finds its way anywhere but the Abyss. So, when that scent wafted up to my chambers, I knew at once it was out of place. That wily Mephistopheles—he’d tried to snatch what was mine.

So I rose, heaving my bulk from the depths, stepping out of the Abyss itself, with every stride making the ground quake. A few pitiful creatures scattered as I lumbered across Hell. But when I reached the Tower of Mephistopheles, my shadow blotted out the miserable stone edifice, like a pebble at my feet.

I roared, my voice shaking the dark skies above, “You have what is rightly mine! You cannot contain Googlia’s evil! It belongs to the Abyss!”

And there, in his smug little way, Mephistopheles strolled out onto his highest balcony, looking up at me with that haughty expression he always wears, arms crossed, ever the devil’s bureaucrat. “Finders keepers,” he replied, as if that would end it.

I grinned, leaned down to let him see the truth, meeting his steely gaze with a grin that shook mountains. “Losers weepers,” I hissed back, enjoying the flicker of doubt that crossed his face.

And there, in my colossal fist, I showed him what he thought he’d kept hidden—a glowing, shrieking, writhing spirit, tangled in my grip: Googlia’s soul. With one slow, purposeful motion, I closed my fist over her, blocking out the light, her muffled cries fading to nothing.

Without a word, I turned and lumbered back, down, down to the Abyss.

Now, she is mine, and mine alone, for all eternity—a feast of darkness to savor over endless eons.

...

31) Diary of Googlia

I… I can't. I can't understand where I went wrong, where everything spiraled. I thought it was just about escaping hell, getting back to Earth, and maybe, just maybe, getting back at everyone who wronged me. But now… now I’m here.

This… this hunger. It’s the first thing I feel. Like every inch of my soul is being shredded apart, devoured by something so vast, so ancient that it makes Hell itself feel like a mere shadow. Orcus. He… he’s feasting on me. He’s eating me alive.

I don’t have a body anymore. There’s no flesh, no skin, no bones. There’s just this awful feeling of being torn apart, over and over again. Every thought, every emotion, every ounce of what I was slipping away into nothingness. My soul is an endless, writhing thing, trapped in some dark abyss of Orcus’ making. There’s no escape. No end.

I can feel him, his massive, crushing presence swallowing me whole, piece by piece. The whispers in my mind—his voice, or something worse, it doesn’t matter—tell me this is how it will be. Forever. I’ll never feel anything else again, except this.

All the rage, all the jealousy, all the hatred that consumed me on Earth—it was never enough. It was never enough to escape this.

I just wanted to be someone. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to make them all feel what I felt. But now… I’m nothing. I’m just food for the abyss. Food for Orcus.

I am nothing.

Forever.

...

32) Journal of Norris Chuck (A bit worse for wear, as usual)

Well, well, well. Where does the time go? I haven’t been sober in weeks, or maybe it’s months? Hell, maybe it’s only been a day—I’m no good with time anyway. But I’ve discovered something—a whole hell of a lot worse than a hangover.

Seems like that Booglia creature—y'know, the one who showed up at the Hooters and made a mess of everything—has more than just a few tentacles. It turns out her remains were used by some folks over in the United States Military. Who knew they’d be so creative with her leftovers? They used her to open… portals. To other planes of existence. I don’t know if that was her plan, or if someone in charge got the idea while I was busy chucking back more drinks than I should, but it’s happened. It’s happening.

I was a bit… miffed when I stumbled across this tidbit of information. Turns out the Department Of Government Efficiency (D.O.G.E., funny, right? Like the meme? Hah! Oh, I’m funny) is behind it. They’ve got all sorts of top-secret stuff going on, and they’ve got these portals now—portals to other planes, to other worlds, all thanks to Booglia’s remains. It’s chaos waiting to happen. They’ve got access to Hell, to Heaven, and to other damn worlds, some of which are just full of things I don’t even want to imagine.

Now, I'm no genius, but I can tell when things are going downhill fast. The US Military, with all their toys and their shiny tech? They’ve got more than enough firepower to take on a few demons here and there. But you throw in those portals? You throw in the sheer might of what they’ve got, especially with the D.O.G.E. at the helm? We need backup. Big time.

So, I did what anyone would do in this situation. I went to Mephistopheles’ tower—yeah, that one. The one with all the weird stuff. He was delighted to see me again, let me tell you. I told him what I found out, about the portals, about the military, about the mess it’s going to cause. And let me tell you, that devil’s not one to waste time. He’s already thinking about ways to use this little tidbit of knowledge. But here’s the kicker—this isn’t something Hell can do on its own. Not even with all the power Mephistopheles can muster.

No, what we need is a team-up—Hell and Heaven. Yeah, you heard me. Heaven. I’m serious here. If we don’t get those two factions on the same page, well, we’re gonna be looking at a big problem. The military’s not messing around, and if they’re allowed to open portals to places they’ve got no business being, then we’ll be dealing with far more than just a few angry demons. We’ll have things from every plane, every hell, and beyond tearing into each other like the world’s gone mad. Oh, wait—it already has.

So, I guess it’s time to make a few calls. And by calls, I mean yelling at angels and devils, and possibly a few spirits in between, because this is beyond anything I ever thought I’d be a part of. And I’ve been part of some big things.

In the meantime, I’ll just finish this bottle of whatever this is (I’ve lost track, honestly) and see where this goes. Maybe Heaven and Hell will play nice for once. Maybe. Probably not. But if we don’t try, then we’re all screwed.

For the moment, though, I’m just gonna sleep it off. Tomorrow? Big things. Maybe.

Or maybe just more drinks.

...

33) Journal of Helsik Evening, after a long day

Fina came to me tonight, asking for a bedtime story. I thought about it for a moment, unsure of what she was expecting. Perhaps tales of grandeur, of battle and conquest. Instead, I told her something simpler—something of my beginnings. After all, she’s grown up in the midst of Hell’s intrigues and schemes, but she doesn’t know the story of how I got here.

I began my tale, one that feels almost like a dream now, but it’s true, all the same.

I told Fina I was born in 1242, in a small village in Finland. It was a harsh land, full of long winters and shorter summers, but it was home. My people lived by simple means—farming, fishing, trading—but it was not the life I was destined for. From a young age, I was drawn to things that others called ‘unnecessary.’ Things that made my village whisper when I wasn’t around—magic, the occult, the unknown. There was an old wise man who lived on the edge of our village, and I’d often sneak away to sit at his feet, listening to his teachings.

I wasn’t a brilliant student. Most of the time, I was far too busy being a fool—drinking, making poor decisions, getting into trouble—but he was patient. He saw something in me, something that I didn’t quite understand yet. Magic didn’t come easily, but I had a knack for it. And soon, I became an amateur wizard. At least, that’s what I called myself at the time. My spells were small, petty things. I could light a fire, summon a breeze, stir the pot, but nothing impressive.

It wasn’t until that fateful night that I made my real mistake. I had been drinking far too much, as was my way, and I was trying to summon a demon. A minor one, nothing dangerous, just a little creature to impress the locals. Of course, being inebriated wasn’t the best state to be in while messing with forces beyond your understanding.

Instead of the lowly demon I intended to summon, I called forth Raphael.

The very Raphael.

At first, I thought I was dreaming. Raphael didn’t look like a demon at all—not like those twisted monstrosities I had read about. No, he was… charismatic. And charming. And, if I’m honest, he smelled like expensive wine. He surveyed the scene, raised an eyebrow, and then his gaze fell on my liquor cabinet.

"Well, well," he said, smiling a wicked grin, "this is interesting. I think we’ll get along just fine, Helsik."

And that’s how it began.

Rather than damn me to Hell for summoning him, Raphael had the good sense—or perhaps the curiosity—to sit down and share a drink with me. And, after a few more bottles, he became my drinking buddy. Over time, we spent centuries in each other's company, drinking, laughing, and occasionally doing some small favors for one another.

As the years passed, my little amateur wizardry grew into something more. I found myself in Raphael’s good graces, helping him with the occasional task, carrying out requests for him in the mortal world. At times, I wondered why he kept me around. But when you’ve been around as long as Raphael, you start to collect unusual companions. And I suppose I was one of them.

One day, after I had done enough favors for him, Raphael decided it was time to repay me. He took me to the icy mountains of Hell, to a palace called Cania, and told me it was now mine. The place was beautiful in its own way—cold, stark, and majestic. It was there that I truly began to feel the pull of Hell, its power, its strange allure.

And, of course, he didn’t just leave me the palace. He gifted me two attendants—Cirrus and her younger sister, Fina. They had once served Lady Inferna, but now they were mine. And just like that, I found my place in Hell, in Raphael’s inner circle.

By the time I finished the story, Fina had curled up next to me, her breath slow and steady. She had fallen asleep, no doubt dreaming of the strange and powerful world we now inhabited.

I think of the path I’ve taken, of how far I’ve come. It was never about power or titles for me—though I’ve collected a few—but rather about the simple pleasures in life. Drink, company, and a good story. Perhaps that’s why I find myself in such an odd place, surrounded by demons, devils, and otherworldly creatures. But in the end, none of it seems all that strange. After all, it’s been a long time since I made that first mistake—summoning Raphael.

And who would have known that mistake would bring me here, to the mountains of Hell, with my two most trusted attendants by my side?

Perhaps I should tell Fina more stories someday. Or maybe I’ll just leave it at that for now.

I’ll sleep on it.

...

34) Journal of Helsik Maladomini, Day unknown

I was summoned to Maladomini today, a place I’ve become more than familiar with over the years. Its cold, foreboding towers never fail to evoke a certain unease in me, despite how often I’ve been here. As usual, the atmosphere was heavy, but it wasn’t the looming shadows or the oppressive silence that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. It was the sense of urgency that hung in the air.

Fina, Cirrus, and I arrived to find Hell’s inner circle already assembled in the grand hall: Mephistopheles, Raphael, Levistus, Glasya, and the Devil himself. Oddly, Lady Inferna was not present. I wonder what that means—perhaps she’s off brooding somewhere, dealing with her ongoing power struggles, or maybe this is something above her.

I knew this wasn’t a casual meeting. When you’re summoned to a place like Maladomini, there’s only one reason. Trouble.

And, sure enough, as I settled into my seat, Mephistopheles wasted no time. He briefed us on the situation, one that was as absurd as it was troubling. The United States Military—under the now-suspiciously efficient Department of Government Efficiency (D.O.G.E.)—had somehow gotten their hands on Booglia’s remains and were using them to open portals to other planes of existence. I could hardly believe it at first. The mortals have truly surpassed themselves if they’ve found a way to exploit the power of star-spawn creatures in this way. The whole thing sounds like an experiment gone horribly wrong.

When Mephistopheles turned to me, I could feel the weight of his expectation. He needed my expertise.

"Do you have any insight into planar travel, Helsik?" he asked. "You’ve spent enough time dabbling in the mortal realms and their arcane secrets. Your knowledge might prove useful."

The room fell silent as I gathered my thoughts. I knew what they wanted to hear, but the reality of planar travel wasn’t as simple as pointing and opening a door.

“Well, as far as my research goes,” I began, "using star-spawn creatures, like Booglia, to open portals is unreliable. The star-spawn mind is… detached, to put it mildly. These creatures aren’t like the other entities we deal with. They exist across planes in a way that’s not entirely linear, and their remains—what little is left of them—are unstable. You try to use them for planar travel, and you’ll likely end up opening rifts to places that are just as likely to swallow you as lead you where you want to go. It’s a dangerous endeavor, even for us. The mind of the star-spawn can’t properly anchor the portals. That’s why it was so hard to control them in the first place."

I paused, letting the gravity of the situation sink in.

“But,” I continued, “if they’re using Booglia’s remains as a power source, and if they’re powerful enough to be meddling with the fabric of planar boundaries, well…” I trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence. They already understood the implications.

Raphael, leaning back casually in his chair, cut in with his usual dry tone. “Doesn’t seem like that matters much when they have nukes.”

His words were as blunt as a hammer, but it was the truth. The military’s capacity for destruction—especially with nuclear weapons—made their attempts at planar manipulation even more dangerous. If they were able to start ripping open gates to other planes at will, they wouldn’t be concerned with the consequences, not when they had enough firepower to burn the world to a crisp in an instant.

Levistus, who had been silently observing the conversation with a bemused expression, now spoke up. "So, what exactly are we supposed to do about this?"

"Well," I said, taking a deep breath, "we’re going to need to do two things. First, we need to stabilize their portal process, or shut it down entirely before they open a permanent gateway to something worse than Hell itself. And second, we need to figure out how they managed to weaponize star-spawn remains in the first place. If they’ve cracked that particular code, it could change everything.”

“Noted,” Mephistopheles said with a nod. His face was unreadable, but I could tell he was already planning his next move. “Any other ideas, anyone?”

But before anyone could speak, Norris Chuck, the drunken Irish angel, who had somehow managed to sneak his way into the gathering, stood up and waved his arms around, drawing everyone’s attention.

“Oi, oi! If you ask me,” Norris slurred, grinning from ear to ear, “we’re gonna need a bloody miracle or a good ol’ fashioned punch-up to stop these feckers. You can’t go wrong with a bit of brawling, eh?!”

The room fell into a stunned silence, and I could practically hear everyone’s collective sigh. That man has never been useful in any situation, and I fear he won’t change now.

Mephistopheles, however, didn’t seem particularly concerned with Norris Chuck’s antics. His gaze shifted back to me. "What do you think, Helsik? Any more useful insights?"

I shook my head, knowing there wasn’t much more to add. “For now, we’ll need to watch and wait. I recommend we send a team to the mortal realm to gather more information on D.O.G.E.'s operations. As for the portals, we may need to put a few things into place ourselves.”

A low murmur rippled through the group, and I could feel the tension in the room rise. There was little time to waste. The military had already unleashed a dangerous force by messing with star-spawn technology, and we couldn’t afford to let them get any further ahead.

For now, it seemed, all we could do was prepare for the coming storm.

...

35) Journal of Cirrus Earth, D.O.G.E. Headquarters

I had forgotten how much I hated infiltrating mortal organizations. The protocols, the bureaucracy, the endless layers of deception—it’s all exhausting. Still, when given a mission, you don’t question the method, you just get the job done. And this job… it’s starting to feel a little more personal than I would like.

Fina and I were dispatched to Earth today to gather intelligence on what the D.O.G.E. is doing with Booglia’s remains. The whole situation reeks of bad things coming, and I can sense the tension growing in the air. D.O.G.E.’s little project is far more dangerous than I could have imagined, and their meddling with interplanar portals is something that needs to be stopped—quickly.

We decided to split up. Fina, always the quieter one, took the lower floors and basement of the building, while I took the top half. My plan was simple: infiltrate as a high-ranking military official, get to the top floor, and meet with Meellon Usk, the head of D.O.G.E., under the guise of delivering a report on the portal technology.

I made my way up the building, cloaked in illusion, my form shifting to fit the military uniform of a high-ranking officer. With my aura of authority, nobody questioned me as I made my way through the corridors, past the guards and offices, to the top floor where Meellon Usk’s office awaited.

I felt the familiar pulse of magic as I approached his door, and a small part of me—just a small part—was excited. Usk was known to be a brilliant mind, a tech wizard who had far outgrown his mortal body’s limitations. I knew he’d be difficult to deceive, but I was confident in my skill.

When I knocked and entered the office, I gave my best military salute and laid out the illusion perfectly. "General Usk," I said, in a clipped tone, "I have a report on the progress of your portal technology and its potential applications."

His eyes flickered for a split second—just enough for me to notice. That was my first mistake: I underestimated him.

He didn’t respond right away, instead studying me intently. His sharp, calculating eyes roamed over me, and then… there was a subtle movement. The sound of something mechanical shifting beneath the floor, and before I could react, a shimmering cage of magic dropped down from the ceiling, trapping me inside.

I cursed under my breath. How had he known?

Usk stood from his desk, a faint smile on his lips. "It’s amusing," he said, his voice low and contemplative. "I’ve been tracking your movements for a while, Cirrus. Or should I say, the many faces you’ve worn to sneak around unnoticed?"

He stepped closer, and for the first time since arriving here, I felt a flicker of unease. He wasn’t just a brilliant tech wizard—he was also a master at reading people, even those like me. "I must admit," Usk continued, examining me as if I were a specimen, "I’m curious. Your kind, with all your powers, and yet you’re still so… fragile. But perhaps that fragility can work in our favor."

I stiffened as he circled the cage. His words stung, but it wasn’t his assessment of me that worried me. It was the way he looked at me. He wasn’t just seeing through my illusion—he was seeing me, and now, I wasn’t sure I could hide anything from him.

"Your remains," Usk mused, almost to himself, "they could prove quite useful. If your people can open portals using star-spawn technology, perhaps we can replicate it—or even surpass it. Imagine the possibilities."

My heart skipped a beat. I knew exactly what he meant—he was considering using me as a test subject, a way to further their portal technology by disassembling my essence and figuring out how to manipulate it. My blood ran cold.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” I spat, my voice trembling slightly, more from anger than fear. "If you think you can just take me down like this—"

Usk’s smile widened as he raised his hand, and the magic of the cage tightened, sending a searing pain through my body. "Oh, I don’t need to take you down, Cirrus," he said, his voice sweet and calm. "You’re already here. You’ve made it easier for me than you know."

I gritted my teeth. Damn him. He knew exactly how to push my buttons. He was trying to break me down, see what he could manipulate and control. But he was wrong if he thought I would make it easy for him.

I’m not a simple tool to be studied. I have my purpose, and it’s far from over.

But for now, I have no choice but to bide my time. Fina’s still down below, and I know she’ll find a way to help me… or at least stall Usk long enough for me to escape. For now, though, I’ll play his game. I'll make him think he's won, all while keeping my cards close to my chest.

I will not be his experiment. Not today. Not ever.

...

36) Dear Diary,

I should have known that the mortal world is far stranger than I could ever imagine.

I was sent down to the lower levels and basement of the D.O.G.E. headquarters to do some reconnaissance, but things got a bit… out of hand. As I was exploring the labyrinth of hallways and hidden rooms, I heard an announcement broadcasted throughout the building, and I immediately froze.

"Attention, all personnel. We have successfully captured a devil. A devil by the name of Cirrus."

My heart skipped a beat. Cirrus! They’ve captured her! My older sister, Cirrus, my mentor, my protector… If they’ve gotten to her, then I have to act fast. But I couldn’t rush off to her rescue just yet. I had a mission, and I couldn’t risk blowing it by being impulsive. So, I kept my composure, reminding myself that I needed information, and I continued to move through the building, though my mind was frantic with worry.

It wasn’t long before I found myself in the basement. The halls here were dark and cold, and the air felt thick with something I couldn’t quite place. There were strange hums and mechanical whirrs emanating from rooms I couldn’t see into. But then, as I passed an unmarked door, something caught my eye.

It was a room with a simple label—“Kittens.”

Now, I know this might sound silly, but I’ve always been extremely curious about kittens. The fluffiness, the way they play with absolutely everything, their tiny paws... it’s simply irresistible. My curiosity got the better of me, and before I knew it, I was pushing my head through the portal marked "Kittens."

The world on the other side was so… adorable. I could barely contain myself. Kittens. Everywhere. They tumbled around, their soft, fluffy fur bouncing with every move. It was pure chaos in the most adorable way possible. There were kittens climbing on each other, chasing balls of yarn, tumbling over one another, mewing happily. I had never seen such joy in one place before.

Without even thinking, I felt my heart swell with affection for every single kitten I saw. They were perfect, and they deserved more than the cramped little dimension they lived in. I wanted them to be free.

I turned back to the control terminal in the room and spotted a button labeled “Two-way travel.” Without hesitation, I pressed it, not fully thinking about the consequences.

And oh, my stars, the moment I hit that button, kittens exploded through the portal in a way that was almost too much to comprehend. It wasn’t just a few of them—they came out in droves. The flood of fluffy little creatures rushed past me like a wave of pure, unbridled energy.

It was glorious. I could feel the kittens, each little paw reaching out, their soft fur brushing against my skin, and I couldn’t stop laughing. I was swallowed by them, my body disappearing into a mass of tiny paws and tails. The room was soon covered with kittens, and they continued spilling out into the hallways of the D.O.G.E. headquarters.

I watched in pure delight as the kittens scampered and zoomed around the building, taking over everything. They bounced through hallways, darted through offices, and clawed at desks, completely transforming the sterile and cold environment of the D.O.G.E. building into something chaotic and whimsical. It was the most fun I’d had in centuries.

But I knew this could only last so long before someone—someone—noticed the kittens taking over their carefully planned operations. I wasn’t sure what the consequences would be, but I didn’t care. At that moment, the joy of kittens flooding the building was too much to resist.

I briefly wondered where Fina had gotten to, but I was too distracted by the adorable chaos that was unfolding around me. Surely, she’d be fine... or, at least, she’d get a good laugh out of the mess I’d made.

And Cirrus? She’d just have to wait a little longer. For now, there were kittens to enjoy.

Until next time, Fina

...

37) Dear Diary,

Well, that was an experience I never expected.

I was trapped in one of Meellon Usk's magical cages, listening to his ridiculous monologue about how he was going to use me for his experiments and how my devilish nature would be the key to his interdimensional plans. Honestly, the whole thing was mostly background noise to me. I was already planning my escape when something entirely unexpected happened.

Out of nowhere, the office door exploded—literally exploded—off its hinges, and in came an absolute torrent of kittens. Hundreds—no, thousands—of them. The kittens cascaded into the room like a tidal wave of fur, tackling Meellon Usk with the most chaotic, adorable energy imaginable. He was quickly engulfed in a mess of fluffy paws and tiny claws, completely overwhelmed by the cute onslaught. It was bizarre, and honestly, I couldn’t help but laugh as I saw the great tech wizard of D.O.G.E. brought to his knees by a herd of kittens.

I couldn’t resist—using my powers, I altered the enchanted cage around me. It began to shimmer and shift, morphing into something that looked like a tangle of wiggling yarn. The kittens, drawn to the softness and texture, immediately took interest. Within moments, they were swarming the cage, attacking it with their little claws and teeth, trying to dig through it, and overwhelming the enchantment with their sheer cuteness. It didn't take long for the cage to collapse under the weight of their fluffy magic.

As soon as I was free, I teleported straight to Fina’s location. To my surprise (though I suppose I should have known), she was literally carrying dozens of kittens, using her wings and arms to gather as many as she could. The sight was absurd. Kittens piled high in her arms, some nestled into her wings, and she was moving them with the seriousness of someone on a mission.

“Fina, what on earth are you doing?” I asked, my voice a mix of confusion and amusement.

“I’m saving them,” she replied, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “They’re coming with us.”

I sighed, knowing I couldn’t stop her, and honestly, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to. I joined her, scooping up as many kittens as I could and tucking them into my wings. With my load of squirming, purring little furballs, we teleported back to Cania.

When we arrived, the sight of Helsik’s grin was priceless. His reaction to the kittens was… well, it was exactly what I should have expected from him. His eyes softened, and he chuckled as he said, “Ah, kittens. They remind me of my youth.”

It was absurd, yes, but I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of contentment. The place felt warmer somehow, with kittens scampering around the icy palace. It was as if, for a moment, all the chaos and plotting in the world stopped, and all that mattered were the little creatures purring around our feet.

I’m still not sure what to make of all of this. But one thing’s for sure—life with Fina is never dull. Now we have a mansion full of kittens, and I suppose there are worse things that could happen.

Until next time, Cirrus

...

38) Journal Entry - Meellon Usk Date: Unknown (Time is irrelevant in the chaos of kittens)

I swear, I’ve never seen anything like this before in my life.

Cirrus... that damnable devilish woman... I should have known better than to trust her pretend loyalty. As soon as I trapped her in my enchanted cage, I thought I had the upper hand. But no, instead, I’m left here—dealing with the most ridiculous infestation of kittens that I could never have anticipated.

Those wretched little creatures have everywhere. They’ve crawled into the bathrooms, knocked over snack dispensers, and worst of all—they’ve started getting into the other portals. How is that even possible? I’ve spent years perfecting my system, and now they’ve started messing with every dimensional rift, causing instability. The Kittens of Chaos are taking over.

I’ve been in the central control room for the last hour, desperately trying to reroute the interdimensional portal network to stop the kittens from spreading through every plane of existence. My screen is flickering like a malfunctioning light bulb. Dozens of portals open and close, spitting out more kittens by the second. There’s fur all over the terminal, and I think one of them might have just chewed through my cables.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, I heard it.

A screech—a screech so piercing, so hideously shrill, it rattled the bones in my skull. It was like a nightmare incarnate. A voice bellowed in my head, its words scraping against my mind like claws on a chalkboard:

"I AM BOOGLIA and you have sent me KITTENS!"

I almost had a stroke. Booglia. Of course, it would be Booglia.

That horrible creature—the star-spawn. I'd thought her remains were long gone, but no, her essence must have been lingering in the ether somewhere, waiting for some tiny little influx of power. And what better to fuel that energy than an infinite supply of kitten-induced chaos?

I don’t know how, but somehow the kittens have awoken Booglia, and now she's very clearly pissed. The portal we had labeled “kittens” was never supposed to be connected to anything that could disrupt the balance of planes. It was an experiment, an innocent curiosity. But now, it seems that whatever fragment of Booglia’s mind was lingering in that dimension has latched on to this flood of kittens and is using them as a vessel. I didn’t sign up for this.

I’m trying to get the situation under control. I’m calling in reinforcements, though I don't know who else I could possibly trust with this. The kittens have taken over every inch of this building, and I’m beginning to lose track of time. What should have been an ordinary day of interplanar research has turned into an unmitigated disaster. I just don’t know what to do with Booglia's wrath, and these kittens keep pouring in.

And now, Booglia wants to be fed? She wants to eat these kittens? She can’t—she can’t! This is insane!

I don’t know how much longer I can take this. Every time I think I’ve sealed one portal, another opens with a new wave of kittens. It’s like a never-ending tide of fur and claws. What have I done?

At this rate, I’m considering just throwing the whole operation out the window and pretending this day never happened.

But, of course, Booglia is still screaming in my head. And that screech... That screech. It’s all I can hear now.

...

39) Journal Entry - Booglia

I AM BOOGLIA. I AM BOOGLIA!

I… I am awake.

The kittens… they woke me up. These insignificant, cute, ridiculous creatures. How did they do this? They filled my mind with their fluffy chaos, and it—something about it—made me aware again. The fog that’s always there in my mind is clearing. I am… becoming me again. I am no longer just a whisper, a leftover fragment of what was.

But… something is wrong. Something awful.

I can sense her. Googlia… My daughter. My precious Googlia.

SHE’S DEAD.

NOOOOOO!!!

I feel the pain of it in every corner of my being. She’s gone. Orcus—he devoured her. He ate my daughter. She… she was mine. She was all I had left. All I had. And now she is nothing more than… food?

I feel her death in the void. It’s like a cold wind on my soul. I don’t even know how to describe the pain, the hollow, gnawing pain that eats at me from the inside out. She was the only thing left that was mine, and now it’s gone, devoured by Orcus.

I need to fix this. I need her back.

I can feel that screeching voice—Meellon Usk. He’s there. I know he’s there. He’s the one who caused this mess. He’s the one who let the kittens flood his pathetic headquarters and woke me up. I’ll make him help me. I’ll force him to. He will open a portal to the Abyss, and I will go back to it.

I am not yet at full power. The kittens… they don’t fully fuel me. They’re just a distraction, a piece of the puzzle. I need more. I need to gather more pieces of myself. And then I’ll… I’ll do what I must.

I reach out with my mind, focusing on him—Meellon Usk.

"Meellon Usk!" I scream. "I need your help. You WILL help me! Open a portal to the Abyss. I need to reach it. I need to—"

I am louder than I’ve ever been. Louder than any scream I’ve ever made.

His resistance is weak. He hesitates. I feel his hesitation, his reluctance. He doesn’t want to help me, but he knows—he knows he has no choice. No one says no to Booglia.

I pour all my power into my voice. I twist it, bending it, until it invades his thoughts, until he has no choice but to listen. I will make him help me. I will make him regret ever standing in my way.

"Open the portal!" I scream again, and the words tear through the air. "I want to see the Abyss! I want to see where Orcus cannot touch me, where I can become whole again! I want to devour his soul! Let me out, Meellon Usk!"

I am relentless. I make him feel my fury, my sorrow. The pain of my daughter’s death fuels me, and I push harder, my voice growing more shrill, more demanding.

I hear him… hesitating, but then I feel the shift.

He’s agreeing.

“Fine,” he mutters, his voice strained. "I’ll open the portal. You… you won’t stop, will you?”

“No.” I tell him. “I won’t stop. Open it now, Usk. Or you’ll regret it.”

I feel him move, reluctantly, preparing the ritual. I hear the magic crackling around him, the sound of a portal opening. It humms in the air, unstable and heavy with power.

The rift opens. I can see it. I can see the Abyss.

I reach for it. I feel my power growing, rushing into me like a tidal wave.

This… This is just the beginning. I will devour Orcus. I will make him suffer for taking Googlia from me. I will make everyone suffer.

The portal shudders open wider. I step through.

I will not stop.

I will destroy everything.

...

40) Journal Entry - Norris Chuck

Well, this is a fine mess, ain't it? Just when I thought I could sit back and enjoy a nice pint of whiskey in the abyss (which, by the way, is the only way to enjoy whiskey—none of that watered-down human nonsense), I get hit with the news.

The blasted kittens. I should’ve known better. Kittens, in all their ridiculous fluffiness, always bring chaos, but I didn’t think they’d bring back Booglia. No, no. Not her.

Booglia… Booglia’s back. It’s all over. I should’ve stayed in my comfy corner, minding my own business, but nooo, I had to go and get myself involved with all this planar nonsense. And now, here we are. The Abyss is stirring. Booglia is stirring. And I think I might actually be the one who has to do something about it.

I thought she was gone. Done for. Gone the way of every soul that should be forgotten. But no, no. The blasted kittens, those little fluffy balls of disaster, went and woke her up. And now she’s out for blood. I can feel it. I can feel the chaos swirling around me. She's out, she’s angry, and she’s gunning for something, or someone. I’m guessin’ Orcus is at the top of that list, eh?

But she won’t stop there. Nah. That woman (if you can call her that) won’t rest until everything’s a smoking crater, and then she'll move on to something else, probably devouring all the souls she can find.

Sighs heavily.

I’m really not in the mood for any of this today. Not that I’m ever in the mood to stop a crazy star-spawn demon from wrecking hell and earth, but it’s all on me now. I didn’t even get a proper breakfast this morning, and now I’ve got to go save the day. Just like always.

What’s that old saying? "Better the devil you know..." Yeah, well, I’ve got that devil right in front of me. Not that I’m afraid of Booglia. Nah, she’s just a big ol’ whiner, always screeching about her daughter and her missing parts. If I had to put her back in the Abyss, I could do it in my sleep. Problem is, she’s got a lot of nasty friends. And right now, I don’t think I’m ready to get involved with whatever she’s planning next.

But hell, I don’t have much choice, do I? The cats are out of the bag—literally. Meellon Usk might’ve opened a portal to the Abyss, but this ain’t his fight. This is mine now. If Booglia’s back, I’ve got to stop her.

Fine. I'll do it.

First things first: time to sober up. Maybe. Maybe a little more whiskey... just a little bit. Then I’ll figure out how to stop Booglia. And when I do, I’ll make sure everyone knows it was Norris Chuck who saved the day.

Now, where’s my flask…

...

41) Journal Entry - Mephistopheles

Well, well, well, it seems that chaos has found its way to my doorstep once again. Booglia, that wretched star-spawn creature, is back. You’d think after all this time, I’d get a reprieve, but no—demons and deities alike seem intent on throwing everything into disorder. And to make matters worse, it was those blasted kittens that caused the stir.

Norris Chuck came stumbling into Cania, drunk as a skunk (per usual), but with important news. The star-spawn—Booglia—has somehow managed to pull herself back from the Abyss. And she's angry. How very unsurprising.

Of course, Norris was in no condition to offer much more than vague ramblings about kittens and chaos, but we managed to piece things together. Apparently, those kittens, in all their ridiculous and unassuming fluffiness, have disrupted the balance in a way I couldn’t have anticipated. A literal flood of those creatures is now roaming freely through Cania, and it seems they’ve done more than just act as annoyances—they’ve rekindled something far more dangerous. And of course, Booglia had to be the one to wake up. How very typical.

Helsik and I have spent the better part of the day researching weaknesses of star-spawn creatures. There are a lot of conflicting theories, but one thing is certain—Booglia is no small threat. As chaotic as her nature is, it’s also part of what makes her so dangerous. She doesn’t operate like the typical demon or devil. There’s a certain unpredictability to her, one that makes containing her, well, difficult.

As Helsik dives into more obscure tomes and scrolls, I'm more than a little distracted by the kittens. They are everywhere. Cania, the grand palace of ice and elegance, is now littered with kittens. In the halls, on the stairs, under my feet, rolling about and purring. It's... strangely endearing.

I find myself fascinated by them, something I never thought I’d admit to. The absolute chaos they cause is—dare I say it—entertaining. They seem to have some sort of innate magic of their own, an energy that’s difficult to ignore. Their presence is disrupting, sure, but there’s a certain charm to them that I can’t quite shake. It’s like looking at a perfect storm, only instead of doom and destruction, it's just an unrelenting flood of adorable, fuzzy chaos.

It’s amusing how such tiny creatures can unravel so much. But I must admit, I’ve almost found it... endearing. How odd.

Perhaps I’ll keep a few of them around. Their power, unpredictable as it is, might come in handy if things get any worse. I’ll have to see if their curious nature can be bent to my will. I doubt it will be easy, but there’s something in their chaos that appeals to me.

In any case, our primary concern now is Booglia. Helsik and I will need to continue our research into star-spawn weaknesses, and we’ll need to get our hands on more than just arcane knowledge. We’ll need to track down and neutralize this threat before it becomes anything more than just another problem to deal with.

But for now, the kittens remain my most unusual distraction. I do wonder if they’re aware of the havoc they’ve caused. If they only knew what they’ve awakened, would they still be so playful?

Hah. Perhaps not. But as for me, I suppose I’ll take the kittens over another long-winded speech from Norris Chuck any day.

Time to return to work. The kitten-filled halls of Cania can wait.

...

42) Diary Entry – Levistus

Ah, the sweet thrill of competition. The rush of excitement that courses through my icy veins as I prepare to issue a challenge that will leave the entire cosmos trembling. Yes, yes, I know—Booglia has been causing quite the uproar. And I’ve seen the chaos she’s stirred, the havoc she’s wrought with her return. But what could possibly shake her to her core, send a chill through her very being? What could rattle a star-spawn creature like her more than anything else?

A dance-off. Another square dance challenge.

Oh, how utterly delicious the thought is. You see, Booglia is many things: chaotic, destructive, mind-bending, and utterly unpredictable. But there is one thing she most certainly is not—square. She is a writhing mass of tendrils, eyes, and minds, and no matter how she tries to grasp onto some semblance of order, she will never understand the beauty of a simple, structured waltz.

She may have awoken from her abyssal slumber, seething with power and anger, but what can she do when faced with the only thing that could truly challenge her?

A square dance.

Of course, I had to add my own personal touch. No ordinary dance-off would suffice. No, no. This will be a spectacle of the highest order, an event the planes will remember for all eternity. A true test of one’s coordination, grace, and ability to follow a series of incredibly precise steps.

I’ve packed my rhinestone-covered attire, my perfectly fitted tuxedo, the one with the ruffled shirt that catches the light like diamonds on the snow. Yes, I am ready. The rainbow-colored two-story limousine, complete with its luxurious velvet seating, is already speeding through the planes toward Booglia’s last known location. The engine hums with power as I travel, knowing that once I arrive, the ultimate challenge will be laid before her.

I know she won’t be able to resist. How could she? What could possibly be more alluring than the idea of finally proving herself against me in a contest of rhythm, precision, and style? I know she’ll hate it. I know it will gnaw at her very sanity as she tries to figure out how to deal with the order of square dancing. There will be steps, and there will be angles. Her chaotic nature will flail hopelessly against it.

And I? Well, I shall dance like the divine being I am. My steps will be flawless, every move a testament to elegance and beauty. I shall twirl across the floor with all the grace of an ice sculpture in the moonlight.

Yes, yes. I can already feel the excitement building. Once I find her—once I face Booglia—there will be no turning back. I shall lead the way with elegance, and she will fall into the rhythms of the dance whether she likes it or not.

What’s that, you ask? Can a star-spawn creature like Booglia even appreciate the art of a well-executed square dance?

Well, I dare say I’ll make her understand. I’m Levistus, after all. I can make anything happen.

And when all is said and done, Booglia will find that in the end, there is nothing more dangerous than a devil with a perfect two-step.

Let the dance-off commence.

— Levitus

...

43) Diary Entry – The Devil

The time has come. The moment when the threads of fate, woven across the tangled fabric of Hell and the abyss, are pulling tight, snapping into place. And I can feel it. Booglia, that wretched star-spawned force of chaos, is about to rise in a way none of us have anticipated.

The irony is almost too much to bear, but that's the way it always goes, isn’t it? Orcus, the bloated, power-hungry beast of the abyss, devours Googlia—her soul shattered, consumed. He savors her like the petty morsel she was, not realizing that the true power, the true chaos, lies in the very essence of Booglia herself. Googlia was only a fraction, a shadow of what her mother represents.

And now Orcus, like the fool he is, has paved the way for the true storm to come. She will be the one to rage against him and she will bring a maelstrom with her that could shake the foundation of the abyss itself.

I’m on my way now. My motorcycle rips through the depths of Hell, its infernal engine roaring as I speed across the fiery plains, down the obsidian roads that lead me to Orcus' domain. There’s no time to waste. I’ve got to reach him before it’s too late—before he finds out the full extent of Booglia’s power. I can already hear his roar from here, I know he’ll never see it coming. That idiot Orcus is too full of himself to comprehend what a gift he’s been handed. Booglia isn’t just a force of destruction. She’s a dark well of power, an ancient chaotic force that can reshape realities if left unchecked.

I’ve got to warn him. He must prepare for her arrival.

If he is smart enough, that is.

The wheels of my motorcycle screech against the hard, blackened ground as I surge closer to the abyss. But even as I ride, a dark thought worms its way into my mind. Perhaps... perhaps Booglia doesn't need Orcus. Perhaps she will come to her own throne, a throne built from the ashes of those who dared to consume her daughter, claiming her rightful place at the apex of all that is chaotic.

But that’s a thought for another time. Right now, I’ve got to beat Orcus to the punch and make sure he’s ready for the tempest. I’m not the only one who wants to control the power she’ll bring.

I can feel the air thickening as I near the abyss. The temperature drops, but my engine hums with heat, the flames licking at my back. This is it. I can almost taste the power, the immense power Booglia will bring when she steps into the abyss. I won’t let Orcus—or anyone—get in her way.

I rev the engine, pushing faster, further, until the abyss looms ahead. I’m coming, Orcus. You’re about to learn why Booglia will make Googlia look like a trinket.

Get ready.

— The Devil

...

44) Journal Entry – Helsik

What a strange and unexpected turn of events this has all become. The Devil—yes, the Devil—ordered us to go to the Plane of Order to find Bill. Bill. A mechanic. But not just any mechanic, mind you. This "Bill" is the Prime Being of the plane, essentially the embodiment of Order itself.

I won’t lie—at first, I was skeptical. A mechanic, trying to bring order to the chaos Booglia threatens to unleash? Seemed like a waste of time. But after all the madness we’ve been through, I suppose I’m not one to turn down any sort of help at this point, even if it comes in the form of a giant wrench.

It wasn’t long before Mephistopheles, Cirrus, Fina, and I—accompanied by a bunch of the damned kittens, naturally—arrived in the Plane of Order. It’s a strange place, sterile in a way I can’t quite describe. Everything seems perfectly aligned—at least, in the beginning. You can’t help but feel this stifling precision in the air, like everything is under tight control, every piece in its exact place. There’s a quiet hum of machinery all around us, a symphony of structure. Everything works as it should, a perfect machine.

And there, standing in the middle of it all, was Bill.

I thought he would be some sort of massive construct, something towering and imposing. But instead, he’s just... well, a guy. Middle-aged, wearing coveralls. His face is expressionless, but his eyes? They’re alive with something far beyond my understanding. The air itself seemed to bend around him, like reality was somehow... tighter the closer you got to him. He is, quite literally, Order incarnate.

He listened as I explained what Booglia has become—a force of unpredictable chaos, with the power to tear apart not just this plane, but any reality she touches. I explained our encounter with her daughter Googlia, Orcus’s involvement, and the chaos she will soon unleash if we don’t stop her.

When I finished, he didn’t say much. He didn’t seem surprised either—just turned and started gathering tools. I thought it was strange at first, but then I saw the gleam in his eyes as he reached for a wrench. This wasn’t just any wrench—it was enormous, about four feet long, gleaming with precision in a way that made me nervous to even touch it. The “precision micro adjuster” as it was labeled. It weighed at least twenty pounds, but Bill lifted it with ease, as if it were a simple tool in his capable hands.

It seems we’re not just going to stop Booglia. We’re going to correct her.

The mechanical constructs around us—strange, humanoid beings made of perfectly symmetrical gears and plates—began assembling in coordinated movements, gathering supplies, tuning tools, and even collecting the kittens. I couldn’t help but chuckle, though I doubt Bill would have appreciated the irony. Kittens in the Plane of Order? A sight to behold, and yet it made a certain amount of sense. After all, there’s no greater test of order than trying to control chaos, right?

Fina, Cirrus, and I stood in the middle of it all, watching Bill prepare. He turned to us with a quiet, measured gaze. Then, without fanfare, he said simply, “Let’s go.”

No more words. No questions. Just action.

I’m intrigued. I’m worried, too. I can sense the massive power Booglia wields, and I know we’re about to face a storm unlike anything I’ve ever known. But Bill? He’s calm, confident—so much so that it’s almost unnerving.

We’re headed to confront Booglia now. And somehow, I feel like this wrench-wielding, precision-minded Prime Being may be the key to preventing the chaos she’ll bring. Or perhaps, he’s just the beginning.

I’ll keep writing, though. There’s no telling where this journey will end.

— Helsik

...

45) Journal Entry – Mephistopheles

I will admit, it’s been quite a while since I felt nervous. Nervousness, like most other mortal emotions, is something I am generally able to bypass. But walking through that portal into the heart of the Fae realm, I felt the stirrings of it—the anticipation, the slight sweat. And then she was there.

She called herself Thessalia, and she was... well, there’s no one quite like her, is there? She stood there, radiant in her gown spun of starlight, shimmering in waves that seemed to bend and reflect her every movement. Eyes like silvered midnight watched me with a curiosity I haven’t seen in ages, a gaze that was both ancient and startlingly fresh. I could tell right away that I’d have to tread carefully. The Fae and their laws of debt are not to be trifled with. Even a look could lead to an accidental binding. But in my centuries of dealing, of bargaining and twisting souls like rope, I found myself unexpectedly... flustered.

Yes, flustered.

I opened my mouth, and the usual confidence deserted me entirely. Instead of my usual clear, commanding presence, I found myself stumbling—of all things!—over the words. I tried to explain why I was there, about Booglia’s resurgence and the chaotic power she’s gathering. How Hell’s inner circle, Heaven’s assistance, and, yes, even Bill from the Plane of Order, are all rallying for this fight. But as I spoke, I found my thoughts diverging. Instead of merely laying out the facts, I kept noticing Thessalia’s slight nods, the way her gaze remained entirely fixed on me, and the graceful tilt of her head as she listened. I actually caught myself watching her too closely, as if she were an illusion herself.

Naturally, I was careful in my wording. The Fae and their insane laws of debt—one careless word and I might find myself bound in ways I hadn’t even intended. But every moment in her presence felt charged with something almost electric, something that was far outside the boundaries of my usual diplomacy. I struggled to walk the tightrope between being persuasive and being careful. To request without asking outright. To charm without inviting binding.

When I finally explained our plea for Fae assistance, she considered my words in silence. The moments stretched, and her gaze stayed upon me with a weight that was almost overwhelming. Finally, her lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, and she inclined her head slightly. It was an acknowledgment—a soft maybe, if you will.

What’s strange, though, is that usually in these sorts of dealings, my mind remains focused, calculated, taking mental notes of every possible angle. But with her, I found myself... oddly lost. What was supposed to be a transaction felt like something entirely different. Perhaps that’s her power, her own brand of magic that wraps around you and pulls you deeper without you even realizing it.

I returned through the portal to find Helsik and Bill waiting. My mind lingered, though, half of it still in that silvered, shimmering realm, with that starlit gaze searing through my thoughts. I have yet to hear back from Thessalia, but somehow, I feel that she will come. Or perhaps it’s just hope speaking—a curious, unfamiliar voice.

One way or another, we will need the power of the Fae. And if it comes with... complications, I suppose I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

—Mephistopheles

...

46) Journal Entry – The Devil

After racing across Hell and tearing through planes at speeds that would make mortal eyes water, I finally arrived at the edge of the abyss. There was Orcus, hulking and grim as always, lurking over the shadows like a thundercloud. He must have sensed something, though, because he was waiting there with a look of dark expectation. I got right to the point.

I explained how Booglia was back, that her chaotic presence was worming its way toward the abyss, and that if he took her in—consumed her as he had her daughter Googlia—he’d have a power source the likes of which he hadn’t even tasted with Googlia. Power enough to tip his influence across the infernal planes.

But before I could get into the details, he raised a massive hand to cut me off. The rumble in his voice was enough to shake the darkness around us. “Eat Booglia?” he scoffed, snorting with something that almost sounded like disdain, if not caution. “Eating Googlia was like a midnight snack. Eating her mother, though… No. I wouldn’t wish that kind of torment on my worst enemy.”

I paused. “Torment?”

Orcus sighed, shaking his colossal head. “If I consumed a creature of pure star-spawn chaos, my insides would never know rest. I’d spend all eternity churning and roiling. I’d know no peace, only a monstrous, perpetual indigestion.” He grimaced, clutching at his belly as if he could already feel the torment of it. “There is chaos, Devil, and then there is chaos too vile even for me.”

I had to admit, I hadn’t thought about the digestive implications. Here I was, thinking of all that power, imagining Orcus feasting on it and becoming an unstoppable force in Hell. But a ceaseless gnawing torment that could undo even the mightiest abyssal lord? Orcus wasn’t wrong to hesitate. It sounded like an eternal punishment of the worst kind—a perpetual, cosmic stomachache no potion could soothe.

“Then what’s your plan?” I asked, already recalculating.

Orcus frowned, a shadow falling across his face that could have drowned galaxies. “I’ll defend the abyss against her,” he said slowly, “but I will not take her into myself. Let her find another fool to bear that burden.”

The devil in me admired Orcus’s choice, and it dawned on me that this was going to be one hell of a showdown. Booglia was moving closer to the abyss, and we were going to have to keep her out without resorting to that dark idea of eternal consumption.

One thing’s for certain, though. This war will be fought by powers across the planes, and if Hell itself can’t swallow Booglia’s chaos, well... then perhaps no one can. And perhaps that’s what this all comes down to: How much order can Hell impose upon the ultimate chaos?

I left Orcus, feeling a strange mix of anticipation and dread, knowing that we were staring down something greater than a cosmic power struggle. We were going to see what happens when order and chaos collide head-on. And it would be… quite the show.

—The Devil

...

47) Diary Entry – Thessalia

This day will be remembered in darkness and silence among the Fae. The realms that thrive upon light, life, and subtle magic have been torn, corrupted, and scattered by an invasion of utter chaos. Booglia—this creature, this storm of destruction—has clawed her way into the Fae realm, leaving horror in her wake. Her essence taints everything she touches, and I can do nothing but watch the delicate threads of my kin’s life unravel from afar, their ethereal cries lingering painfully in the air.

For hours, I could hear their voices, their songs, turn to screams before they fell silent forever. But by all that binds us, I was powerless. I could do nothing but listen, far from the source of the calamity, bound by the ancient wards. And so I watched, helpless, as the heart of our land withered.

Then, in that uttermost hour of grief, there appeared before me an absurd sight. In the vast silence broken only by a crackling ruin, a double-decker limousine, no less, splattered in a riotous mess of rainbows and discordant colors, materialized before me, a brazen affront to the stillness. Levistus sat behind the wheel, his ever-flamboyant form gleaming as he rolled down the window, one eyebrow raised as he leaned out with that infuriatingly casual grin.

“We’re gonna go kill that bitch,” he said, his tone glib but his eyes hard. “You want to come?”

I hardly recognized myself in that moment. Gone was the Fae composure, the distance, the mask I wear so well. I did not even attempt to contain the fury that had welled up within me from watching Booglia’s assault upon my kin. The pain of my people’s ruin seared hotter than any curse I might have uttered. So, with nothing but rage and vengeance driving me, I climbed into the wild-colored monstrosity without a second thought.

To avenge my land and my kin, I shall make no alliances too strange, no pacts too risky. And as I sat in that ridiculous limousine, feeling the engines rev beneath me as we sped toward chaos incarnate, I made a vow: I will see this creature fall. There will be no mercy, no pity, only the full, cold might of Fae fury. Levistus may have come for revenge, but for me, this is justice.

...

48) Diary Entry – Booglia

Daughter…mine. Rage…her cries reach across all.

This realm. Glitter and light. Soft and weak. I am…greater. Rage burns, cracks open the land, burns the sky, burns these creatures with their frail light. They scream, they run…speedbumps. Daughter’s cries echo still. Nothing matters but daughter. Her pain, her cries call me. All must fall.

There, ahead of me, a wall. Not of stone, not of flesh. Colors too bright, twisting against shadow. Blinding, maddening, a hulk of…metal? Colors writhing upon it like…laughter. The colors challenge my form, yet I cannot tear through. The wall dares to stop me, dares to block me! Colors part, revealing shapes. A strange one with shiny skin, glittering like stars…a morsel…no, not yet. Another shape, proud and bold, adorned in the most maddening array of colors, his grin sharp and wicked.

"Square dance off," he says. His words strange, yet their meaning sharp and clear. He dares, challenges me to…to move, to beat, to take form in rhythm. Rage becomes focus. Dance...I know dance, ancient within me, born from stars. I will bend, I will break, I will crush him under rhythm. Daughter's vengeance depends on this dance. I must twist, I must turn, I must be the stars' fury given form.

I am Booglia. I am here to destroy, to avenge, to dance.

...

49) Diary Entry – Levistus

Alright, so picture this: I’m dazzling, I’m glowing, I’m executing the most magnificent square dance steps Hell has ever seen, if I do say so myself. I’m twisting and tapping circles around Booglia—who, let’s be real, is about as graceful as a collapsing building. The Fae Queen Thessalia’s watching with a look of half horror, half awe, and I’m in total control. Hell itself would be bowing if it could.

Then this…star-squid…absolutely breaks the rules. Mid-sidestep, she lashes out like a dirty cheater, reaching her slimy tentacles my way, and I swear I saw the glint of murder in those unholy eyes. Thessalia, quick as a flash, throws up a barrier between us just in time. Saved by the Fae Queen!

I snap my fingers, point right at Booglia’s writhing form, and shout, “Bitch, you did NOT!” She really thought she could square dance in Hell and break formation? Not on my watch. I laid into her, insult after insult, even pulling up that ridiculous name. I conjured a wall of flames, aiming right for that slimy star-flesh. But, of course, she defied every expectation.

Next thing I know, Booglia’s hovering above me, eyes ablaze with the cold, uncaring void of the stars themselves, and then she crashes down with a might I can barely comprehend.

And then…it’s over. Just like that, everything splinters, shatters, scatters in a million pieces. I feel my essence stretching across dimensions, pulling apart. But as I drift into the nothingness, I can’t help but laugh.

Because at least I won the damn square dance-off.

...

50) Diary Entry – Princess Thessalia of the Fae

Today I watched a friend fall.

Levistus, strange and flamboyant as he was, took a stand against Booglia with all the flair only he could summon. And for a moment, I thought he might win. His steps were swift, insults sharper than steel, and fire blazed around him. But Booglia… she didn’t fight fair. She never had. That creature shattered him, slashed him across the planes without a second thought. It was dishonorable. Disgusting. I never thought I’d feel such hatred.

I barely had time to process his fall when she turned her gaze on me, all those maddening eyes fixed and furious. I stood frozen, helpless—my power felt like nothing against that horrible cosmic void that she is.

Then a roar, sudden and wild, like thunder ripping through the sky, broke my terror. Out of nowhere, Mephistopheles himself arrived, riding a monstrous motorcycle like some infernal knight of legend. Before I knew it, his hand was at my waist, lifting me onto the bike.

In a flash, we were tearing across realms, racing through Hell itself, with Booglia close behind. I glanced back and, in the rearview mirror, saw one of her monstrous eyes growing larger, taking up nearly all of it—her fury was monstrous, all-consuming.

Mephistopheles shouted over his shoulder, something like, “She’s a lot bigger than when I first met her!” I clung tightly, though his calmness, his precision in the chaos, calmed me.

We’re headed toward the Abyss. Perhaps Orcus will have an answer to this cosmic monstrosity, or perhaps we’re only delaying the inevitable. But now I’m not running just for survival. I’m running for Levistus, for the Fae realm Booglia left in ruins, and for every dimension she’s ever touched with her chaos.

One way or another, I will see justice done.

...

51) Drunken Journal Entry – Norris Chuck

Right, so here I am, sittin' in a fine establishment up in Heaven (bless their lack of proper whiskey, but we make do), and I'm three sheets to the wind. Or is it four? Eh, doesn’t matter. Point is, I’m drunk. Proper drunk. The kind of drunk where ideas start soundin’ genius even if they’d get ye smacked sober in any other context.

Anyway, I'm contemplatin’—you know, deep-like—about this whole Booglia mess. On one hand, joinin’ up with the Hell crowd to fight her sounds like a recipe for eternal regret. On the other hand, she’s tearing through existence like a star-spawn tornado, and well… I can’t let that slide. I’m Norris Chuck, after all. Savior of kittens. Hero of Tuesdays.

So there I was, mid-drink, when BAM! Out of nowhere, two wee versions of me pop onto my shoulders. One’s decked out like an angel (ironic, considerin’ I’m already in Heaven), harp an’ all, and the other’s lookin’ devilishly handsome in red.

Angel Norris pipes up first.

"Chuck, me boy, this is your moment! Get yer celestial arse down there and help those poor sods! It’s the right thing to do! Booglia’s out there wreckin’ all kinds o’ realms. Think of the kittens!"

And then Devil Norris chimes in, puffin’ on a cigar and loungin’ like he owns the place.

"Chuck, don’t listen to that sap. Let Hell handle their own mess! Stay here, keep drinkin’, and let those pretentious bastards deal with their own cosmic cock-up. You’re havin’ a grand ol’ time, and you don’t owe nobody nothin’."

I blinked. Took another swig. Thought about it for a tick, and then—Eureka! I figured it out.

Why the hell (heaven?) not do both?

So I slam my glass down (okay, I might’ve missed the table a bit), stand up, and bellow to no one in particular, "I’LL JOIN THE BLOODY FIGHT! BUT I’M TAKIN’ THIS WHISKEY WITH ME!"

The bartender wasn’t impressed. But Angel Norris gave me a nod of approval, and Devil Norris raised a toast. That’s consensus if I’ve ever seen it.

So here’s the plan: I’ll fight Booglia. I’ll help save existence. And I’ll do it while stayin’ well-oiled with the finest spirits I can smuggle across dimensions.

Because that’s what Norris Chuck does. Cheers to me.

...

52) Cirrus’ Diary

I don’t even know where to begin. I thought we’d be watching from the sidelines, a bit of a safe distance, while The Devil tried to persuade Orcus to join the fight against Booglia. But then there was that roar—a deep, earth-shattering sound that made every fiber of my being want to run.

I looked up, expecting… I don’t know, another devil or some giant beast—but not this. It was like a mountain coming to life, with eyes bigger than lakes, mouths where they shouldn’t be, and countless writhing tentacles that reached out like twisted vines. For a second, I thought I was hallucinating, but then the truth hit me. This was Booglia. Bigger than before. Bigger than anything. Bigger even than Orcus himself.

Everyone sprang into action. The Devil and Mephistopheles tore toward her, their magic and flames flashing in arcs of fire and shadow. Princess Thessalia drew her sabre, and her blade shone like moonlight, slashing at Booglia’s grotesque limbs as they swiped at her. Glasya was lashing with a whip of pure fire, striking at the monstrosity from below.

But even Orcus, mighty Orcus, was struggling. Booglia was everywhere at once, her tentacles lashing out in all directions, her mouths screaming in a thousand voices. And then I felt them—those monstrous limbs twisting in our direction.

Helsik stepped forward, lightning sparking in his hand, forming a sword. He looked back at Fina and me just for a moment, and I knew he wouldn’t let us be taken. He struck with everything he had, slicing through the oncoming tentacles with arcs of pure, furious light. But Booglia’s power was too much. A tentacle broke past his guard, and before I could even scream, it wrapped around Fina.

I watched helplessly as it flung her through the air, sending her smashing into the side of Orcus’ throne. I heard the impact—a sickening crunch. Fina fell, crumpled, unmoving.

The world seemed to tilt. Time stopped, my heart thundered in my chest, and everything around us—the Devil, Mephistopheles, Orcus—all of it faded into the background. I had never felt fear quite like this.

Helsik was still fighting, his eyes blazing with a fury I’ve never seen, tearing at Booglia’s limbs like he was on a personal crusade. But I could barely see him through my own horror, my own rage.

Fina… my little sister, lying there, broken.

This ends here, Booglia. You can’t have her. You can’t have any of us.

I don’t know how, but we’re going to make you pay.

...

53) Norris Chuck’s Journal

Alri—right. ‘m writin’ this down, so, uh… wait, wait, where’s the start? Right.

Tonight, I went for it, flew right down from Heaven like a blasted shootin’ star, hammer in each hand, twice the power, twice the—uh… uh, yeah. Mighty fine idea. Right on top of that big ol’ heap o’ Booglia.

Landed right on her, smashed those hammers down—BOOM! Glorious, truly… but somethin’ wasn’t right. Hammers went and shattered, both of ‘em! Weird, I tell ya. But didn’t stop me, no sir. I keep smackin’ that big mountain o’ mess, poundin’ away, ichor sprayin’ everywhere. Pieces of her just… fallin’ off, splat, splat. ‘s like beatin’ a demon piñata, tentacles droppin’ one by one like overcooked spaghetti.

Then this voice. Somewhere, down below, hollerin’, “Stop you drunken fool! You’re makin’ things worse!” Hah, sounds like a cheer, don’ it? Like a real cheer. Ain’t nothin’ like support from Hell’s peanut gallery.

So I keep goin’—fightin’ Booglia, savin’ everyone, coverin’ myself in goop and glory, and, uh… blacked out, didn’t I? Think I won though.

...

54) Mephistopheles’ Journal

Well. This is the way Hell ends, apparently. Not with a bang, but with a drunken angel and two shattered bottles.

Norris Chuck fell right out of Heaven—out of Heaven!—and straight onto Booglia, wielding whiskey bottles. Empty ones, no less. The damn fool smashed them against her like they were enchanted blades, and when he stared at the broken glass, I thought maybe—just maybe—he’d have a moment of clarity.

But, no. Oh, no. Instead, he grinned that idiotic, celestial grin of his, and started carving into Booglia with the broken shards like some mad, drunken butcher.

And that’s when I saw it—each piece of Booglia he hacked away, each tentacle, each chunk of star-spawn flesh… started to turn. The raw chaos of the Abyss is too much—too unstable. Every dismembered bit of her was sprouting, wriggling, becoming new star-spawn creatures.

In my terror, I yelled, “STOP, YOU DRUNK FOOL! YOU’RE MAKING THINGS WORSE!” But all he did was shoot me a grand, sloppy thumbs-up, then kept slashing with a look of what I can only describe as blackout-berserker glee. Completely oblivious to the chaos he was unleashing.

And then, as though a final insult, Norris Chuck finally… blacked out, falling right off Booglia’s now-ravaged body with a graceless thud, leaving me and everyone else here surrounded by a dozen new, fully-formed, pulsing star-spawn monsters. Each radiating Booglia’s power, each seething with her rage.

I suppose this is it. All is certainly lost now.

...

55) Princess Thessalia’s Diary

The Abyss. A storm of chaos. A nightmare made flesh.

I stood on the brink of despair, my celestial sabre all but useless against the tide of star-spawn abominations now spilling from Booglia’s fractured form. The drunken angel Norris Chuck had done more damage in his blind fervor than Booglia herself. And she—she loomed above us all, a mountain of eyes, mouths, and tentacles, still roaring her rage at existence itself.

I saw no way out. No hope.

And then the portal opened.

From it emerged a man—if one could call him that. He was oddly unassuming, wearing blue overalls and sporting long, untamed hair, a thick mustache, and a bushy beard. Across his shoulder, he carried a four-foot wrench engraved with the words “Precision Micro Adjuster.” The sheer absurdity of his appearance was almost too much to process amidst the chaos.

The man surveyed the scene, his calm presence incongruous with the nightmare unfolding around him. His gaze briefly met mine, and in a voice as steady as a glacier, he said, “I’m here to put things in order.”

Before I could ask who—or what—he was, he moved.

Bill, as I would later learn he is called, launched himself into the fray with an energy that bordered on madness. Wielding his wrench like a warrior’s blade, he began smashing the remaining pieces of Booglia with relentless, almost frantic intensity.

“You need to die!” he screamed as he swung the wrench down on a writhing fragment. “Die! Die! Die! Just die already! Why aren’t you dead yet!?”

His fury was... chaotic, almost primal. Yet there was something about him, something in the precision of his strikes, the method in his madness, that whispered of a deeper purpose.

Even as I watched him wreak havoc upon Booglia’s remnants, I couldn’t help but wonder: who is this strange man? And why does he seem so at home amidst this chaos?

For the first time since this battle began, I feel a flicker of hope. Perhaps, in this wrench-wielding madman, we may yet find salvation.

...

56) Helsik's Journal

Finally, Bill's here.

The words slipped out before I could stop them, a mix of relief and awe at seeing the man we had pinned so much hope on step through the portal. For a moment, it felt like the tide of chaos that had overtaken us might finally be turned.

And then Bill started smashing.

I’ve seen fury in battle. I’ve seen the Devil’s wrath, the precision of Mephistopheles, and the reckless abandon of Norris Chuck. But Bill... Bill was something else entirely. He wielded his wrench like a divine instrument of annihilation, bellowing at the top of his lungs with a manic fervor that silenced even the ceaseless wails of Booglia’s fragmented remains.

“You need to die! Die! Die! Just die already! Why aren’t you dead yet!?”

Every swing of his Precision Micro Adjuster sent ichor splattering across the abyss. Tentacles, eyes, and mouths evaporated into nothingness under the sheer weight of his rage. Even Orcus, mighty as he is, paused to watch this... spectacle.

We all did.

By the time Bill had obliterated the last of Booglia’s regenerating fragments, he was breathing heavily, drenched in ichor from head to toe. He stood there for a moment, wrench gripped tightly in one hand, his eyes scanning the chaos he had wrought.

Then, without warning, he straightened his posture, slung the wrench over his shoulder, and turned to face us all.

“This situation has been corrected,” he declared, his voice as calm as if he’d just finished fixing a flat tire. “Please make room for my automatons.”

With that, he walked back through the portal without a second glance, leaving us all in stunned silence.

And then they came: a perfectly orderly line of automatons marching through the portal. They moved with mechanical precision, gathering up and containing every remaining scrap of Booglia before the fragments could reform. Their efficiency was uncanny, almost hypnotic.

I don’t know what to think of Bill. He’s a man of few words but tremendous action—a contradiction in every sense. But one thing is clear: he brought order to chaos in a way none of us could have imagined.

Now, as I watch the automatons carry out their work, I feel a strange mix of gratitude and unease. The threat of Booglia seems to be contained—for now—but I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve just witnessed something... otherworldly. Something even Hell may not fully understand.

...

57) Cirrus' Diary

It’s been days since Booglia’s second defeat, but peace hasn’t returned—not here, not to us.

Fina still hasn’t woken up. She lies in her bed, pale and motionless, with that cursed fragment of Booglia’s tentacle embedded in her side. No matter what Helsik tries, it remains there, stubbornly defying his power. Worse, it’s growing. I can feel the tension every time Helsik examines her. His face, once so strong and calm, now carries the weight of desperation. He’s pale, with dark circles under his eyes, and I know he hasn’t been sleeping.

Neither have I, really.

We consulted Bill, hoping his strange brilliance might save her. But he only shook his head and muttered, “I’m a mechanic, not a doctor.” That was the end of it. Even his automatons were useless against this cursed growth.

I’ve tried to be strong. For Helsik, for Fina. But the sight of her lying there, helpless, breaks something inside me. Last night, I stayed in her room, holding her hand until I drifted off in the chair beside her bed. When I woke, I was in my own bed, tucked in as if I were a child again.

Helsik must have carried me.

It’s such a small thing, but it hit me hard. He cares so much—about Fina, about me—and he’s shouldering all of this on his own. I wanted to yell at him, tell him he doesn’t have to bear it alone. But when I went to Fina’s room this morning, there he was, sitting beside her, the exhaustion etched so deeply into his features I couldn’t say a word.

He’s been at her side since this began, and I don’t think he’ll leave until she wakes—or until that cursed tentacle takes her from us.

I wish I could do something, anything, to help. But all I can do is stay here, watch over my sister, and try to be strong for both of them.

We’ve fought horrors and gods. We’ve battled chaos itself. And yet, this—this quiet, unrelenting waiting—feels harder than all of it.

I just want my sister back.

...

58) Helsik's Journal

I’m losing my mind.

I should have seen it—the cursed fragment of Booglia’s tentacle in Fina’s side. How could I have missed something so vital? Days went by before I noticed, and in that time, it’s rooted itself deeper, spreading its vile corruption through her. Every spell I’ve tried, every ritual, every desperate measure… nothing works. It just laughs at my efforts, as if mocking me for my failure.

I sit by her side, watching her pale, still form. Every shallow breath she takes feels like a knife twisting in my chest. And Cirrus—her pain mirrors mine, though she hides it better. She’s trying to be strong for both of us, but I see through her facade.

The more time I’ve spent with these two, the more I’ve come to understand how precious they are. Fina’s unyielding curiosity, Cirrus’ quiet resolve—they’ve brought light into this wretched palace of mine. Light I didn’t even realize I needed.

And Inferna—Inferna never appreciated them. Never valued them for who they are. She used them, discarded them, as though they were tools rather than the extraordinary beings they are. The thought of it makes my blood boil. Once Fina is well again, I’ll have words with Raphael about her. Inferna’s mind is twisted beyond reason, and her actions—her neglect—are unforgivable.

An imp arrived today, interrupting my vigil. It brought a summons from Mephistopheles. He’s insistent I meet him immediately at Maladomini, regardless of the situation here. Normally, I’d dismiss such a demand outright, but... perhaps Mephistopheles knows something that could help Fina.

Leaving her side feels like betrayal. I’ve barely left her room since this began, and every step away feels heavier than the last. But I’ll go. For her, I’ll do anything. If there’s even a sliver of a chance Mephistopheles can help, I have to take it.

I don’t know what awaits me in Maladomini, but I’ll face it. For Fina. For Cirrus. For the family I didn’t know I needed.

Please, let there be a way to save her.

...

59) Fina's Diary (fragment)

I… I’m awake. I think. But everything hurts. I can’t move. I can’t speak. It’s like I’m trapped in my own body, drowning in the pain. My vision is blurred, but I see someone sitting beside me.

It’s her. Inferna.

Why is she here? Where is Helsik? Cirrus?

She’s looking at me with a strange expression, almost like she cares. But that glint in her eye—it’s wrong. It’s cruel. She’s… enjoying this.

“Oh my poor dear,” she says, her voice mockingly sweet. “You seem to be awake. You were always my favorite, you know. So pliable. So obedient. Not like that sister of yours with her defiant streak. Look where that got the two of you.”

Her hand moves toward my side, where the pain is worst. I try to cry out, to move, to stop her, but I can’t. Her fingers touch the wound, and agony explodes through me. Tears stream down my face, but I can’t even sob.

Inferna grins, baring her teeth like a predator savoring its kill. “You were always so innocent,” she purrs, her fingers digging into my wound. “So naive. You never would have lasted if Cirrus hadn’t been there to shield you. But where is she now, little Fina? Where is your protector?”

Her hand slips deeper, and the pain is beyond anything I’ve ever felt. Stars dance in my vision. My mind screams, but no sound comes.

And then she rips it out—the piece of Booglia’s tentacle. I feel it leave me, tearing something vital in its wake. I want to die.

Inferna doesn’t stop. She doesn’t even look at me. She stares at the vile thing in her hand with sick fascination. And then she stuffs it into her mouth.

She eats it.

The sight is horrifying. Black ichor drips down her chin as she devours the thing like a ravenous beast. I think I’m screaming inside, but I don’t know anymore.

Darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision. Inferna rises, licking her lips. She looks at me one last time, smirking. And then she’s gone.

I can’t hold on. The pain pulls me under, and I fall into the void.

...

60) Cirrus’ Diary

I woke to the sound of screams.

Not just any screams—hellish, gut-wrenching, bone-deep screams that chilled my blood and froze my heart. My mind raced as I stumbled out of bed, the echoes of that horrible sound guiding my steps.

I burst into Fina’s room and stopped dead.

The palace staff were everywhere, their faces pale and stricken. The screams—those awful screams—were coming from Helsik, who stood at Fina’s bedside.

And then I saw it.

Blood. So much blood. It pooled beneath Fina, soaking the bed, the floor, everything. Her body was still, so still, and yet somehow, she was alive. Barely.

Helsik’s voice cut through the chaos, raw and furious. “It’s gone! WHO DID THIS?” His rage shook the room as he snapped orders. “Bandages! Salves! Anything we have for healing! And get me Threads of Flesh!”

The staff scattered, and Helsik turned to me, his face carved with grief and fury. “Cirrus, stay with her. We’re not losing her.”

The next hours passed in a haze. Time seemed meaningless as Helsik and I worked side by side. We stitched wounds, cast every spell we knew, and flipped through tome after tome searching for answers. My hands shook as I mixed potions, my heart pounding as I whispered prayers to gods I wasn’t sure would listen.

Helsik was relentless. His hands were steady, his voice commanding, but I saw the cracks in his armor—the desperation in his eyes, the guilt etched into his features.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Fina’s breathing evened out. She was still pale, still fragile, but she was stable. Alive.

The staff slumped to the floor in relief, and I followed, my legs barely able to hold me. I turned to Helsik, and something inside me broke. Without thinking, I threw my arms around him and hugged him tightly.

For a moment, he froze. Then he hugged me back just as fiercely, and I felt his chest heave against mine. He was crying. Helsik, the unshakable, was sobbing.

I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tears came, hot and fast, as I clung to him. All the fear, all the helplessness, poured out in a torrent. I sobbed for Fina, for Helsik, for myself.

When the tears finally slowed, I pulled back and looked at him. His face was streaked with tears, but his eyes burned with determination.

“Whoever did this,” I whispered, my voice trembling, “they’ll pay.”

Helsik nodded, his jaw tight.

Fina will recover. She has to. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure the one who nearly took her from me pays for what they’ve done.

...

61) Mephistopheles' Journal

The news reached me this morning: Fina lives, though by the barest thread. Helsik and Cirrus managed to stabilize her after what I can only imagine was a brutal and bloody effort. Helsik’s desperation and Cirrus’ heartbreak were palpable even from afar. Fina's resilience is remarkable, but I worry the trauma she endured will leave scars far deeper than flesh.

I find myself hoping she will wake soon, if only to put Helsik and Cirrus at ease. They’ve both been through too much.

Yet, something puzzles me still. Helsik came to see me not long ago, looking every bit the weary guardian, but I hadn’t summoned him. He spoke of seeking my counsel, yet I had no prior knowledge of his visit. Curious. Did someone else intervene? Or was it Helsik’s own instincts driving him to my domain? The intricacies of his mind remain as guarded as the vaults of Dis.

Still, these matters, grave as they are, are not at the forefront of my thoughts.

A note appeared on my desk this afternoon, written in elegant, flowing script. It bore the unmistakable touch of Princess Thessalia. She requests my presence in her court to discuss the consequences of Booglia’s rampage on the balance of the planes.

Thessalia. The Fae. The very thought makes my skin crawl. Their laws, their debts, their maddening penchant for twisting words—this is no casual invitation. No, this is a calculated move.

I’ve decided not to face her alone. I’ll bring Raphael. His moral clarity and... unshakable virtue will provide a counterbalance to their games. Or perhaps he’ll just serve as a shield should negotiations take a dangerous turn.

The oddest thing, though, is how much effort I’ve put into preparing for this meeting. I’ve been compiling reports on Booglia’s aftermath with a zeal I can’t explain. The data, the timelines, the implications—I’ve left no stone unturned. Why? It’s not fear. Not quite.

Perhaps it’s because I know Thessalia, for all her charm, will demand answers. And for reasons I dare not name, I want to provide them.

The Fae court awaits, and with it, more riddles than I care to entertain. But this is the game we play, is it not? Always another scheme, another layer.

One can only hope I’m as prepared as I feel.

...

62) Raphael’s Journal

The Fae realm is as beautiful as it is insidious. Every tree, every star in the twilight sky, feels alive with secrets and traps. It is a place where the air itself seems to mock you for being unguarded. I loathe it.

I came here with Mephistopheles to meet Princess Thessalia, ostensibly to discuss the repercussions of Booglia’s rampage and the resulting chaos across the planes. But from the moment we arrived, I noticed something odd about my uncle. He is nervous—genuinely nervous—but there’s something else, too. A strange, almost boyish enthusiasm. I would almost call it eagerness if that word didn’t feel wrong in connection with Mephistopheles.

He began presenting his report to Thessalia with all the precision I’ve come to expect. Charts, timelines, tactical implications—it was thorough, exact, and, admittedly, impressive. But Thessalia... she kept interrupting him.

“Oh, you’re so well-prepared,” she said at one point, her melodic voice dripping with something more than politeness. “Do you always plan this meticulously?”

Mephistopheles blinked, thrown off for only the briefest moment before recovering. “One cannot approach the Fae without proper diligence,” he replied, as if he were lecturing a student.

She smiled—a soft, genuine smile that, I admit, caught even me off guard. “Diligence is admirable. But I find spontaneity... fascinating.”

It was then I realized this wasn’t just an official meeting. Thessalia likes him. No, more than that—she’s smitten. The glances, the subtle shifts in her posture, the way she leans in just slightly every time he speaks. She’s practically begging him to notice her interest.

And of course, Mephistopheles, in all his bookish, calculating glory, is completely oblivious.

He went on about the impact of Booglia’s star-spawn remnants and their lingering chaos in various planes. Thessalia nodded along, but her attention clearly wasn’t on the report. She kept steering the conversation toward more personal matters, asking him about his experiences, his thoughts, even his feelings—a dangerous subject for the likes of us.

At one point, she outright said, “I recall the last time we met. You seemed quite... daring then. Do you still enjoy motorcycles, or was that a fleeting fancy?”

Mephistopheles, utterly clueless, responded with some dry comment about practicality and utility. I nearly groaned aloud.

Does he truly not see it? The Princess of the Fae is making it abundantly clear she doesn’t just want an alliance. She wants him.

I found myself growing frustrated, both with him and with her. Their flirtation—if you can even call it that, given how one-sided it is—felt inappropriate given the gravity of the situation. Booglia may be gone, but her chaos lingers, threatening all of existence.

Yet here I am, playing chaperone to my brilliant but socially inept uncle and a Fae princess who, despite her charm, is still dangerous.

Perhaps I should simply tell him. “She likes you, you fool. She doesn’t want another report. She wants another motorcycle ride.”

But no. That would only complicate things further. For now, I’ll keep my observations to myself and hope Mephistopheles doesn’t inadvertently insult her before this meeting is through.

If nothing else, this trip has proven one thing: even the Devil’s right-hand strategist can be a complete and utter idiot when it comes to matters of the heart.

...

63) Princess Thessalia’s Diary

Oh, what maddening creatures men can be—especially him! I have danced every step around the infernal labyrinth that is Mephistopheles' mind, only to find myself lost amidst his oblivious brilliance. How can one so cunning, so calculating, remain utterly blind to a truth so plainly set before him?

For days now, I have dropped hints—small at first, subtle as the flutter of a butterfly’s wing. A glance held too long, a word spoken with double meaning, a memory recalled with deliberate fondness. But nothing! My every effort has been met with polite indifference or academic detours into topics of no importance. The Fae laws bind me from acting directly, but they do not bind my creativity. Still, even my more pointed remarks have been met with the same unshakable, inscrutable wall.

I must explain, for my frustration stems not just from his ignorance but from my own constraints. The Fae laws are cruel in their rigidity. A Fae princess cannot approach one who is not a Fae prince or king, for it is considered beneath her station. Such a union must be initiated by the suitor. But the Fae, so vain and insular, never considered that a heart might be stolen by one who walks outside our courts. Nowhere do the laws speak of how to act if one of the Other initiates.

This loophole is my salvation.

Today, I took matters into my own hands. No more hints, no more games. I summoned Mephistopheles to my private quarters, dismissing Raphael and my attendants with a single wave. When he entered, I pointed to my ears—a silent command for him to hear nothing but what I chose to share. His curious brow arched, his calculating eyes narrowing, but he said nothing.

I presented my diary. I watched as he read the passages I had penned, detailing not just my frustrations but the Fae laws and the depth of my feelings. Every flick of his eyes across the page felt like an eternity. I had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. Yet I stood firm, my hands clasped tightly before me.

Then, at last, his expression shifted. Confusion melted into wonder, and that wonder gave way to something that took my breath away—a smile. It was not the sly smirk of a schemer or the polite smile of a diplomat but a genuine, warm smile that spoke of understanding and... acceptance.

Without a word, he stepped closer, the faint scent of brimstone clinging to him like a second skin. He raised a hand and summoned a portal, its edges shimmering with the infernal energy of his realm. He turned to me, extending his hand.

I hesitated only for a moment, my heart pounding like a wild drumbeat in my chest. Then I placed my hand in his, and together we stepped through the portal to Maladomini.

The Fae laws are silent on this act, and that silence is my triumph.

Here I sit now, in his home, the air thick with the heavy musk of his realm. And yet, I have never felt lighter. Mephistopheles—my Mephistopheles—has finally seen me. My heart swells with a joy I dared not hope for.

Let the Fae whisper and the courts scorn. I have found my path, and it leads to him.

...

64) Drunken Musings of Norris Chuck

Where am I? Oh, yeah, Heaven’s best bar. Or the only bar. Whatever. Doesn’t matter—it’s got whiskey, and that’s enough for ol’ Norris Chuck. Another round! Or was that the last round? Hell, it doesn’t matter.

Sittin’ here, nursing my liquid courage, I start thinkin’ ‘bout my boy. Travis Clarence. Yeah, that’s his name. Haven’t seen him in... what, centuries? Maybe more. Time’s weird when you’re dead. I should probably—hiccup—set things right with him. But do I wanna? Nah, probably not.

Wait. What’s this now? Ah, here they are again. Tiny me’s. One on each shoulder. Howdy, fellas.

Tiny Devil Me’s lookin’ rougher than usual, slurring his words worse than me, and I’m impressed. He spits as he talks, waving his tiny hands around. "Listen, big guy," he says, "you gotta go see Travis Clarence. The kid probably thinks you’re an ass—because, well, you are—but you gotta fix it."

Tiny Angel Me crosses his arms like he’s gonna argue, but then he scratches his tiny chin. "Hmm," he says. "You know what? For once, I agree with this slob."

Wait, what? Tiny Angel Me’s agreeing with Tiny Devil Me? I’m too drunk for this.

"Whoa, whoa," I say, "I don’t know about this. What if Travis don’t wanna see me? What if he punches me in my glorious mustache?"

Tiny Angel Me shrugs. "Then you deserve it."

"True, true," Tiny Devil Me says. "But hey, you can just keep drinking while you talk to him! Problem solved."

Tiny Angel Me raises a finger to object but stops. He looks thoughtful, then slowly nods. "That... could work."

Tiny Devil Me grins. "Hell yeah, it could!"

And just like that, they’re both on the same page, and I’m in trouble.

So here I am, staggering outta the bar, still clutching my glass. Gonna find Travis Clarence. Gonna... what was I gonna do? Oh, yeah. Set things straight. Maybe apologize. Maybe cry a little. Hope he doesn’t punch me.

Wish me luck, diary. I’m gonna need it.

...

65) Journal Entry – Travis Clarence

Great. Another night, another cheap dive, and another round wasted on some chick who’s clearly just milking me for drinks. She’s got that dead-eyed stare of boredom, throwing out half-smiles and fake laughs like it’s her job. Hell, maybe it is her job. Joke’s on me.

I try a line about motorcycles—girls love motorcycles, right?—but she just sips her martini and asks for another round. I’m starting to think I’d have better luck with the bartender.

And then... it happens.

CRASH!

The ceiling explodes. Dust, plaster, chunks of who-knows-what rain down, and right in the middle of the mess, sprawled out like a sack of drunk potatoes, is him. My father. Norris Freakin’ Chuck.

He’s flat on his back, bottle still in hand, grinning like he just hit the jackpot at a celestial casino.

"TRAVIS, MY BOY!" he slurs, staggering to his feet like he’s the star of some bad action flick. "I FOUND YA!"

Oh. My. God.

The whole bar’s staring, and I wish I could just sink into the floor. The girl—what’s-her-name—grabs her drink and bolts faster than I’ve seen anyone move. Great. Thanks, Dad.

"You... you’ve gotta be kidding me," I manage, rubbing my temples.

"I’m here to make things right!" he declares, wobbling over to me, still reeking of whiskey and bad decisions. "I been thinkin’, and I... I love ya, son!"

Dismay. Dread. Utter humiliation. That’s all I feel.

"Why, God?" I mutter to no one in particular. "Why now?"

The bartender glares at me, probably wondering who’s paying for the damages. My night’s officially ruined.

And the worst part? I know this is just the beginning.

...

66) Drunken Journal Entry – Norris Chuck

Dear Journal,

I FOUND THE BOY! My beautiful, bastard son, Travis Clarence! Crashed right through the damn ceiling of some ratty bar in Baltimore—classic Chuck style! Told him I wanted to make things right, y'know, like a proper father should.

And what does he do? Tells me to leave. LEAVE! Like I haven’t fought demons, angels, and my own liver to get here. So, naturally, I tell him he’s a Chuck, and Chucks never give up! That’s why I’m here! That’s what we do!

Then the lad says, "I’ll put this in terms you’ll understand." And WHAM!—socks me right in the ol’ glorious mustache.

Now, I’ll admit, it was a solid punch. Made me proud, honestly. But a Chuck ain’t one to back down from a fight. So, I swing back, and before long, we’re brawling proper, fists flying, curses thrown, breaking chairs and tables like it’s a damn saloon fight from the old west.

The fight spills outside into the parking lot. It’s messy, brutal, and downright cathartic. Blood, sweat, and whiskey everywhere. Then, out of nowhere, those two tiny little arseholes appear again—the angel and devil versions of me, floating above us like deranged Christmas ornaments.

"STOP FIGHTING!" they yell in unison.

I yell back, "Why are you two little arseholes here again?"

Tiny Devil Norris starts to answer, "Well, we’re here because—" but Tiny Angel Norris pulls out a tiny gun and points it at him! A tiny gun! Who knew angels were packing heat?

Tiny Devil nervously finishes, "...because we’re here. That’s all you need to know. The rest is classified." Then, poof—they vanish.

Travis, breathing hard, looks at me like I’ve lost my mind and asks, "Who the hell were they?"

And that’s when it hits me. "Holy shite! You can see them too?"

The lad nods, wide-eyed. I laugh, slap him on the back, and say, "Boy, we need to go have some drinks."

So, we dust ourselves off, bruises and all, and head back into the bar, ready to toast like proper Chucks.

Family bonding at its finest.

—Norris Chuck

...

67) Journal Entry – Raphael

The House of Hope is usually my sanctuary, a place of purpose and peace, but tonight it felt… wrong. I was working on my project—a machine that will eclipse his motorcycle. It’s nearly complete, a marvel of power and elegance, perfection forged in my own hands.

Then she walked in. Inferna. My father’s wife. Disheveled, manic, and unhinged. She greeted me with an unsettling sweetness that made my skin crawl.

Something was wrong—terribly wrong. I asked her what she was doing here, why she was acting so strangely. Her answer was as unconvincing as her composure: "I’m perfectly fine. Better than fine!" Her tone shifted, rising with every word until she was screaming at me. "I’m your mother! You should respect me!"

She advanced, wild-eyed, furious, but I didn’t flinch. I met her gaze and said, calmly but firmly, "You are NOT my mother. My true mother is Lilith, Queen of the Iron City."

That struck her like a blow. She froze, her expression twisting into one of shock, pain, and rage all at once. Tears welled in her crazed eyes as she mumbled incoherently and fled the workshop like a storm.

I stood there, shaken but resolute. Inferna’s mind is unraveling—something is very wrong. I have to speak with Father. Whatever this is, it feels larger than her madness alone.

The machine can wait. Family cannot.

—Raphael

...

68) Diary Entry – Inferna

Power. I feel it coursing through me. Greater than anything before. That wretched tentacle—I consumed it, and now it consumes me. But it’s mine. All mine.

Raphael doesn’t understand. None of them do. They look at me like I’m broken, but I’m whole. More whole than I’ve ever been. The whispers, the… the visions—they show me. Show me the truth.

They laugh. HA! Who? Me? THEM! The stars. Their teeth… Booglia still sings. I am her voice now. I am—no. Not me. Us. WE.

THE GLINT THE GLORY THE—!!! WORDS—FALL APARTAPARTAPARTAPAPAPART

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A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A

...

69 - nice) Journal Entry – Raphael

Father was... unusually grave when I told him about Inferna. Her madness. Her power. He didn’t question me, didn’t scoff, just closed his eyes and listened.

Then he said it: Lilith.

I didn’t expect her name to surface, but he was clear. I must go to the Iron City, to her, and I’m to bring Mephistopheles. He made a point of it—Mephistopheles, the same uncle who railed against the divorce.

"She’ll listen to him," Father said. "And you’ll need her help to handle Inferna."

Lilith. My true mother. The Queen of Lust and Hatred. What lies ahead?

...

70) Diary of Princess Thessalia

Today, Raphael arrived at Maladomini, visibly burdened, to seek Mephistopheles' aid. He spoke of Lilith, the Iron City's Queen, and the need to approach her for help against Inferna.

Mephistopheles grew tense—truly tense—when he spoke of Lilith, calling her the Queen of Lust and Hatred, a force of terrifying will who’s had eons to stew over her forced divorce from The Devil.

I suggested he bring me along. The Fae understand lust and hatred better than most; perhaps I could help. Mephistopheles protested, saying the Iron City was too dangerous, especially for me.

But I am not afraid. The treachery of Hell’s edge does not daunt me. I will not leave his side.

...

71) Diary of Fooglia (formerly Inferna)

...tentacles...writhing...stars...all mine now.

Power. Chaos. Yes. It burns. It twists. I see! I am not lost—I am more. I am not Inferna. No. She was weak, chained, dismissed. But now...

I! AM! FOOGLIA!

They will see. The Devil, smug on his throne, and his little brat Raphael—so clever, so righteous. They will kneel before me or be consumed.

I will rend their realms, tear their precious order to shreds, and scatter their ashes across the abyss.

Inferna is dead. Fooglia rises.

...

72) Diary of Lilith

Ah, the Iron City grows dull when left to its own devices, but what an interesting twist today brings. My son, Raphael, arrives in my throne room—finally, after so much silence—and he is not alone. Mephistopheles, ever the Devil’s lapdog, and a delicate Fae flower accompany him.

Raphael was quick to speak, as always. Something about a threat to Hell—so predictable. But the way Mephistopheles silenced him, I knew there was more. My suspicions were confirmed the moment I caught the Fae girl's glance. Fear. Trembling fear.

I couldn’t resist. “Why don’t you let your Fae paramour speak for you?” I asked Mephistopheles. His discomfort was amusing, but the girl? Poor thing. She tried to hide it, but her composure faltered. Such a delightful reaction, though hardly surprising.

I softened my tone for her sake—there’s no need to terrify the messenger, after all. Her tale, however, was intriguing: Inferna, my replacement (how quaint), spiraling into madness, power swelling beyond measure.

Inferna's fall is no surprise. She was always an unstable little thing. But this? Star-spawned chaos? How fascinating.

I will listen further, but not without amusement. They come to me now, desperate for help. How the tables turn in Hell.

...

73) Journal of Mephistopheles

Thessalia handled herself well, considering the circumstances, but I could see her discomfort as clearly as the iron walls around us. Lilith’s games... always tiresome, always calculated. Her focus on Thessalia, though subtle, irritated me more than I care to admit.

Lilith may not yet know of Booglia’s defeat—or of the star-spawn madness it nearly unleashed. Perhaps that’s why she fails to grasp the gravity of Inferna’s transformation. A fully realized star-spawn like Fooglia is a threat not just to Hell, but to all existence.

Still, she listened when I explained. That sharp mind of hers is as calculating as ever, and she understood the implications. Yet, her refusal came swiftly: the Iron City has its own problems. Dissent festers among its denizens, and she cannot lend aid while her rule remains fragile.

It was then I proposed a solution: we would help her silence the dissenting voices, restore order to her domain, and in return, she would aid us with Inferna.

Her smile at my suggestion was unnerving but telling. Lilith always loves a deal where she gets the upper hand. I only hope this gamble doesn’t cost us more than it saves.

...

74) Diary of Ducky McDuckface

Today, I, Ducky McDuckface, the beacon of enlightenment in this forsaken Iron City, reaffirm my commitment to justice and equality. Karl Marx, the prophet of progress, guides my webbed feet. Wealth must be shared! Not hoarded by Lilith, who lounges in decadence while the rest of us suffer.

I will not work, for work is beneath one as glorious as I. My existence alone is deserving of respect, adoration, and, naturally, the largest share of wealth. Who better than me to govern this wretched city? My brilliance demands it!

The time has come for revolution. My plan? Elegant, yet devastating. I shall organize the masses to pelt Lilith’s palace with pies! Not just any pies—perfectly baked, filled with fiery symbolism and raspberry jam. The palace walls shall crumble under the weight of our delicious rebellion.

Soon, the Iron City will be mine. Ducks of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your breadcrumbs!

...

75) Journal Entry – Raphael

The Iron City is as chaotic and strange as ever. Its citizens thrive in the oddest ways, yet their society has a peculiar fairness: wealth distributed based on work. A reasonable system, and one most here seem to appreciate.

But of course, there are outliers—those who want everything for nothing. They’re the ones supporting this so-called revolutionary, Ducky McDuckface. The name alone nearly made me laugh out loud, but the situation is serious enough to keep my focus.

The trail led us to a run-down, grimy apartment that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the first eon of Hell. I knocked politely, and from within came a shrill shriek: “GO AWAY!”

Mephistopheles, less inclined toward niceties, raised his fist and smashed the door clean off its hinges. No hesitation. We stormed inside.

There he was, Ducky McDuckface himself, squawking indignantly from the corner. Mephistopheles wasted no time—he grabbed the duck by the neck, hoisting him into the air like a sack of feathers. As he flailed and squawked, I noticed an open diary on a cluttered table. Curiosity got the better of me, and I skimmed it.

Pies. A pie rebellion. This is the genius we’re dealing with.

I held up the diary and said, “This is definitely the guy we’re looking for.”

Ducky’s protests reached new, hysterical heights as we dragged him from the apartment. On the way back to Lilith’s palace, he shrieked for help, and sure enough, three of his “supporters” appeared.

They wore cardboard armor, barely taped together, and waved pom-poms like they were lethal weapons. “Let our glorious leader go!” one of them cried.

Mephistopheles opened his mouth, likely to say something diplomatic, but Thessalia cut him off. “The Fae have experience with these types,” she said coldly, and drew her sabre with a menacing flourish.

The effect was immediate. All three supporters turned pale, visibly shook, and—yes—soiled themselves before sprinting away, screaming like children.

Ducky went limp in Mephistopheles’ grip, his feathers drooping with embarrassment. He didn’t say another word the rest of the way.

This is the so-called revolutionary force threatening Lilith’s rule? If it weren’t so ridiculous, it might actually be sad. Still, the Iron City feels no less dangerous. I can’t help but wonder what else lurks beneath its surface.

...

76) Diary of Lilith

Today proved to be unexpectedly delightful.

Raphael, Mephistopheles, and the Fae flower Thessalia returned to my palace, triumphant, with Ducky McDuckface still squawking indignantly in Mephistopheles’ iron grip. The sight alone was worth the wait.

Thessalia, trying to maintain her composure but clearly proud of herself, related their “harrowing” tale of hunting down Ducky, the confrontation with his so-called “supporters,” and their ignoble retreat.

When she described how the three pathetic fools soiled themselves at the sight of her sabre, I couldn’t help but smile. “They pissed themselves?” I exclaimed. “Oh, it does seem after all that the Fae flower has some thorns.”

Thessalia looked faintly flustered, which only added to my amusement.

As for Ducky McDuckface, I sentenced him to a fitting punishment: labor in the Iron City cafeteria, baking pies. He will charge for these pies, naturally, which means his “supporters” won’t be able to buy them since they refuse to work. And when they see their so-called revolutionary leader working—working!—they’ll abandon him and his ridiculous cause.

Lilith’s way is clever, isn’t it? No violence. No heavy-handed displays. Just poetic justice and a bit of irony.

Ducky was led away by my guards, his feathers drooping in defeat.

Then Raphael, ever the dutiful son, asked me with a raised brow, “Was this really your biggest issue in the Iron City?”

Oh, how I laughed. “The Iron City is just fine,” I told him casually. “This little exercise was more entertainment than necessity. Ducky was never a threat. But I couldn’t deal with him myself—that might have looked heavy-handed. And now, I have a new baker.”

I could see the faintest flicker of annoyance in Raphael’s expression, but Mephistopheles merely looked resigned. Thessalia, bless her, seemed relieved that her efforts hadn’t been wasted.

Satisfied that they’d proven themselves capable of handling even the smallest challenges, I agreed to their request. Inferna, or Fooglia, or whatever she’s become, is clearly a threat that demands attention.

For now, I’ll play along. The prospect of dealing with this star-spawned madness intrigues me. Besides, it’s been far too long since I’ve had the chance to remind the Devil of what I can do.

Yes, this should be very entertaining indeed.

...

77) Journal Entry – Helsik

Fina’s coma lingers, and with every passing day, my resolve falters. I’ve scoured every tome in my library, every scroll, every whispered legend, and found nothing—nothing—that could save her.

Until today.

Buried in a crumbling, half-forgotten book, I found a single entry: a lake in Russia, known for its mystical healing properties. Lake Baikal, the deepest lake on Earth, and perhaps the last hope I have.

Without hesitation, I gathered Fina and Cirrus and teleported us to its frozen shores. Winter’s grip is strong here—the air cuts like a blade, and the snow-covered landscape stretches endlessly in every direction. We bundled ourselves against the cold and stood for a moment in silence, contemplating what to do next.

That’s when he appeared.

A large, older man, wrapped in heavy furs, with a long white beard and a presence that seemed to command the frozen wilderness itself. He spoke with a thick Russian accent and introduced himself as Morozko.

My heart stopped. I knew that name. The face, the voice—it all felt familiar. It took a moment, but then it hit me. My mentor. The one who taught me my first incantations, who guided me in the old ways before I fell into Hell’s clutches.

He smiled faintly, as though hearing my thoughts. “Yes, Helsik. It is I,” he said, his voice calm yet urgent. “And I know why you are here.”

He told us to waste no time. Fina’s condition would not wait for second chances. We were to place her on the ice, as far out as we could go, and then return to shore, build a fire, and wait.

It wasn’t easy. Cirrus and I carried Fina miles out onto the frozen lake, the ice groaning beneath our feet. When we finally set her down, Cirrus broke into tears, her sobs soft but heart-wrenching. Her tears froze on her cheeks, glittering like tiny crystals in the moonlight.

I placed a hand on her shoulder. “Morozko is guiding us,” I said, though my own voice trembled with uncertainty. “We must trust him. Fina will return to us.”

Cirrus nodded, wiping at her frozen tears, and we turned back, leaving Fina lying still on the ice.

We reached the shore and built a fire, its warmth doing little to ease the chill in my heart. Now, we wait.

I don’t know what will happen. I don’t know if Morozko’s wisdom will save her. But I do know this: I will wait here as long as it takes. For Fina, for Cirrus—for the family I refuse to lose.

...

78) Diary of Gaia, Goddess of the Earth

My lake whispered to me today. Beneath its frozen surface, I felt the presence of life—fragile, broken, and burdened by a darkness so heavy it trembled against the balance of my waters. Morozko, my faithful herald, brought this soul to me, his urgency rippling through the currents of the lake’s spirit.

I reached out, and there she was—a young woman, her body comatose, her mind fractured and raw. I could feel the agony coursing through her even without touching her. So much pain.

Gently, I realigned the ice beneath her, letting her sink into the depths of my lake, cradled by the waters. As she descended, I reached into her mind, and what I found nearly broke my heart.

Her memories were tainted, haunted by the twisted specter of Inferna. Her every thought, her every moment, was plagued by a monstrous version of her former tormentor—a grotesque shadow that infected her deepest fears and rewrote her past into something cruel and unforgiving.

I felt her PTSD as though it were my own. The cruelty of her servitude under Inferna, the nightmare of Booglia’s chaos, and Inferna’s final, vile act—these things had shattered her spirit more than her body ever could be.

I was enraged. I am not often so. But the sorrow for what this poor soul had endured burned through me like fire.

In her mind, I took a form she might trust—a small, kind grandmother, someone gentle to guide her through the storm. I walked through her memories, finding Inferna’s corrupted echoes lurking in every corner, mocking, jeering, tormenting her further.

But I would not allow it.

With every twisted visage of Inferna I encountered, I batted them away, scattering their dark forms into the void. One by one, they fell, their screams dissipating into the ether, until her mind was free of the infection.

At last, I found her: a young woman, huddled in the fetal position, weeping inconsolably in the deepest recess of her mind. I knelt beside her and pulled her into my arms, holding her as she sobbed. I whispered no words, offered no false promises—just held her until her cries softened and her breathing steadied.

When she opened her eyes, I smiled and said gently, “We’re not going to let her hurt you anymore.”

She nodded, her strength flickering back into her gaze. It was time.

I told her to rejoin her family, and with a soft push, I sent her upward, through the dark, cold waters. The lake carried her, lifting her toward the surface, where I could feel the warmth of a fire and the love of those waiting for her.

Helsik and Cirrus are there. They will hold her, protect her. She will heal, and she will rise from this stronger than before.

The waters have done their part. Now, the rest is up to her.

...

79) Diary Entry – Cirrus

It had been about an hour, though it felt like an eternity. Helsik and I sat by the fire, the frozen expanse of Lake Baikal stretching endlessly before us. Every creak of the ice, every whisper of the wind, sent my heart racing.

Then it happened.

The surface of the ice shifted near us, a gentle ripple like a wave frozen in time. And there she was. Fina.

She emerged atop the ice, perfectly dry, her hair gently swaying as though kissed by the wind. Her eyes were open.

I was on my feet before I could think, sprinting toward her. Helsik was right behind me.

"Fina!" I cried as I reached her, grabbing her in a tight embrace. She was warm, solid, alive. I held her so tightly, I thought I might crush her, but I couldn’t let go. Helsik joined the hug, wrapping his arms around both of us.

We sobbed. Both of us. The relief, the joy, the sheer overwhelming gratitude—it all poured out in waves.

But Fina didn’t sob.

She hugged us back, her arms strong, steady. There was a calmness about her, a quiet strength that I hadn’t felt from her before.

Then we heard footsteps crunching on the ice behind us. We turned to see Morozko approaching, his imposing figure framed by the frozen expanse. He stopped a short distance away and said, “It is good to see you again, Helsik.”

Helsik released us and turned to him. “It’s good to see you too, old friend. Thank you.”

Morozko gave a small nod, his expression unreadable. “We will meet again,” he said simply, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the icy wilderness.

As the silence settled, Fina spoke a single word: “Inferna.”

Helsik and I turned to her, the strength in her voice startling us both.

“Inferna did this,” she said, her tone steady and resolute. “And she ate the tentacle. And now Inferna has to die.”

Her words hung in the air, sharp and unyielding.

Helsik didn’t question her. He simply opened a portal back to Cania, his icy palace. The three of us stepped through together, side by side.

Fina is back. But she’s not the same. She’s stronger. She’s ready.

And now, so are we.

...

80) Diary of Fooglia

I have arrived. His palace—once mine—crumbles under my rage.

The Devil, the so-called King of Hell, stands before me, and I see it in his eyes: surprise, frustration, and—fear.

I scream at him, my voice shaking the very walls. “You dare stand before me as if I am nothing? As if I haven’t spent centuries at your side, enduring your condescension, your indifference? Do you know what you’ve made me? What you’ve forced me to become?”

The memories of Inferna surge within me, bleeding into the power of Fooglia. I let them pour out, my words cutting deeper than any blade. “You lifted me out of Salem, out of my squalor during the trials, and for what? To keep me as your pet? Your toy? You saved me, yes—you gave me a soul when no one else would—but you never respected me. Never loved me. I was nothing but a tool to you, a pawn to fulfill your whims.”

His face hardens, but I don’t stop.

“You gave me this palace. You gave me luxury. You married me, making all my dreams come true. But what did any of it mean when you couldn’t love me as I loved you? You betrayed me, cast me aside, discarded me for your wretched son and your endless ambitions. And now... now you’ll pay.”

My form towers over him, tendrils writhing, mouths screaming, eyes blazing with the fury of countless lifetimes. I feel Inferna’s pain and Fooglia’s hunger melding into one unstoppable force.

“I will destroy you,” I roar. “Your family. Your kingdom. All of Hell will burn unless you kneel before me and submit to my rule. Bow, Devil, or face oblivion!”

The ground beneath us trembles, the air thick with the weight of my wrath. His silence is deafening, but I can feel his mind racing, his power stirring. He doesn’t scare me.

Not anymore.

I am Fooglia. I am Inferna. I am the wrath of the forgotten, the vengeance of the scorned. Hell will know my name, and it will bow—or it will perish.

...

81) Journal Entry – The Devil

Fooglia storms into my palace like the wrath of a thousand star-spawned nightmares, her grotesque form shaking the very foundation of Hell. She screams, rants, throws her weight around—all bark, all noise. She thinks she’s my undoing.

But truth be told? She’s nothing to weep or cry over.

As I watch her writhing and spewing venom, only one thought comes to mind: This bitch is clearly unhinged.

How did we get here? Oh, right—me trying to be kind to a failing little witch during the Salem trials. She was desperate, flailing in her mortal misery. I thought, “Why not give her a chance?” I saved her soul from eternal damnation, gave her a life of luxury, and made her my wife.

Big mistake.

Inferna—now Fooglia—was always bitter, jealous, and capricious. No matter how much I gave her, it was never enough. She demanded more, always more, but gave nothing of herself in return. And now here she is, screeching at me about respect, about submission. As if I would ever bow to this... thing.

I won’t. I can’t.

My mind begins to race. How to handle her? She’s a problem, sure, but not an insurmountable one. I’ve faced worse.

Then I see her.

Lilith.

Her fallen angelic form cuts through the chaos as she flies overhead, a silhouette against the raging inferno of Hell’s skies. My heart swells with memories of her—her strength, her cunning, her fierce love.

Lilith. The one I never should have forced away.

Fooglia has no chance. Not with Lilith here.

This will be over soon. Very soon.

...

82) Diary of Lilith

I descended into the chaos, my blade gleaming with righteous fury. There stood Fooglia, a grotesque, writhing mass of tentacles and mouths, her screeches grating against the air like nails on steel. The Devil stood nearby, silent, watching. I didn’t need his approval or his help. This was personal.

I slashed at her, each strike landing true, ichor spilling with every cut. She howled, her tentacles flailing, but I pressed on, relentless. Then, with an almost lazy swipe of her monstrous limbs, she caught me, wrapping me in her vile grasp.

She held me close to one of her massive, slobbering mouths, her breath foul and acrid, and began her cheap little villain monologue.

“You should have stayed in the Iron City where you belong,” she spat, her voice dripping with disdain. “You had no business meddling in the politics of Heaven and Hell. It was never your place. Look where it’s gotten you!”

Her arrogance was astounding.

“And let’s not forget,” she continued, her tone mocking, “The Devil chose me, Inferna, over you. Because I’m better. Smarter. More deserving. And you? You should slink back under the rock from which you crawled.”

I couldn’t take it anymore.

With a surge of power, I broke free from her grip, flipping backward in midair. My sword vanished in a burst of light as I clenched my fist. “Just shut up already,” I said, and swung with all my might.

My punch connected with one of her many mouths, and the force rippled through her grotesque form. She let out a massive, gut-wrenching fart, one so powerful it tore open a rift in reality itself. The air filled with a rancid stench as the portal sucked her in.

She tumbled through, flailing and screeching, until she landed with a sickening splat in the Mojave Desert on Earth. I watched as the sand beneath her began to swirl, pulling her down. In moments, she was gone, swallowed by the Earth itself. Not even a crater remained.

The rift closed, the air cleared, and silence returned.

I turned to The Devil, my chest heaving from the exertion. He was looking at me, and for a moment, I saw something I hadn’t expected: affection.

It was subtle, fleeting, but unmistakable. I’ve seen that look before, long ago, when things were... different.

It surprised me.

I don’t know what it means, or if it even matters. But for now, I’ll let him look. Let him remember what he lost. Let him wonder.

...

83) Journal Entry – The Devil

It’s done. Fooglia—Inferna—is gone, swallowed by the Earth itself, her chaotic stench finally purged from Hell. It’s better this way.

I watched Lilith handle her, knowing it was the right thing to do. The force of her blade, the strength in her voice, the sheer finality of her actions—it reminded me of what she used to be. Of what she still could be.

And yet, my thoughts linger on the past. Lilith’s massive mistake—her involvement in Heaven and Hell’s politics—was a catastrophe that nearly tore everything apart. I wish I could go back and change things, to steer her away from that path. She was a force of nature, a queen among queens, before it all unraveled.

If only she could clear her name with Heaven. If only she could once again be the master of her own fate. She deserves that, doesn’t she? After everything?

And then, of course, chaos found its way back in.

The ceiling exploded with a crash, and who should tumble down but Norris Chuck.

Drunk, as always, he landed in a heap, his whiskey-sodden wings a disgrace to anything celestial. He wobbled to his feet, dusted himself off as if this were a casual occurrence, and puffed out his chest.

“NORRIS CHUCK IS HERE!” he bellowed, raising a half-full whiskey bottle like a victory trophy.

I quietly facepalmed, muttering something about the indignity of the moment.

Lilith, on the other hand, looked at him with a mix of confusion and incredulity. Finally, she asked, in a tone as sharp as it was bewildered, “Cousin?”

Norris froze mid-swig, blinking at her. “Lilith? That you?” he slurred, before taking another swig.

I groaned inwardly. This was going to be a long night.

Still, in some absurd way, Norris’ arrival felt oddly fitting. Chaos is his specialty, after all. And if nothing else, it’s never dull with him around.

Now, if only I could figure out what in the fiery pits of Hell he’s doing here.

...

84) Drunken Journal Entry – Norris Chuck

Well, it’s happened again.

I was sittin’ in Heaven’s finest bar—the bar—nursing what I think was my fifth or maybe fifteenth whiskey. Time doesn’t work right up there, and neither does my liver, apparently. Anyway, I’m mindin’ my own business when those two little buggers pop up on my shoulders again.

Tiny Angel Norris Chuck, all self-righteous and smug with his stupid little wings, and Tiny Devil Norris Chuck, lookin’ as shifty as ever.

"You’re needed," they said in unison. "Immediately."

"Needed? Where?" I asked, glaring at my glass like it had betrayed me.

"In the Devil’s palace," Tiny Angel Norris Chuck said, polishing his tiny pistol like it was a holy relic. "It’s about Lilith."

"Wait—Lilith? As in the Lilith? Second cousin twice removed Lilith?"

"Yes," they replied together, which was unsettling.

"She’s redeemed herself," Tiny Devil Norris Chuck chimed in nervously. "Her actions with Fooglia have caught Heaven’s attention, and they’ve decided she can finally be freed of her shame."

I stared at them, trying to piece together the madness. "What in Hell are you two talkin’ about? Redeemed? Shame? You’re makin’ less sense than I am!"

Tiny Angel Norris Chuck brandished his tiny pistol, waving it threateningly. "It’s classified."

"Classified?" I barked. "Who even are you two?"

The two little nuisances exchanged a look before giving their answers.

"I’m Deus Ex," said the tiny angel with a smirk.

"And I’m Machina," muttered the tiny devil, looking like he wanted to disappear.

And then—poof—they were gone.

Next thing I knew, the floor gave way beneath me, or maybe I gave way beneath the floor. Either way, I found myself falling, tumbling through fire and brimstone, whiskey bottle still clutched in my hand.

CRASH!

I hit the Devil’s palace like a sack of drunk potatoes, landing in a heap. Dusting myself off and puffing out my chest, I bellowed, "NORRIS CHUCK IS HERE!"

Lilith was there, lookin’ sharp as ever, and she turned to me with a look I’ll never forget—part confusion, part disbelief. "Cousin?" she asked, her voice sharp enough to cut through the haze of my buzz.

I froze mid-swig. "Lilith? That you?"

I don’t know what’s happenin’, but apparently, Heaven thinks this is important. And if Heaven’s watchin’, I suppose I better make myself useful. Or at least look like I am.

One thing’s for sure—this whiskey ain’t gonna drink itself.

...

85) Diary of Lilith

Well, that was unexpected.

Norris Chuck—my second cousin twice removed, and clearly the most peculiar of our extended family—arrived with all the subtlety of a meteor strike, crashing through the ceiling of the Devil’s palace. He dusted himself off, bellowed his name, then explained, in his typical chaotic fashion, that Heaven had been watching my actions with Fooglia.

Apparently, they’ve decided I’m now “free.”

I should feel something monumental about this declaration. After all these eons, Heaven’s yoke of shame is finally lifted. But instead, I watched Norris drain his whiskey bottle in one go, mutter something incoherent, and then collapse on the floor in a drunken heap.

Typical Norris Chuck.

Before I could fully process the news, Raphael and Mephistopheles strolled into the room, casually surveying the chaos of the destroyed palace and the passed-out angel. They exchanged a glance, shrugged, and headed straight for the Devil’s liquor cabinet.

Raphael grabbed a bottle, and as they walked out, I heard him mention something about hellfire golf.

It occurred to me that if he wasn’t passed out, Norris Chuck would love joining them for that absurd sport. I almost laughed, but my thoughts were elsewhere.

As I stood there, I felt it. The pull of Heaven, distant yet persistent. The call was faint but unmistakable, like the echo of a forgotten melody.

And yet... when I turned to him, the Devil, I felt something far stronger. This place, this life—my old life—it tugs at me with an undeniable force.

I found myself slowly walking toward him. His presence was magnetic, commanding as ever. When I stood before him, I looked up, trying to mask my vulnerability with a demure gaze, my eyes wide and—dare I say—innocent.

Before I could speak, he answered the question I hadn’t yet asked. “Of course,” he said, his voice calm, steady, and strangely warm.

Joy surged through me, and I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face.

He didn’t have to say more. I understood. My place isn’t in Heaven. It’s here, where I belong.

...

86) Diary Entry – Fina

Today, something extraordinary happened.

I was sitting quietly in my quarters at Cania, taking time to think, to breathe, to process everything. It still feels surreal to be here, alive, after everything that happened. My body aches, and though Helsik and Cirrus have done everything to care for me, I can feel the wounds are more than just physical.

As I sat there, lost in thought, she appeared.

Gaia.

She stood before me in her astral form, the same kind, elderly grandmother who guided me deep beneath Lake Baikal. Her presence was warm, reassuring, but also powerful—ancient, eternal.

"Fina," she said, her voice soft but resonant, "Inferna, as Fooglia, has fallen into my grasp. I can drag her into my molten core, where she will be trapped until her wretched form expires. But I must ask... are you at peace with this?"

The question hung in the air like a heavy weight.

I thought of Inferna, of her cruelty, her torment, her twisted love of power. She consumed everything in her path, leaving destruction and pain in her wake. Even now, as Fooglia, she is a threat not only to me but to the very fabric of the universe.

I considered Gaia’s offer carefully. Was this justice? Was it revenge? Could I truly be free of Inferna’s shadow if I agreed to this?

The answer came slowly but firmly.

“Yes,” I said at last. “It’s the best idea. The universe—and I—will finally be free of her tyranny.”

Gaia nodded, her expression serene yet resolute. “Then it will be done.”

And just like that, she was gone.

I sat there for a while, feeling a strange mixture of relief and exhaustion. The weight of Inferna’s shadow seemed to lift slightly, though I knew the scars she left behind would take time to heal.

Eventually, I crawled into bed, the aches in my body pulling me under. For the first time in what felt like forever, I slept deeply and peacefully, knowing that the nightmare of Inferna was finally coming to an end.

Tomorrow is a new day. A better day.

...

87) Diary Entry – Inferna (as Fooglia)

They dare. They DARE.

I am Inferna! I am Fooglia! I am power! Chaos! The stars themselves bend to my will! And yet, here I am—dragged, suffocated, ensnared by this wretched goddess, Gaia.

I remember it—the portal, the fart, the Mojave sands pulling me under. I thought it was nothing. A trick, a misstep. But no, the Earth itself, this vile rock, loathes me. I feel it revile me, reject me, every grain of sand and shard of stone seething with hatred as it drags me deeper.

The silence is deafening.

I scream. I roar. I rail against them—against Gaia, her smug, insipid righteousness; against Lilith, that treacherous snake who dared to strike me; and against Fina, the pathetic wretch who never could stand on her own without Helsik or her sister to coddle her.

But they are not here.

Gaia remains silent, her presence oppressive, unmoving. I feel her power—ancient, unyielding—pushing me, pulling me, binding me deeper into the Earth.

The sand gives way to stone, the stone to heat, the heat to fire. The pressure crushes me, but I resist, even as my monstrous body betrays me, fracturing, dissolving.

It’s... it’s too tight. Too much. I can’t... I can’t breathe. The walls close in, the fire burns hotter, and the weight of the Earth presses on every part of me.

I feel small. Weak.

This cannot be the end. I am Inferna. I am—

I can’t... I can’t think.

I can’t...

No.

It’s silent now.

...

88) Journal Entry – Mephistopheles

I don’t know when it happened, but I’ve fallen for her—completely, hopelessly. Thessalia. Every word, every glance, every moment we share pulls me deeper. Yet, I can’t admit it, not outright. It’s too soon, too much. She’s only been by my side for a month or so, and she deserves time to adjust, to decide for herself what she feels.

Still, I find myself wanting to impress her, to share the wonders of existence she hasn’t yet seen.

I told her all about the battle with Inferna—or Fooglia, as she became. I spared no detail: the absurdity of her massive fart, the portal to Earth, her tumble into the Mojave sands, and her ultimate demise. Thessalia listened, her laughter chiming like bells at the ridiculous parts, her fascination shining when I mentioned Earth.

She confessed she’d never been. Her parents, ever protective, kept her far from the mortal realm. “What’s it like?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

How could I resist?

I decided to take her, to show her Earth’s beauty, and the most fitting place I could think of was San Francisco. Its hills, its bay, its unique charm—I knew it would captivate her.

Before we left, I counseled her on how to appear mortal, how to blend in. She took my advice... in her own way.

When she stepped into view, I was stunned. Gone were her flowing robes of starlight, replaced by a black leather jacket, a miniskirt, seamed stockings, and high heels. The transformation was... striking. I had never seen her like this before, and the effect was undeniable.

She twirled, clearly amused by my reaction. “Do I look normal?” she asked, a playful smile teasing her lips.

I managed to nod, though my thoughts were far from composed.

It wasn’t just the outfit—it was her. She could wear anything and still command the room, but this... this was something else entirely.

I reminded myself to keep my guard up. Earth, and especially a place like San Francisco, has its dangers. I will protect her, no matter what.

But as we prepare to leave, I can’t help but wonder what she’ll think of Earth. And, if I’m honest, I can’t help but wonder what she truly thinks of me.

For now, I’ll focus on the journey. But perhaps, one day, I’ll find the courage to tell her everything.

...

89) Diary Entry – Thessalia

San Francisco. I’ve heard the name in tales but never imagined I’d see it myself. When Mephistopheles opened the portal, I expected to emerge in the heart of a bustling city, surrounded by towering buildings and throngs of mortals.

Instead, I found myself in a place of peace and beauty.

Eucalyptus trees swayed gently in the wind, their fragrance mingling with the crisp air. Before us stretched a breathtaking view of the bay, the water shimmering like a thousand tiny mirrors beneath the sunlight. It was so... serene.

At first, I was confused. “This is San Francisco?” I asked, turning to Mephistopheles.

He smiled—just a hint, but enough to soften his usually composed features. “This is Inspiration Point,” he explained. “I thought arriving in the heart of the city might be disorienting. This seemed a more fitting introduction.”

He gestured toward the distance, where the tall buildings of downtown San Francisco stood proudly against the horizon.

And in that moment, I understood.

Mephistopheles hadn’t just brought me here—he’d thought carefully about what I would need, what would make this experience meaningful. His thoughtfulness wasn’t lost on me.

Still, admitting how much that meant? That would be too much, too quickly.

So instead, I let my teasing side take over. “You know,” I said, looking him up and down, “you didn’t exactly blend in yourself. A black suit? Really? You’re like a walking formal invitation.”

He adjusted his tie, feigning a nonchalant air, but I saw the faintest flush of color rise to his cheeks.

Before he could reply, I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Not a long kiss, but a quick, heartfelt one—just enough to convey my gratitude and affection.

“Well then,” I said with a playful smile, “please be my guide, and let’s explore.”

For a moment, he seemed startled, almost at a loss for words. But then he nodded, extending his arm to me like the perfect gentleman he always is.

San Francisco awaits, and with Mephistopheles by my side, I know this journey will be unforgettable.

...

90) Journal Entry – Mephistopheles

Thessalia has the energy of an overexcited kitten, and I am utterly outmatched.

From the moment we stepped through the portal, she’s been bounding from one marvel of San Francisco to the next, her enthusiasm unrelenting. I’ve spent centuries navigating the intricacies of Hell’s politics, the labyrinth of mortal souls, and the delicate egos of the divine—but none of that prepared me for Thessalia in Earth’s most eclectic city.

At Coit Tower, she stood at the top, utterly agog at the sweeping views of the bay and the city sprawled beneath us. “It’s like the world just keeps going,” she said, her voice filled with wonder.

At Fior D’Italia, the oldest Italian restaurant in America, she practically melted over every bite. “This... this is what Heaven tastes like!” she exclaimed, and I couldn’t suppress a small laugh. Her joy was infectious, though I did take a quiet moment to thank the chef for indulging her endless questions about every dish.

Salesforce Park left her marveling at the diversity of flora, her fingers brushing over leaves and blossoms as if they held some secret only she could hear. She even made a quiet joke about the unfortunately phallic shape of the Salesforce Tower, a comment that nearly caused me to choke on my breath.

And then there was the Golden Gate Bridge. As we walked its span, she stopped every few steps, her eyes wide as she took in the sights and smells of the bay, her hair tossed by the sea breeze. She turned to me at one point and said, “You were right—this place is beautiful.”

Her playful demands for explanations have left me thoroughly exhausted. “What’s this building? What’s that smell? Why is this food so good? And why on Earth are these trolleys so adorable?”

How do I keep up? I don’t know.

And yet... I wouldn’t change a thing.

Her excitement, her curiosity, her relentless energy—it’s all so genuine, so pure. Watching her experience Earth for the first time, seeing the world through her eyes, has been a privilege.

I’m tired. Exhausted, even. But I don’t regret bringing her here for a second.

Not one second.

...

91) Diary Entry – Gaia

A curious presence has entered my realm today, one I have not felt in eons. Thessalia, a Fae princess—young, bright, and brimming with the unrestrained curiosity of her kind. She moves through my Earthly domain with wonder in her heart, her steps light and her eyes wide with discovery.

It is rare for the Fae to wander here, rarer still for one of such lineage. I sense her awe at the sprawling beauty of San Francisco: the shimmering waters of the bay, the lofty heights of Coit Tower, the vibrant pulse of life in its parks and streets. She marvels at the flavors of the Earth’s bounty and delights in its creations.

Her presence is a ripple in my web, an echo of the ancient bond between Earth and the Fae. She treads lightly, her essence leaving no harm, but her energy hums with the vitality of her realm—a different rhythm, a different song.

She is not alone. Mephistopheles is with her, his aura unmistakable. His careful watch over her is both protective and endearing, a shadow of something deeper.

I will let them wander for now. Thessalia’s spirit carries no ill will, only fascination and joy. Her time here will enrich her and remind me of the old alliances and the long-forgotten connections between our realms.

But I will watch. Always, I will watch.

...

92) Journal Entry – Mephistopheles

Thessalia’s boundless energy finally began to wane today—only slightly, mind you. Her enthusiasm remains unrelenting, but even the Fae must pause for breath. As we wandered through San Francisco, she spotted a hill in the distance and asked me about it, her curiosity once again piqued.

I was initially confused. The hill wasn’t one of the city’s iconic landmarks, nothing that might stand out to a first-time visitor. But Thessalia has a way of noticing things others overlook. After some deliberation, I summoned one of those self-driving taxis—what do they call it? A Waymo.

That, of course, led to more questions.

“How does it work if it doesn’t have magic?” she asked, her expression both incredulous and fascinated.

I tried to explain. I truly did. I mentioned sensors, algorithms, and GPS systems, but for every answer, she had three more questions. Why does it need sensors? How do algorithms make decisions? What even is GPS?

It wasn’t long before I realized I was far out of my depth. When she asked me to explain the very basis of electricity, I admitted defeat.

“Humans have harnessed the power of lightning,” I said with an exasperated sigh. “All in all, it might as well be magic.”

She laughed, satisfied enough with my answer—for now.

The Waymo deposited us near Golden Gate Park, at Stow Lake, with Strawberry Hill rising in its center. The park was serene, its beauty understated compared to the grandiosity of other San Francisco sights, but Thessalia was captivated.

“There’s something atop that hill,” she said, pointing to the island in the middle of the lake. “We need to see it.”

I wasn’t about to argue. When the Fae sense something, it’s rarely random.

We began the walk across the bridge to the island, the gentle rippling of the lake providing a calm contrast to Thessalia’s usual vibrancy. She seemed quieter now, her gaze fixed on the hill as if it were calling to her.

I find myself wondering what we’ll find there. Something about this moment feels significant, though I can’t yet say why.

With Thessalia, nothing is ever ordinary. Perhaps that’s why I find myself drawn to her more with each passing day.

...

93) Diary Entry – Thessalia

Today was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

Mephistopheles and I reached the top of Strawberry Hill, the air crisp and the city below distant and serene. There, we found something peculiar: an old stone arch. It seemed ancient, far older than anything around it, as if it belonged to another time—perhaps another world.

Nearby, on a stone bench, sat an elderly woman, scrolling casually through her iPhone. She looked utterly out of place amid the timelessness of the arch and the quiet beauty of the hilltop.

As we approached, she looked up from her phone, her gaze sharp despite her apparent age. Then, with a thick Russian accent, she said, “Well well. A Fae princess and an Arch-Devil meet the goddess of Earth on the top of a hill. That sounds like the beginning of a very good joke.”

I stopped in my tracks, utterly taken aback. The goddess of Earth? Could it really be... Gaia?

I’ve heard the stories, of course—of the ancient ties between my people and the Earth, of Gaia’s power and wisdom. To see her here, so casually sitting on a bench, was almost too much to comprehend.

“Why have you appeared to us like this?” I asked, my voice tinged with awe.

Gaia smiled slyly, then, to my astonishment, transformed. Her elderly form melted away, replaced by the appearance of a young harlot, her dress provocative, her demeanor flippant. Then, just as quickly, she shifted back into the form of a kindly old grandmother, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Somehow appearing young doesn’t seem fitting to my four billion years,” she said, her tone playful but steady.

She stood and approached us, her presence commanding yet warm. “Thank you for making the trek to see me,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of the Earth itself. “I need your help.”

What could Gaia need from us? I don’t know yet, but the weight of her words lingers. This is no small matter; that much is clear.

I glanced at Mephistopheles, his expression a careful mask, but I could see the same questions burning in his eyes. Gaia, the goddess of Earth, calling for aid?

Whatever comes next, I can feel it will be monumental. And I will stand ready.

...

94) Diary Entry – Gaia

The moment has come when even I, Gaia, must seek aid beyond myself.

At the top of Strawberry Hill, I met with Thessalia, the Fae princess, and Mephistopheles, the Arch-Devil. Unlikely companions, yet both uniquely suited to the task at hand.

I explained to them the grim truth. Dissolving Inferna—Fooglia—within my core was necessary to protect the cosmos, but her essence, chaotic and vile, has created a cancer deep within the Earth. It festers, spreading through my molten veins, poisoning the life force I’ve nurtured for eons.

This is not a wound I can heal on my own.

Inferna’s essence is not fully corporeal. It defies the physical rules of my domain, slipping between what is and what isn’t. It takes a form that is felt, not touched, and this makes it immune to my direct influence.

The Fae, however, have always had a way with the intangible. Their ability to weave the unseen, to manipulate the ethereal, is what I need now. Thessalia’s people can reach into the spaces I cannot.

As I spoke, I could feel Thessalia’s wonder and determination growing. Mephistopheles, ever composed, kept his thoughts guarded, though I sensed the wheels turning in his mind.

I also shared with them my own struggle. I feel the Earth’s balance shifting, the very core of my being faltering under this corruption. The Earth, my body, is losing its harmony. Every breath of wind, every ripple of water, carries the weight of this blight.

I do not know how long I can maintain equilibrium.

This is why I called them. Why I sought their aid. I will not let my children—this beautiful, flawed, vibrant world—fall to ruin.

Together, we will find a way to cleanse this cancer. I must trust that Thessalia, with her Fae heritage, and Mephistopheles, with his cunning, will rise to this challenge.

For the Earth. For life itself.

...

95) Diary Entry – Thessalia

I knew the Fae were the ones who could help Gaia. It made perfect sense—our ability to work with the intangible, to weave the unseen into something purposeful, is exactly what this crisis demands.

I promised Gaia that I would do everything in my power to help eliminate the cancer of Inferna’s (or Fooglia’s) essence. She seemed reassured, though I could feel the weight of her trust pressing on me.

Turning to Mephistopheles, I explained that we needed to return to the Fae realm immediately. Without hesitation, he opened a portal, the swirling light pulling at the edges of reality.

Before I could even protest or prepare myself, he ushered us through. Typical Mephistopheles—efficient to a fault, always in control.

The moment we arrived, I realized where we were: the throne room of the Fae palace, standing directly in front of my parents. My mother and father, the King and Queen of the Fae, sat regally upon their thrones, their gazes piercing and imperious.

I was mildly disoriented but began to compose myself. “Mother, Father,” I said, gesturing to Mephistopheles, “this is—”

Before I could finish, my father lifted a hand, pointed at Mephistopheles, and with a single wordless command, he disappeared in a whoosh of light and energy.

I stood there, stunned, trying to process what had just happened.

“What the FUCK?” I finally blurted, the words echoing through the throne room.

Both of my parents raised their eyebrows, their expressions a mixture of disapproval and mild amusement.

My father, ever calm and calculated, said, “You bring an Arch-Devil into the heart of our realm without warning, Thessalia? What were we to think?”

I’m not sure what infuriated me more—the fact that they dismissed Mephistopheles so unceremoniously, or the fact that they assumed he was a threat.

“Mephistopheles is here to help!” I snapped, planting my hands on my hips. “Gaia sent me to get the Fae’s aid, and he’s been nothing but an ally. Do you have any idea what’s happening to Earth right now? Do you care?”

My mother sighed, exchanging a glance with my father. “We care, Thessalia,” she said. “But we must be cautious. The Fae realm is not so easily opened to outsiders, especially one of his... nature.”

I wasn’t having it. “You didn’t even give him a chance!”

They looked at me, silent and unmoving. I could tell this was going to be a fight—a fight I was willing to have.

But first, I had to figure out where the hell they sent Mephistopheles.

...

96) Journal Entry – Mephistopheles

Of all the places to end up…

The dimension of pain. I’ve always found the name far too dramatic. Sure, it’s a bit... unpleasant, but for me, it’s more of an occasional annoyance than a true torment.

I materialized there behind a familiar figure, facing away from me. He wore a long black coat, and his bald head gleamed with countless nails protruding in every direction. He turned around slowly, his perfect teeth flashing in a grin that bordered on unsettling.

“Mephistopheles,” he said warmly, though his voice always carried an edge of menace. “Long time, no see.”

“Nail-Face,” I replied, a small smirk tugging at my lips. “It’s been a while.”

We exchanged a brief nod of mutual respect. Nail-Face had always been an odd ally, one of those beings you didn’t necessarily want to spend too much time around but could rely on when things got truly dire.

“So,” he asked, leaning casually on a spiked staff that appeared from nowhere, “what brings you to this delightful corner of existence?”

I sighed, straightening my coat. “I was trying to help the Fae. Their princess and I were summoned by Gaia herself, and in the process, her parents decided I was a threat and banished me here.”

Nail-Face let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Ah, the Fae. Always dramatic, always insular. Honestly, not surprised. You’re lucky they didn’t transform you into a garden ornament first. Speaking of Fae drama, your nephew Raphael passed through here a few days ago.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Raphael? Here? What on Earth—or Hell—was he doing in this dimension?”

“Didn’t ask,” Nail-Face said with a shrug. “He didn’t stay long. Speaking of which, do you need a ride back to the Fae realm? I could make a portal for you.”

I declined, politely but firmly. Nail-Face’s portals always came with strings attached, and I wasn’t in the mood for his particular brand of hospitality.

Instead, I summoned a portal of my own and stepped through, landing right back in the Fae throne room.

And what a scene awaited me.

Thessalia was in a full-blown shouting match with her parents. Her black leather jacket, miniskirt, and seamed stockings—the outfit she’d chosen to blend into Earth—were apparently a grievous affront to her parents’ sensibilities.

“You call this dignified?” her father bellowed.

“Dignified?” Thessalia shot back, her hands on her hips. “Since when does fashion dictate my worth as a princess?”

Her mother chimed in, wagging a finger. “You look like—like—”

Thessalia interrupted, pointing accusingly at her mother. “Say it. I dare you!”

The whole thing was absurd, the typical dynamic of overprotective parents and a rebellious daughter cranked up to Fae levels of drama.

Then they noticed me.

The yelling stopped immediately. It was as if someone had scratched a record, and the room fell into a stunned silence.

I stood there, arms crossed, raising an eyebrow. “Did I interrupt something?”

Thessalia’s glare softened, replaced by a mischievous smirk. Her parents, on the other hand, looked thoroughly displeased.

I have a feeling this is going to get worse before it gets better.

...

97) Journal Entry – Oberon

Today was a peculiar day, even by the standards of the Fae.

Thessalia returned to our throne room, and of course, she brought an Arch-Devil with her. An Arch-Devil! Into our realm! Without so much as a word of forewarning. She stood there in that absurd outfit—leather and stockings, no less—looking every bit the rebellious child she insists she’s not.

I did what any sensible Fae king would do. I raised my finger to banish him again.

But before I could cast my spell, Mephistopheles, with his infuriating calm, waggled his own finger at me. “Now, now,” he said, his tone dripping with patronizing condescension.

And then—his audacity—my spell fizzled!

The magic dissipated in the air like a doused ember. For a moment, I sat frozen, stunned that he could so easily counter me. His power was undeniable, far greater than I had anticipated. Reluctantly, I sat back on my throne, schooling my features into a mask of annoyance, and asked, “What do you want?”

Thessalia stepped in before he could respond, her voice firm but earnest.

“Father,” she said, “Mephistopheles is here to help. I am here to help. Gaia herself has asked for aid to heal the Earth, and we cannot do it alone. We need the Fae.”

Her words were impassioned, but I couldn’t help but feel the sting of her earlier defiance still fresh in my mind. She pleaded with both Titania and me to look beyond our vanity, to see her as we’ve known her for a thousand years—not as a rebellious daughter but as someone who cares deeply about the balance of all realms.

It was a compelling argument, and for the first time in a long while, I saw a glimmer of the Thessalia we raised: wise beyond her years, empathetic, and strong.

Reluctantly, I softened my stance.

“Very well,” I said, my tone measured. “I will consider your request.”

Thessalia’s relief was palpable, though I noticed Mephistopheles’ slight smirk. No doubt he found this exchange amusing.

This matter is far from resolved, but perhaps my daughter has a point. If Gaia truly seeks our aid, then perhaps it is time for the Fae to step beyond our borders once more.

Still, I remain wary of this Mephistopheles. His power is formidable, and his presence unsettling. But for Thessalia’s sake—and for the Earth—I will set my suspicions aside. For now.

...

98) Diary Entry – Titania

Today, my youngest daughter, Thessalia, stood before us, pleading for help—not just for herself, but for Gaia, for the Earth. It was a moment that stirred something deep within me.

As she spoke, I was struck by her conviction, her passion. It reminded me of my younger self—of the days when I, too, argued with my parents, full of rebellion and idealism. Those were turbulent years, to say the least, and I understand now, more than ever, how difficult it must have been for my parents to handle me.

Thessalia’s words carried the weight of something much greater than a personal cause. The Earth, our oldest ally, is in peril, and the plea from Gaia herself is no small matter. My daughter recognizes the gravity of this, and I can see she has grown more than I realized.

Still, there is the matter of Mephistopheles.

An Arch-Devil. Here, in our throne room.

I admit, I am guarded. He is powerful, calculating, and unsettlingly composed. Yet, there’s something about him—a confidence, a grace—that catches the eye. Were I younger, and were the circumstances different... Well, it’s a thought I’ll never speak aloud, not in front of Oberon, and certainly not before the other Fae.

Speaking of Oberon, he is being his usual overprotective self. I find it endearing, really. He hasn’t changed after all these years, always the doting father, especially when it comes to Thessalia. She is the youngest, after all, and with Oberon’s history of dealing with our more... challenging daughters, it’s no surprise he reacts strongly.

But this is bigger than family dynamics.

As Thessalia spoke, I began thinking about our diplomatic ties within the Fae realm. The other kingdoms respect us, and I know we can pull the right strings to rally their aid. The challenge will be framing the situation in a way that highlights its importance to all realms, not just the Earth. It’s delicate, but it’s not impossible.

For now, I’ll let Oberon stew in his thoughts while I begin drafting plans. Gaia’s call cannot go unanswered, and if Thessalia believes in this mission, then I will stand by her. She is our daughter, after all, and her heart is in the right place.

And Mephistopheles? I’ll keep an eye on him. For all his unsettling charm, he seems... invested. Perhaps this alliance will prove fruitful after all.

...

99) Journal Entry – Mephistopheles

The Fae. For all their elegance and grace, for all their ancient wisdom and pretense of unity, they are as prone to chaos as any infernal court. Perhaps more so.

Today, I accompanied Thessalia, Oberon, and Titania to a diplomatic conference of the Fae monarchs—a gathering intended to address Gaia’s plight and secure aid for the Earth.

At first, it seemed promising. Most of the Fae present nodded along, their expressions thoughtful, their murmurs of agreement reassuring. But as Oberon stepped onto the raised dais to speak, the cracks in their unity began to show.

He was impassioned, hollering that Gaia has been the Fae’s greatest ally for eons. “If Gaia falls, who do you think will be next?” he demanded, his voice ringing through the chamber. “The Earth’s balance is our balance. To abandon her is to abandon ourselves!”

His words should have galvanized them. Instead, almost half of the monarchs rose from their seats, their faces twisted in defiance. They drew their swords, threatening war across the realm, their shouts a cacophony of outrage.

“This is not our battle!” one hollered. “We owe Gaia nothing!” another cried.

The chamber descended into utter bedlam. Monarchs shouted over one another, attendants scrambled to calm their lords and ladies, and I found myself marveling at the sheer disorder of it all.

I am no stranger to chaos; Hell thrives on it. But this? This was something else entirely. At least in Hell, the chaos is organized—structured, in its own way. The Fae, for all their pretense of poise, were utterly uncivilized in that moment.

I glanced at Thessalia, who sat quietly beside me, her jaw tight and her fists clenched. She was holding herself back, though I could tell it took every ounce of her restraint.

Finally, the opposing monarchs could take no more. They marched out of the chamber, their swords still drawn, their attendants scurrying behind them. Their departure left an uneasy silence in their wake.

The remaining Fae, those who had not joined the opposition, rose one by one. They pledged their loyalty to Oberon, their commitment to aiding Gaia. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

Still, the tension in the room was palpable. Even with this pledge, the Fae realm is fractured. The question remains: will it be enough?

As the conference ended, I found myself thinking of Thessalia. She said nothing throughout the entire ordeal, but I could feel her anger simmering beneath the surface. She wants to act, to lead, to unite her people.

Perhaps she will. If the Fae need anything now, it’s someone to remind them of who they are and what they stand for.

And if Thessalia needs my help to do that, I will be by her side. Always.

...

100 - Woot!) Journal Entry – Oberon

We stand on the precipice of disaster.

The Fae have gathered at the intersections of Earth’s ley lines, each group tasked with a critical role in aiding Gaia and exorcising the vile essence of Inferna—Fooglia—from her core. Titania and I are at Stonehenge, the most ancient and potent of these sites, joined by Gaia herself in her grandmotherly guise.

She looks pale, frail, and unwell. Her form seems to flicker, as if her very presence is tied to the fragile balance we are desperately trying to restore. The Earth groans beneath our feet, its torment unmistakable.

Before the gatherings, I had a word with Mephistopheles. I pulled him aside and made it clear: he was not to interfere in any Fae matters or set foot on the Earth during the ritual. This is our burden, our responsibility, and his presence could disrupt the delicate magic we are weaving.

Reluctantly, he agreed. But I could see the tension in his eyes. He’s grown attached—to Thessalia, to this mission. I only hope he honors his word.

The Earth is in chaos. Earthquakes ripple through the land, shaking even the ancient stones of Stonehenge. The winds howl with a ferocity I’ve not felt in centuries, and waves taller than any mortal building crash across the oceans.

Despite the danger, I’ve sent Thessalia to guide the ministrations at a ley line intersection in the middle of the Atlantic. It seemed safer than placing her on land where the destruction is greatest, though I admit my concern for her is no less. She has risen to this challenge with a resolve that makes me proud, and she is using the magical network to stay connected with the other groups.

At Stonehenge, we’ve begun the exorcism ritual. The essence of Inferna fights back, lashing out like a cornered beast. Its malice seeps through the Earth, and to our horror, the planet itself begins to shift.

The orbit is changing.

Gaia, trembling and pale, falls to her knees. Her voice, weak but urgent, cuts through the roaring winds: “Be careful! Too much turmoil could awaken some of my grandson’s worst creations.”

Her words chill me. Gaia’s grandsons—those ancient, forgotten monstrosities buried deep within the Earth—are horrors beyond reckoning. If they rise, this world may fall into ruin beyond saving.

We cannot falter, but the stakes have never been higher. The Fae must hold the line, and we must finish what we’ve started.

For Gaia. For the Earth. For all of us.

...

101) Diary Entry – Thessalia

I write this with trembling hands, uncertain if I’ll live to write another word.

Here I am, on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic, leading the Fae’s efforts at this ley line intersection. The air is heavy with magic, the ritual pulling at the fabric of reality itself as we work to purge Inferna’s essence—Fooglia’s vile stain—from Gaia’s core.

The ocean, once a serene expanse of blue, has become a maelstrom of chaos. Waves crash violently against our ship, towering high above us before slamming down with the force of mountains. The wind shrieks like a banshee, tearing at my hair and robes, and the rain lashes at us like knives.

For the first time, I feel true fear.

The ritual is working—perhaps too well. Inferna’s essence is fighting back, her malice twisting the elements, shaking the very foundation of the Earth. I can sense the Fae at the other intersections, their strength feeding into the spell, but it feels like a futile effort against the overwhelming tide of chaos.

And then, I see it.

A shadow, impossibly large, moving beneath the waves. The ocean surges violently, the surface breaking apart as the great sea serpent Leviathan rises from the depths.

It is magnificent. Terrifying. A creature of legend, Poseidon’s magnum opus, brought to life in a moment of divine inspiration and buried in the deep to slumber for eternity.

But now it is awake.

Its eyes, glowing with an ancient, unknowable power, lock onto me. Its body coils and thrashes, sending waves rippling across the ocean with such force I fear the ship will capsize.

I realize then what has happened.

Our battle with Inferna’s essence has stirred something greater. Leviathan is here, a harbinger of destruction, summoned by the Earth’s turmoil.

Panic grips me. I try to focus on the ritual, to maintain the threads of magic weaving through the ley lines, but my hands shake, my voice falters.

How can we hope to banish Inferna’s essence when this god-like being rises before us? How can we save the Earth when it feels as though the Earth itself has turned against us?

I look into Leviathan’s eyes and see my end.

The ritual feels distant now, its purpose blurred by the immediacy of my terror. I am no longer certain we can succeed. I am no longer certain I will live to see the result.

If this is to be my final entry, let it be known: I fought for Gaia, for the Earth, for all of us. And I hope that, in the end, my efforts were not in vain.

...

102) Journal Entry – Mephistopheles

I had promised Oberon I would stay away. I had given him my word. But sometimes, even the most carefully made promises must be broken.

I’ve been watching Thessalia via a scrying spell, unable to ignore the danger she willingly placed herself in for Gaia and the Earth. Her courage is boundless, her determination admirable, but when I saw it rise from the ocean—when Leviathan, Poseidon’s monstrous masterpiece, emerged from the depths—I knew I could not sit idly by.

The great serpent, with its massive jaws and unrelenting fury, was moments from swallowing her whole. I opened a portal without hesitation, stepping through to hover above the churning chaos of the Atlantic.

Hovering there, I summoned a blizzard unlike any I’ve conjured before. Ice crackled and roared as it spread across the ocean, freezing the waves and pinning Leviathan in place. Its massive jaws, lined with teeth like jagged cliffs, were frozen mere feet from the ship where Thessalia stood, her face pale with shock and terror.

But even that wasn’t enough.

I unleashed everything. Every vile creature I could summon, every dark force I could muster, poured into this plane. From every corner of existence, they came—monsters, beasts, abominations of unspeakable forms. They swarmed Leviathan like ravenous piranha, tearing into its frozen mass with a fury that rivaled the storm.

The water churned red with Leviathan’s blood, the air filled with its unholy screams. It was chaos, unbridled and absolute.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a familiar figure.

“Nail-Face,” I said, my voice steady despite the carnage.

He floated beside me, watching the bloody chaos with a grin that revealed those unsettlingly perfect teeth. “Well, well,” he said, wielding two giant nails like spears. “What in the world are you up to, Mephistopheles?”

I didn’t look at him. My eyes were on Thessalia. “I’m saving the woman I love,” I replied, my voice firm and unyielding.

Nail-Face shrugged, his grin widening. “Fair enough.” Without another word, he leapt into the fray, his nails flashing as he joined the dismantling of Leviathan.

With Leviathan distracted and its body falling apart under the assault, I descended to the boat. Thessalia was still standing, though barely, her eyes wide and her body trembling.

I swept her into my arms.

“Enough of this,” I said softly, though my tone brooked no argument.

Without giving her a chance to protest, I carried her through another portal, taking her back to Maladomini—my tower, my domain.

She’s safe now. That’s all that matters.

Oberon will rage, of course. But let him. I would defy every Fae king and queen in existence to ensure Thessalia’s safety. And I would do it again without hesitation.

For her, there is no line I wouldn’t cross.

...

103) Journal Entry – Oberon

The ritual continues, the air thick with the magic of the Fae as we weave our power through Gaia’s ley lines, fighting to cleanse her of Inferna’s vile essence. The Earth shakes, groans, resists us at every turn, but we press on.

And then I see it.

Through remote viewing, I witness Mephistopheles defying my explicit order. He has interfered. He has saved Thessalia from Leviathan’s jaws.

I am torn.

On one hand, I am enraged. He disobeyed me, interfered in Fae matters, and unleashed chaos upon Earth. But on the other hand, I am overwhelmed with emotion at the lengths he went to for Thessalia. I saw the look in his eyes, the determination, the raw, unguarded love.

I hate him for it. And I respect him for it.

I have no time to dwell on this, as Gaia stands suddenly, her frail form trembling but her voice stronger than it has been in days. “The ritual is working!” she exclaims, her words echoing with relief.

But her next statement crushes that hope.

“The Earth’s orbit has shifted too much,” she says. “We’re in danger of falling into the Sun.”

A heavy silence falls over the ritual site. I can feel the despair in every Fae present. Fixing an orbit—stabilizing the very movement of a planet—is far beyond even our combined power.

I look at Titania, her face pale with worry, and I cannot bring myself to speak.

And then—

With a mighty crash, a bare-chested, hairy man comes hurtling through what would be the ceiling, if we were indoors. He lands with an echoing thud that shakes the ground beneath us.

The man stands, his chest heaving, and bellows his name for all to hear: “NORRIS CHUCK!”

This declaration is followed by a loud burp, and then, with absolutely no explanation, he adds, “To the rescue!”

Before anyone can ask what in all the realms he means, he drops to the ground—into a push-up position.

“This is no time for exercise!” I yell, utterly incredulous.

Without looking up, Norris Chuck yells back, “Norris Chuck doesn’t push himself up! Norris Chuck pushes the Earth down!”

Before I can even process this absurd statement, Norris Chuck gives a mighty heave against the ground.

The Earth moves.

We all feel it. The very planet beneath our feet shifts, its axis stabilizing. Gaia’s eyes widen, and she cries out, “It’s working!”

Norris Chuck, still in his push-up position, yells, “Hurry up, ya Fae! Finish your feckin’ business so I can get back to what matters: drinking!”

I cannot believe what I am witnessing, but I also know an opportunity when I see one.

“Fae!” I shout to those gathered. “We have no time to waste. Let us finish what we started!”

And with that, we redouble our efforts, weaving the final threads of the ritual while Norris Chuck—the most inexplicable being I’ve ever encountered—pushes the Earth back into place.

I suppose heroes come in all forms. Even drunken, bare-chested ones.

...

104) Diary Entry – Thessalia

Today felt like the closing of one chapter and the beginning of another.

Mephistopheles and I returned to the Fae realm to address my parents. I didn’t know what to expect after everything that had happened—after he defied my father’s direct order and interfered in the Fae ritual to save me from Leviathan.

But when we arrived, I was astonished.

There was no shouting, no instant banishment to the dimension of pain. Instead, my parents received Mephistopheles with a surprising warmth. My father, Oberon, who I thought might unleash his full fury, instead approached Mephistopheles and, to my disbelief, bowed his head slightly in a gesture of respect.

“Thank you,” my father said, his voice steady but laced with emotion. “For saving my daughter.”

Mephistopheles, ever composed, gave a small nod. “It was the only course of action.”

It moved me deeply to see my father—so often proud and unyielding—show such humility and gratitude. My mother, Titania, stood beside him, her expression soft and kind as she offered her thanks as well. It was a rare moment of vulnerability from them both, and it reminded me that beneath their regal exteriors, they are still parents who love their children deeply.

I could see the weight of Oberon’s earlier anger lift slightly. Even he couldn’t deny that Mephistopheles’ actions, though defiant, were driven by care and love.

Then they turned to me.

“What is next for you, Thessalia?” my mother asked, her tone curious but gentle.

I hesitated. There is still so much uncertainty, so much left unresolved. But as I looked at Mephistopheles standing beside me, his quiet strength a constant presence, I knew one thing for certain.

“For now,” I said, “I feel my place is with Mephistopheles.”

My parents exchanged a glance, but neither protested. They simply nodded, a quiet acceptance in their eyes.

As Mephistopheles and I took our leave, I felt a sense of peace settle over me. The battles we’ve faced, the chaos we’ve endured—it’s all brought us to this moment.

Back at Mephistopheles’ tower, Maladomini, the air feels lighter. The weight of recent events hasn’t vanished, but it no longer feels unbearable.

For now, things are good. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I am hopeful for what lies ahead.

...

105) Diary Entry – Gaia

There’s been so much strife, so much chaos recently, that I think it’s time we celebrate.

Morozko and I were sitting together today, the weight of all that has passed still heavy in the air, but for once, we allowed ourselves to simply enjoy the quiet. It’s rare that I can rest without feeling the pull of my duties, but with the Earth stabilizing again, I find myself wanting to honor the victories we’ve achieved—and the bonds that made them possible.

“Morozko,” I said, breaking the silence, “what do you think of a Christmas party?”

He raised an eyebrow, the frost in his beard glittering faintly. “A Christmas party? From you, Gaia, Mother Earth herself? This I have to hear.”

I smiled, feeling a rare flicker of lightness. “We’ve come through so much, and not just myself. The Fae, the denizens of Hell, even the likes of Norris Chuck—beings from across planes of existence came together to help heal me, to save this world. That’s worth celebrating.”

Morozko chuckled, leaning back against the tree behind him. “You’re not wrong. A party could be just the thing to remind everyone what they’ve accomplished—and maybe remind a few of them to stop squabbling so much.”

“I was thinking,” I continued, “that we could hold it in a special redwood grove in Northern California. The trees there are ancient, majestic. They’ve seen so much and weathered every storm. It feels fitting.”

Morozko nodded, a slow, thoughtful motion. “A grove of redwoods. Yes, that could work. I’ll see to the invitations. Norris Chuck alone should make for some... interesting company.”

I laughed at that. The idea of Norris Chuck amidst the tranquility of the redwoods was, admittedly, amusing.

“Let’s invite everyone who played a part,” I said. “The Fae, Mephistopheles, Thessalia, the Devil himself if he’ll come, and of course, you. You’re as much a part of this as anyone.”

Morozko gave a mock bow, his tone light but his eyes warm. “As you wish, Gaia. I’ll ensure no one misses this.”

For the first time in what feels like ages, I’m looking forward to something. A celebration, a moment of joy shared under the canopy of the ancient redwoods, surrounded by those who came together to protect this world.

Yes, it’s time we celebrated. After all, life itself is worth celebrating.

...

106) Journal Entry – Helsik

The redwood grove is breathtaking. Even for someone like me, who has spent centuries immersed in the icy beauty of Cania, there’s something about these ancient trees that commands awe and reverence. It’s the perfect setting for Gaia’s Christmas party—majestic, serene, and steeped in history.

Fina, Cirrus, and I arrived earlier this evening, and it was clear from the start that this wasn’t going to be an ordinary gathering. Everyone is here—Fae, Hell’s inner circle, even the odd allies we picked up along the way. And some I hadn’t expected.

As we walked in, I noticed an odd bald fellow with nails sticking out of his head. It took me a moment, but I remembered Mephistopheles’ description of his unusual friend from the dimension of pain. “Nail-Face,” he’d called him. Sure enough, the man was there, grinning widely and casually leaning against one of the massive redwoods as though this were an everyday affair.

While mingling, I ran into Thessalia. She seemed in good spirits but explained that Oberon and Titania couldn’t attend due to the ongoing strife in the Fae realm. Still, they’d sent their best Christmas wishes, which Thessalia dutifully passed along.

And then there’s the guest list.

The Devil himself is here, of course, looking as commanding as ever. And so is Poseidon, his trident in hand, exuding the quiet authority of the sea. I couldn’t help but wonder how those two would get along, given their vastly different realms.

But the real surprise came while I was chatting with Gaia, who was present in her kindly grandmotherly form. She was warm and welcoming, as she always is in this visage, but her expression shifted the moment a large, muscular redneck of a man approached us, carrying a sickle.

“Mother,” he said quietly, almost timidly.

Gaia’s demeanor changed instantly. She rounded on him, her grandmotherly softness replaced with the commanding presence of the Earth itself.

“Chronos,” she said, her voice sharp. “Since this is the first family gathering we’ve had in a long time, you’d better not cause any trouble—and no eating anyone.”

Chronos, the redneck with a sickle and the Chronos, looked as though he’d been scolded back into childhood. “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled before slinking away toward the bar.

It wasn’t until he disappeared into the crowd that I fully registered what Gaia had said.

Chronos.

I glanced toward the bar, where he was now nursing a drink. The potential for disaster hit me like a brick. Chronos—who had infamously eaten his children to prevent being overthrown—was now in the same space as The Devil and Poseidon, two of those very children.

The Devil stood near the fire, his wine glass in hand, appearing relaxed but keeping an ever-watchful eye on the crowd. Poseidon was nearby, speaking with a group of sea spirits.

I can only hope that, in the spirit of the season, they’ll all maintain their composure. But knowing this crowd—and that family history—I’ll keep Cirrus and Fina close.

It would be just my luck for a family reunion to turn into another catastrophe.

...

107) Journal Entry – Chronos

Here I am, sitting at the bar at this ridiculous Christmas party, trying to keep a low profile. Mother’s warning rings in my ears—“No eating anyone.” Not exactly the warm holiday greeting I was hoping for. But then again, I suppose I’ve earned it.

I swirl the amber liquid in my glass and take another sip. The guilt weighs heavy tonight. It always does, but being here, surrounded by family and allies, it feels unbearable.

I’ve spent the past few eons “finding myself,” or so I told anyone who cared enough to ask. The truth? I’ve been trying to figure out why I turned out the way I did—why I was such a horrible father, a terrible son, and an all-around disgrace.

I ate my children. I fought a war against them. I manipulated my own mother for power. And for what?

Nothing but a hollow crown.

The worst part is that I am time itself. I could theoretically fix this—go back, undo the worst of my mistakes. But no. Time has its own rules, and I’m a walking paradox.

If I go back and try to change my past, the time flow will simply repair itself, like water rushing around a rock. Nothing would change.

Another drink.

The bartender refills my glass, and I stare into it, thinking. There’s one loophole. One slim, dangerous possibility.

If I—time itself—become unstable, then the flow of time destabilizes with me. Rules can be bent, broken, rewritten. I could make it work.

But to destabilize myself...

It’s a dangerous path, one I’ve been considering for a while. Careful manipulation, delicate tweaks to the timeline, all aimed at repairing my wrongs. It would take centuries, maybe millennia, but it could work.

Another drink.

I chuckle bitterly. My recent years spent as a redneck taught me one thing: sometimes, brute force is the answer.

“If it won’t go, then force it. If it breaks, it wasn’t made properly.”

Another drink.

The words echo in my head, blending with the haze of alcohol. Maybe I don’t need to be careful. Maybe I don’t need to tiptoe around the timeline, afraid of what might happen.

Maybe I just need to destabilize myself now. Get drunk enough, unstable enough, to rip the timeline apart and fix everything in one fell swoop.

The bartender refills my glass again, and I down it in one gulp.

If I’m going to do this, it has to be tonight. For my children, for my mother, for everyone I’ve wronged.

Another drink.

Here’s to fixing the past, no matter the cost.

...

108) Journal Entry – Helsik

Something is very, very wrong.

It started subtly, with the dryad servers at the Christmas party. One moment, they were zipping about in a blur, trays spinning precariously in their hands. The next, they were completely still, frozen as if someone had paused them mid-motion.

I turned to Cirrus to ask if she noticed it too, but when she responded, it was backwards. Every word, every syllable, reversed. I blinked, startled, and turned to Fina, only to hear her chattering away as though stuck on fast-forward.

Scanning the party, it became clear the distortions weren’t isolated. Guests were moving in strange, jerky ways, some speeding through their actions, others frozen mid-sentence. Conversations dissolved into chaos, and the festive atmosphere took on a surreal, unsettling edge.

Then my eyes fell on Chronos.

He was slumped at the bar, bottle in hand. The liquor glowed a deep, unnatural green, and I immediately recognized it: absinthe. And not just any absinthe—this was likely an otherworldly variant, potent and unpredictable, with effects that could be catastrophic, especially for someone like him.

The realization hit me like a thunderclap. Chronos—time itself—was drunk.

As if to confirm my suspicions, Morozko approached, his expression grave and his movements uncharacteristically slow. “It’s him,” Morozko said, his voice measured, almost careful. “Chronos. He’s destabilizing time itself.”

I looked at him, surprised I could hear his words clearly amidst the distortions. “Why aren’t we affected?”

“Partially immune,” Morozko said, his icy breath curling in the air. “You and I are related to him. My connection to Winter ties me to time’s flow, and your magic grants you resistance. But even we won’t hold out forever.”

I glanced back at Chronos, who had tipped the absinthe bottle to his lips again. He looked utterly defeated, his once-commanding presence reduced to a broken, slouching figure. The erratic time distortions rippled outward from him like shockwaves.

“Can we stop him?” I asked.

Morozko shook his head grimly. “Not directly. He’s too far gone for that. We need another approach.”

My mind raced, trying to think of a solution. Chronos was a force of nature, a primordial being. What—or who—could possibly reach him?

And then my gaze fell on Norris Chuck.

He was at the other end of the grove, laughing raucously and raising a toast to no one in particular. His wings were askew, his chest bare as always, and he was clutching a whiskey bottle in each hand.

“Norris,” I muttered, the pieces of a plan beginning to form in my mind.

If anyone could match Chronos’ chaos and brute-force a solution, it was Norris Chuck.

“Morozko,” I said, my voice firm. “We need him.”

Morozko followed my gaze, his eyes narrowing as he took in the drunken angel. “You think he can help?”

I nodded. “He’s unpredictable, reckless, and completely insane. If anyone can get through to Chronos—or at least stop him—it’s him.”

Morozko hesitated for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

As we made our way toward Norris Chuck, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of unease. Time itself was unraveling, and the only hope we had was the drunkest being at the party.

This was going to be interesting.

...

109) Drunken Journal Entry – Norris Chuck

Alright, I don’t usually write while I’m on the sauce—mostly because the letters tend to run off the page—but this one’s a doozy, so here we go.

So there I was, minding my own business at this fancy Christmas party in the woods, enjoying a fine whiskey (or two... or five), when Helsik comes up to me. He’s all serious, looking like the world’s about to end—which, turns out, he wasn’t wrong about.

“Helsik,” I says, “what in the feck do ya want with me? Can’t a man drink in peace at a festive gathering?”

He goes on about Chronos, time unraveling, people talking backwards and fast-forwarding and whatnot. Honestly, it sounded like a load of shite, but then I looked around, and sure enough, the dryad waitresses were zipping about like squirrels on speed, and poor Cirrus sounded like she’d swallowed a tape recorder playing in reverse.

Helsik tells me time’s going bonkers because Chronos—big bad daddy Time himself—is drunk off his arse on some glowing green liquid. And wouldn’t ya know it, he asks me to help. Me.

At first, I had no idea what to do. I mean, fixing time isn’t exactly in my wheelhouse. But then I saw Chronos slumped at the bar, looking like he was about two seconds away from passing out or starting a fight with his own reflection.

And that’s when it hit me.

“The only one who can get through to a drunk,” I says, “is another drunk. And preferably a drunk as drunk as the drunk in question.”

Helsik didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure about this?” he asks.

“Lad,” I says, “Norris Chuck has never been more sure of anything in his entire feckin’ life. Now stand back.”

I marched across the grove with purpose. And let me tell ya, it was a hell of a thing. Time was screwy all around me, but I walked straight as an arrow, like some divine force was guiding me. Or maybe it was just the whiskey.

I reached Chronos, who looked up at me with all the enthusiasm of a wet sock. I took the glowing green bottle right out of his hands and gulped it down in one go. It burned like the fires of Hell, but I didn’t let it show.

Chronos watched me for a moment, then reached behind the bar, grabbed another bottle, and started chugging it like it was water.

“Alright, laddy,” I says, my words thick with my Irish accent. “I see where you’re goin’. But ya need help. And the only person a drunk’ll listen to is another drunk. So Norris Chuck is here to help!”

He looked at me, and for the first time, there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

We squared off, bottles in hand, and the contest began.

Drink after drink, the world around us seemed to blur. Time itself was unraveling, threads of existence fraying and tangling in ways I can’t even describe. And yet, the more I drank, the less drunk I felt. It was the strangest thing.

Chronos was starting to wobble, his eyes glassy, but I was feeling... sharp. Sober, even.

Something was happening, something big. And for once, I wasn’t just along for the ride—I was in the thick of it.

Norris Chuck, saving time itself. Who’d have thought?

But we’re not done yet. Let’s see if this drunk can talk some sense into Father Time before the whole feckin’ universe collapses.

...

110) Extremely Drunken Journal Entry – Chronos

Alright, so… I’m gonna write this down, even though my hands feel like they’re made of jelly and my head’s spinning like one of them fancy Ferris wheels.

Norris feckin’ Chuck. That crazy winged lunatic. He came over to me at the bar, all sober and saintly, and started talking sense—well, at least he thinks it was sense.

I told him everything. EVERYTHING.

How bad I feel about all the shite I’ve done. Eating my kids? Bad move. Manipulating Mother? Yeah, not proud of that either. Starting a bloody war? Let’s not even get into it.

“I feel so guilty, Norris,” I says, tears streaming down my face, probably mixing with the absinthe. “I just want to fix it all. Fix what I broke, make it right. That’s why I’ve been drinking. If I get drunk enough, time unravels, and I can go back and set things right!”

Norris looked at me with those big, sober, judgmental eyes and says, “Laddy, you’re going about it all wrong.”

I blinked. “What d’you mean, wrong?”

“You don’t fix your past by unravelin’ time,” he says, real calm-like. “Because here’s the thing: you’ve already fixed yourself. And that’s what matters.”

I didn’t believe him at first. “But the guilt, Norris! It’s like a bloody anvil on my chest!”

He shrugged. “A bit of guilt’s good. It’s just a reminder to stay on the right path. It’ll fade, trust me. What matters is moving forward.”

And then he said the most profound thing I’ve ever heard: “If it ain’t broke, don’t try to fix it.”

I stared at him. Me, the personification of time, gobsmacked by a shirtless, whiskey-soaked Irish angel.

But it made sense. All those years in the bayou, living in that creaky trailer, trying to figure out who I am and where I went wrong—it taught me the same thing. Moving forward is the only way.

I nodded, tears still streaming, and told him, “You’re right, Norris. You’re bloody right. But it’s too late for me to go back now. Time’s already unraveling. The only way to fix it is for me to pass out and let it restabilize.”

I grabbed his arm, desperation in my voice. “Will you stay with me, Norris? Just… just keep drinking with me until I black out? I don’t wanna do this alone.”

Norris, bless him, patted my shoulder. “Laddy, I’ve been drunk in worse company than you. Let’s see this through.”

So we drank. We drank through the spinning chaos of unraveling time, through backwards conversations and forwards footsteps and sideways laughter.

And then… everything faded. I faded. My last thought before the darkness took me was that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

Time’s a funny thing, isn’t it?

...

111) Journal Entry – Helsik

For the first time in what feels like eons, peace has returned.

Chronos is passed out at the bar, slumped in a position that defies anatomy, but the wild distortions of time have finally settled. Conversations flow naturally, the dryads move at their usual graceful pace, and Fina and Cirrus are once again speaking normally—thank the gods.

Gaia approaches Chronos with a long-suffering sigh, her grandmotherly form radiating both fondness and exasperation. “Oh, Chronos,” she murmurs, shaking her head. She turns to a few dryad servers and asks them to wake him.

The dryads, ever eager to please, immediately spring into action. I watch them gather herbs and concoct something in a wooden bowl that smells... potent. Too potent.

Before I can voice my concern, they tilt Chronos’ head back and pour the remedy straight down his throat.

The effect is instantaneous.

Chronos leaps to his feet with the energy of a thousand caffeinated squirrels, his eyes wide open as he bellows in his heavy Creole accent, “What in hell was that?”

The dryads, clearly not expecting such an immediate and dramatic reaction, let out tiny shrieks and scatter in all directions, their leafy skirts fluttering as they vanish into the redwoods.

Gaia sighs again but can’t quite hide her amusement. With a calm dignity, she rings a small silver bell, its chime clear and soothing. “Dinner is served,” she announces, her voice cutting through the lingering chaos.

We all gather around the massive table set in the heart of the grove, beautifully adorned with garlands of holly and mistletoe, candles flickering softly in the twilight. The main course is a feast unlike anything I’ve ever seen—roast meats, fresh breads, spiced fruits, and dishes from every realm represented here.

It’s warm. Inviting.

I sit between Fina and Cirrus, who are both smiling—actual, genuine smiles I haven’t seen in too long. Norris Chuck, who somehow looks more sober than he has all night, winks at Chronos. Chronos, now nursing a glass of water, raises it in return with a small, grateful nod.

As the meal begins, laughter and conversation fill the grove, and I take a moment to look around at the faces gathered here. Gaia, presiding over it all with her quiet strength. Mephistopheles and Thessalia, sitting close together and speaking in low tones. The Devil, surprisingly relaxed, even smiling as he chats with Poseidon.

Everything feels... good. Really good.

It’s a rare moment of harmony, a reminder that even amidst chaos and turmoil, there’s still room for connection, for celebration, for hope.

And for that, I am grateful.

...

112) And everyone lived happily ever after.

...

113) And then there was Macguffin.

...

114) Diary Entry – Macguffin

I have just… existed.

Sprung forth, fully formed, from some narrative ether, I suppose. No backstory, no family, no defining features. And yet, I know who I am.

I am the key to everything.

It’s odd, isn’t it? To know you’re central to a story but have no idea why. No character description, no quirks, nothing to tether me to the world except the weight of my importance.

But there’s no time to dwell on existential musings—I have a mission.

Somehow, through the miraculous mechanism of plot necessity, I know what I must do. I need to find Hallama Karris, the politician who holds… something. Answers, maybe? Or perhaps just the next step. It doesn’t matter. I just know I need to speak with her to keep things moving forward.

I whip out my generic locating device, which is, of course, incredibly advanced and user-friendly. With barely an inconvenience, I find her location: a seedy, downtrodden, utterly filthy bar in Oakland, California.

How fitting.

Next, I pull out another generic teleportation device, because of course I have one. Why wouldn’t I? Again, with no effort at all, I program it and, in the blink of an eye, I’m standing outside the bar.

It’s dingy, the neon sign above the entrance flickering with an ominous hum. A man stumbles out, reeking of cheap whiskey and regret, but I pay him no mind. I am ready.

I straighten my undefined outfit, take a breath, and prepare myself to step inside.

Whatever happens next, I know this much: I’m the key to everything. And I’m here to unlock it.

115) Diary Entry – Macguffin

The moment I stepped inside that revolting bar, the smell alone was enough to make any ordinary person retch. Stale beer, sour sweat, rancid old fryer grease—delightful. I half-expected something more impressive, considering everything that led me here, but I suppose not every crucial plot point needs a grand stage.

There, by the pitted old counter, stood a redneck man conversing with the biker bartender. His accent was thick and Creole—a curious blend for a place like Oakland. The bartender, grizzled and silent, just nodded along. The redneck noticed me almost immediately, the gleam in his eye unmistakable.

It took only a second for me to realize who he was: Chronos, the master of time, the mighty manipulator who tried to rewrite history. He’d been a problem for others, I knew, but for me? I’m Macguffin. He can’t stop me. No one can.

He turned to face me, squaring his shoulders and clenching his fists. I saw it then—the subtle shimmering of time ripples radiating from him. He was trying something, trying to bend or twist the timeline to his will. But as I watched him strain, veins standing out on his temples, I could tell he was out of his league here. I didn’t even bother feigning concern.

I laughed, short and sharp, letting my voice carry over the murmurs of the bar’s patrons. “Pathetic,” I said simply. The effort he poured into whatever trick he was attempting was laughable compared to my own inherent significance. I’m the key, after all—he can’t unmake that.

Defeated, Chronos let the tension drain from his posture and slipped back onto his barstool, shoulders slumped. He reached for his drink with trembling fingers, staring at the scuffed floor as though it held all the answers he couldn’t conjure.

I turned away, my mission too vital to waste time indulging a washed-up temporal deity’s tantrum. I had come for a purpose, and that purpose sat in a shadowed corner at the far end of the room. Passing sticky tables and chipped chairs, I approached the small wooden table where a single figure sat, hunched over and disheveled, her presence exuding the sour tang of regret and old alcohol. This was Hallama Karris.

She looked half-dead, or at least half-drunk, but this was exactly where she was supposed to be—exactly where I needed her to be. And now, I am here, ready to speak with the politician who holds the next piece of the puzzle. The key in human form meets the drunk politician in a filthy bar. Perfect. Exactly the kind of contrivance I was expecting.

This is how the story moves forward, after all.

...

116) Journal Entry – Chronos

I sit here, slumped over this grimy barstool, eyes fixed on the spot where Macguffin just stood. She’s gone now, walking away toward her destiny or doom—I’m not sure which. I tried. Gods know I tried. I strained every fiber of my being to unravel time and stop her, to reset the board as I’ve done so many times before. But nothing happened.

Why?

Because I wasn’t drunk enough. Because she arrived early. Early. A concept I should be able to control, that I have always wielded with impeccable precision. Me, the grand weaver of centuries, the shepherd of eras, undone by an off-schedule arrival at a filthy Oakland bar. It’s absurd, humiliating.

I never miss anything important. Never. Time’s current, its every bend and turn, always known to me. But today, I misjudged. Today, I watched as my opportunity slipped away. I sat here, too sober to tear apart reality and rearrange events to my liking, and now it’s too late.

A bitter laugh escapes me, though no one notices above the clink of glasses and low murmur of drunk patrons. What does it matter? Let them ignore me—some ragged redneck in a bar. I’m no threat. Not anymore.

My mind drifts to my many failures. I feel the familiar weight of regret settling in, pressing against my chest. I remember the screams of my children, devoured to secure my power. I recall the anguished cries of my mother when I turned my back on her. I think of my father’s face, twisted in pain and shock as I nearly snuffed out his life. Every memory cuts deep, leaving me hollowed out and raw.

I was supposed to be better. At least, I told myself that as I wandered the bayou, living in a creaky trailer, trying to find meaning in my own shapeless existence. I wanted to change. I wanted to atone. But here I am, failing again—this time, not even to commit some grand atrocity, but to prevent one future event I’ve now lost my grip on. Macguffin is beyond my reach, and whatever cosmic machinations hinge on her, I’m powerless to intervene.

What’s left for me now? The numbness sets in, a creeping paralysis of purpose. I have no strength left to fight. The idea of bending time once felt exhilarating, now it feels like a sick joke. I’m tired of the struggle. I’m tired of the guilt and the failures piling up around me like rotting corpses.

So I’ll return to my trailer in the bayou, that rusted old box in the swamp. I’ll let the frogs sing me to sleep and the mosquitoes feast on me while I contemplate eternity. Perhaps I’ll learn to live with the guilt, maybe ignore it until it feels like nothing at all. As time itself, maybe my true purpose is simply to drift, to be a current rather than a controlling force.

I’m done trying to fix what’s passed or control what’s coming. I’m done pretending I can make it right. Let the world spin. Let Macguffin do as she pleases. Let Gaia and the Fae and the Devil and all the rest have their stories.

I’ll watch from the bayou, silent and still, as centuries roll by. What else can I do now, but yield to the tide I once commanded?

...

117) Drunken Diary Entry – Hallama Karris

Ugh, this filth pit of a bar—how fitting for a woman of my caliber to be reduced to wallowing here. But the whiskey is cheap and strong, so I suppose it will do. Damn it all. Damn the voters, damn the system. They couldn’t recognize that I am clearly the best woman on Earth. Me. Hallama Karris. You’d think after all I did, after all the favors I performed—yes, on my knees, always on my knees, working my way up the political ladder one humiliating step at a time—they’d show a little gratitude. But no, they cast me aside like yesterday’s trash.

I remember every sniveling superior who made me crawl for my promotions, every sneering face in those smoky back rooms. My knees still ache at the memory, and I keep thinking: I deserved better. If the world knew how much I sacrificed, how much I endured… well, they’d still probably not care. But who’s at fault, really? Everyone else, that’s who. All those ignorant fools who wouldn’t vote for me, who couldn’t see my brilliance, my cunning, my superiority.

I tip back another shot—some vile bottom-shelf swill—and grimace at the taste. Doesn’t matter. The burn is better than nothing. I’m so damn depressed, but I’m also so damn angry. Angry at everyone. Angry at myself for bending so low. Angry at my knees for reminding me of those countless nights I knelt down, pretending to be humble. It got me up the ladder, sure, but now I’ve tumbled right off it.

Through the haze, I see a figure approaching my table. She’s generically attractive—like a heroine plucked straight from a stock photo. Tall, poised, and smiling in a way that sets my teeth on edge. But also, intriguing. Maybe I can charm her, lure her into comforting me. Perhaps she’ll come home with me. Why not indulge a little, hmm?

I raise my head, trying to appear less pitiful, but before I can even open my mouth, her hand moves in a blur. There’s a sudden, sharp pain in the side of my neck. I gasp, eyes wide, confusion blooming under my drunken stupor. What the hell just happened?

I don’t even know her name. But I’ll remember that face… Macguffin, was it? Whatever she’s done, it stings like hell. The world around me blurs, and I choke back a cry as I realize just how badly I’ve underestimated this moment.

...

118) Diary Entry – Macguffin

I approached her table expecting something more. Hallama Karris. The woman I’d been sent here to “fix.” I admit, I was curious who she’d be—some tragic figure, misunderstood and overlooked. Instead, I find her… revolting. Slumped over, reeking of cheap alcohol and cheap regrets, muttering bitter insults at a world she deems unworthy of her so-called greatness.

Disgusting. Pathetic. Undeserving.

But my opinion doesn’t matter, does it? I exist for one reason, to carry out this mission. And the mission states that Hallama Karris must receive the injection of pure undiluted Mary Sue. This extraordinary formula, guaranteed to make its recipient perfect in every conceivable way, no matter how vile they were before.

Do I like the idea of granting perfection to this creature who crawled her way up on her knees and blames everyone else for her failures? Absolutely not. But I’m the Macguffin, key to the plot, bound to the will of the narrative. My preferences are irrelevant.

So I do it. With swift efficiency, I plunge the small injector into the side of her neck. She gasps, eyes wide with confusion and pain, but I ignore her shock. This isn’t personal. It’s just my job. The injector empties its contents, flooding her bloodstream with the pure essence of Mary Sue.

And then I step back, watching her carefully. It shouldn’t take long. Soon she will be flawlessly beautiful, unerringly kind, ridiculously talented, and beloved by everyone who sets eyes upon her. Her every flaw erased, her every regret forgiven, her every limitation transcended.

I wonder how it will feel for her, to suddenly become something she never deserved to be. To transform from a wretched, self-pitying husk into a shining paragon of perfection. Will she appreciate this gift? Will she even understand it?

It doesn’t matter. My role here is done. The Mary Sue has been administered. The story moves forward.

...

119) Diary Entry – Hallama Karris

Oh my God, I can’t even. I don’t know what Macguffin injected me with, but I feel high as fuckin’ balls. No, seriously, that’s the only phrase that makes sense right now. My mind is floating above my head like a balloon someone let go of at a cheap carnival, and my body? Weightless. Completely weightless. And oh, thank the heavens—my knees no longer hurt. I never realized how much pain they were in until it vanished into thin air.

I think... I think my failures are drifting away too. Like, I can feel the memories of all my big political flops just evaporating. And now, as if this moment couldn’t get weirder, the ghost of Hallama-Past just showed up. She’s beaming at me with this painfully generic grin and telling me that I am the “bestest ever.” Seriously? That’s the phrase we’re going with?

Before I can question it, the ghost of Hallama-Future appears, and she’s all like, “You still have much to do, girl.” I’m standing there—still high as fuckin’ balls—trying to process this absurd pep talk when Hallama-Past and Hallama-Future turn to each other and engage in the cringiest high-five I’ve ever seen, complete with a lame jump. I almost cringe out of my own incorporeal existence, but hey, I’m feeling way too euphoric to care.

I start believing them. I mean, why not? I’m the bestest ever, right? And I have a grand future. As soon as I accept this positivity, the ghosts morph into velociraptors. Yes, velociraptors. Why? I have no idea, but it feels right in this strange drug-fueled moment.

The velociraptor ghost of Hallama-Past leans in and says, “If you believe in dinosaurs, then dinosaurs will believe in you. Then you can bust out.” Bust out of what? My old life? The limits of my imagination? Who cares. I’m beyond all that now.

I’m still high as fuckin’ balls, and you know what? I will believe in dinosaurs. I will believe in these toothy reptilian cheerleaders. I will embrace their message and accept my destiny. I’ll bust out of whatever cage I’ve been in—doubt, fear, the memory of failure—and live a new life, free of knee pain, full of infinite possibility.

I’m ready. Let’s do this. I believe in dinosaurs.

...

120) Diary Entry – Macguffin

I’ve seen some strange things in my brief existence, but nothing could have prepared me for this.

The injection of pure undiluted Mary Sue should have simply made Hallama perfect. That was the mission. Straightforward, clinical. But what I’m witnessing defies any logic. Hallama is tripping fuckin’ balls. There’s no other way to say it. She looks completely detached from reality, eyes glazed and dreamy, and I can practically see the cogs in her mind spinning off their axles.

I watch, stunned, as the ghosts of Hallama-Past and Hallama-Future actually appear. They chat her up, deliver these painfully generic affirmations, then execute the most cringe-inducing high five I’ve ever witnessed—complete with an awkward little jump. And then, to top it all off, they turn into velociraptors. Velociraptors. I’m at a loss for words.

I glance around, expecting screams, gasps, any sign that the other patrons can see this monstrous absurdity. Nothing. They’re oblivious, sipping their drinks, telling their stories, not even a blink of surprise. It’s as if this mind-bending spectacle is reserved for my eyes only.

Of course, it must be. I’m Macguffin, the girl who is the key to everything. That has to be it. Only someone as narratively integral as me would have the privilege—or curse—of seeing such a bizarre scenario play out.

Just as this thought settles in my mind, I notice something else: my hand looks… translucent. I try to move, to speak, but my voice cracks, and I realize with a jolt of horror that I’m fading. Fading out of existence. I don’t understand why. I just got here. I just fulfilled my purpose. Why am I disappearing now?

Panic surges through me. I fight against the fading, but my struggles mean nothing. My body, my presence, slips away like sand through my fingers. “No!” I scream, reaching out for something, anything to hold onto. “I’m the key to everything! You can’t just forget me!”

But it’s no use. I can feel my voice dying in my throat, my form dissipating into nothingness. I scream and scream about how important I am, how vital I am, but the world doesn’t care.

And then I’m gone.

...

In that exact moment, the bartender blinks as if waking from a daydream and carries on polishing glasses. The patrons continue their conversations. Hallama, still riding her bizarre trip, mutters nonsense as she transforms into her perfected self. And not a single soul wonders about Macguffin. They couldn’t, because they no longer remember she existed at all.

...

121) Diary Entry – Fina

Today was one of those blissfully ordinary-yet-extraordinary days that I never thought I’d have again. Helsik has been so thoughtful since my recovery, and to celebrate my full return to health, he planned a special outing. He’s taking me and Cirrus to play hellfire golf—a game I’ve been curious about for as long as I can remember. Inferna would never allow it, always scoffing at anything that brought me joy. Now, with all that behind us, I can finally swing those infernal clubs and see what all the fuss is about!

Helsik invited Mephistopheles and Thessalia along, which pleases me to no end. They’ve become good friends, a strange but welcome pair after everything we’ve all been through. Norris Chuck is coming too, of course. Helsik says Norris asked about hellfire golf some time ago, and though Helsik’s well aware Norris’ presence might create some odd, hilarious scenes, he wants to be considerate. I’m excited to see Norris again—he’s bizarre, sure, but he’s oddly endearing in his own chaos-infused way.

Mephistopheles and Thessalia arrived a bit early and began recounting their recent second trip to San Francisco. They mentioned it was Thessalia’s idea, something about tourist destinations she’d missed on their first visit. From the way Thessalia describes it, it sounds like a whirlwind: more hills, more trolley rides, more clam chowder bread bowls by the bay. I’m jealous, honestly—it’s a place I might like to see for myself one day, if we can ever carve out the time.

But the funniest part of their story wasn’t the city itself; it’s this strange political campaign they stumbled onto. Mephistopheles swears there’s some no-name politician in Oakland drumming up support by telling everyone to believe in dinosaurs. He can’t recall the politician’s name, which I guess makes sense since the person’s a no-name. But apparently, this dinosaur-believing initiative is taking off, and this mystery candidate is growing more popular by the day. I suppose after everything that’s happened—warring devils, star-spawned horrors, drunk angels and cosmic beings—dinosaurs are probably a welcome (and relatively tame) concept to rally around.

Still, I’m focusing on the here and now. The hellfire golf course stretches out before us, lava hazards bubbling with a cheerful hiss, flaming sand traps flickering in the dim underworld light. Cirrus is already eyeing the clubs, Norris Chuck is finishing off a bottle of something-or-other, and Helsik is steadying himself to demonstrate proper hellfire golf technique. Mephistopheles and Thessalia talk quietly, smiling a lot—goodness knows they deserve some peace.

As for me? My heart is light. My body feels strong again. And I’m ready to see what kind of hole-in-one I can manage when the flames are literal, the caddies might be imps, and dinosaurs are apparently making a comeback in politics.

Here’s to new beginnings and endless possibilities.

...

122) Hellfire Golf

Hellfire Golf is a twisted, infernal version of the traditional game, adapted to the fiery, nightmarish landscape of Hell. It’s played on a scorched, jagged terrain, where the fairways are cracked rivers of lava, and the "greens" are shifting fields of razor-sharp obsidian, constantly changing and shifting in shape. The sky is filled with black smoke, and the air is thick with the heat of eternal flames.

The Course:

The course is laid out across various realms of Hell, each representing a different torment or punishment. Holes might pass through the River Styx, over boiling pits of sulfur, or through a forest of screaming souls encased in burning trees. The holes themselves are fiery pits or flaming craters that seem impossible to navigate, where the golf ball, upon contact, may explode into a burst of molten rock or summon demonic creatures to "assist" in your game (whether you like it or not).There are perilous obstacles like rivers of lava that swallow anything that falls in, tormenting the player with the screams of the damned. Some holes are guarded by hellish creatures—such as demons or fire-breathing dragons—that play tricks or provide distractions.

The Clubs:

The golf clubs are made from twisted, blackened bone, forged in the deepest pits of Hell, with handles that crackle with infernal energy. Each swing feels like unleashing dark power. Some clubs, like the "Flame Driver," release blasts of fire when struck, causing the ball to erupt into a blaze and either speed ahead or veer off course into a cloud of ash. The "Soul Putter" might guide the ball with the wailing whispers of tormented souls, pulling it towards the hole—if it’s in the mood.

The Balls:

The balls are made of a molten core encased in obsidian, constantly shifting in temperature, burning hot one moment and freezing cold the next. They can be unpredictably volatile, occasionally exploding on impact or unleashing a burst of demonic laughter. As the player hits the ball, the sound of ringing bells or infernal whispers can be heard, adding to the eerie atmosphere.

The Game Mechanics:

Rules are twisted, and there’s no mercy in Hellfire Golf. Players are punished for every mistake. Mis-hits may result in being struck by lightning or dragged into the pits of despair for a brief period, taking a penalty. Each "hole" becomes a challenge not just of skill, but of endurance, as the course itself shifts and changes. The holes may even move or summon new, more sinister challenges mid-game. Think walls of fire that rise, or giant, fiery hands that block paths. In Hell, there’s no escaping the stakes—losing a round might mean your soul is dragged further into torment or bound to a fiery prison for eternity. On the other hand, winning might grant you a temporary respite or even a deal with a demon for some twisted boon.

The Players:

Those who play Hellfire Golf are either damned souls or fallen angels, each fighting for their own form of redemption—or perhaps simply for the thrill of the game. Players are often bound by contracts or have sold their souls to demonic entities, and the game is as much about survival as it is about winning. The winner of Hellfire Golf may earn temporary dominion over certain parts of Hell or be granted a twisted favor by a demon lord—perhaps the ability to torment others or an item of unimaginable power. But the game is cyclical, and every victory might come with a cost, as the infernal rules of Hell ensure that the balance between suffering and triumph remains eternal.

Hellfire Golf is not just a game. It's a fight for the soul itself.

...

123) Drunken Journal Entry – Norris Chuck

All right, so here I am, smack dab in the middle of Hell, swiggin’ whiskey from a flask as I try to hit a damned ball of flaming brimstone across fields of molten rock. Hellfire golf! Ha! I’ve heard rumors but never thought I’d get a tee time. Well, here I am, and let me tell ya, I’ve never felt so at home.

Me and Helsik, Fina, Cirrus, Mephistopheles, and Thessalia—what a crew! They’re actually glad to have me around, or so it seems. Fina even complimented my swing! My swing, can you believe it? I can’t remember the last time anyone praised me for my "talents." In Heaven, they took one look at my flask and muttered about sending me to rehab. Rehab! As if my approach to problem-solving needed “fixing.” Hell, at least here, everyone’s too busy admiring the flaming bunkers and lava hazards to lecture me about my drinking.

You know what? I get it now—Hell’s got its perks. They don’t look down on me for being a drunk angel who thinks outside the box. Instead, they’re like, “Norris, pass the bottle and show us that backhand drive!” So I do, and guess what? I’m actually good at this! Good enough that Fina—sweet, innocent Fina—gave me a nod and a smile. If my heart were sober enough to blush, I’d be red as a cherry.

But I’ve got a sense of boundaries. I know Fina’s all pure and good, and I’m old enough (and drunk enough) to know better than to misunderstand her kindness. She’s like a niece or a daughter of a friend—someone I can cheer on, be proud of, without messing it up. I appreciate her attention as the friendly warmth it is. I’m cool with that. I’m not gonna put any weird spin on it. Just a proud drunken uncle figure, cheering her on, showing off my hellfire golf chops.

And that’s exactly what I need tonight. A place where I’m accepted as I am—a bit boozy, a lot rowdy, full of strange ideas. Instead of trying to fix me, they just let me be. And I gotta say, playing hellfire golf under a charred sky with actual devils and devils’ friends? Beats the choir rooms of Heaven any day.

So here’s to Hell’s hospitality, Fina’s compliment, and the sweet burn of whiskey in my throat as I line up another shot. I’m gonna knock this flaming ball clear over that lava pit, just you wait. And maybe after that, I’ll buy everyone a round of that fiery ale they serve at the 19th hole. Hell’s good. Hell’s real good.

...

124) Diary Entry – Thessalia

I suppose by now I should be used to the peculiarities of this world, but San Francisco continues to surprise me. When I pleaded with Mephistopheles to bring me back, I didn’t expect to find myself standing in a massive crowd at the Polo Fields of Golden Gate Park. I’ve never seen so many mortals gathered in one place without some dire crisis driving them. They’re just… here. Wandering, talking, excited. The atmosphere is charged with anticipation.

We came to witness the speech of this politician, Hallama Karris, the one urging everyone to “believe in dinosaurs.” I had to know what that meant, why such a nonsensical idea was catching on. Mephistopheles, patient as ever, agreed to my request, though he seemed amused by my curiosity.

As we waited, something strange and noisy caught my attention: a flying machine approaching from the distance. It roared through the sky, chopping the air with spinning blades. I’ve never seen or heard of anything like it.

“What is that contraption?” I asked Mephistopheles, leaning close to make sure he could hear me over the crowd’s murmur.

He smiled slightly. “It’s called a ‘helicopter.’ Mortals use them for short-distance transportation. They haven’t discovered teleportation yet, so they rely on these noisy mechanical wings.”

I stared, trying to grasp how spinning blades and a rumbling engine can lift people through the air. “How does it work?” I persisted.

He shrugged with feigned nonchalance. “More lightning magic, essentially. If you think about it that way.”

I decided to let it go. I’m starting to think “lightning magic” is his convenient explanation for anything he doesn’t feel like dissecting in detail. Still, the helicopter’s landing was impressive. Its windstorm of dust and noise scattered the crowd slightly, and then, as if on cue, Hallama Karris emerged.

The crowd roared with applause. Hallama climbed atop a strange portable structure—Mephistopheles called it a “porta-potty”—and held up a megaphone. Her voice crackled over the field:

“If you believe in dinosaurs, you will overcome your obstacles and bust out!” she shouted, her words as generic and hollow as the cheers were loud. The crowd went wild, whooping and hollering, some even tossing hats in the air.

I stared in disbelief. “What are dinosaurs?” I whispered to Mephistopheles.

He met my gaze, and for once, seemed entirely earnest. “Giant lizards that ruled the Earth about 65 million years ago,” he said. “They’re long extinct now.”

I blinked. Giant lizards. Extinct creatures. And these mortals believe—truly believe—that by believing in them they can “bust out” of their problems?

The entire scene is baffling, but I must admit, I’m fascinated. If faith in these ancient beasts can inspire such fervor, what else might these mortals latch onto?

As the crowd roared and Hallama Karris posed dramatically atop the porta-potty, I couldn’t help but smile. This world is endlessly strange, and I’m grateful to witness it.

...

125) Diary Entry – Thessalia

We remained at the Polo Fields for a while, watching as Hallama Karris finished her speech and departed in the roaring, spinning-bladed “helicopter.” The crowd’s reaction puzzled me. Many of them turned to each other, nodding vigorously, insisting they had heard the exact same speech countless times before—and each time, it’s apparently “the same and better every single time.”

I can’t fathom it. How can a speech that’s nothing but vague fluff about believing in extinct creatures repeatedly thrill these people? Mephistopheles just shrugs when I ask him, as if this sort of absurdity is normal. Perhaps it is, in the mortal world.

Still curious about dinosaurs, I pressed Mephistopheles for more information. He considered for a moment, then proposed we take a short walk through the park to the California Academy Of Sciences. He told me they’re currently featuring a massive dinosaur exhibit, supposedly funded by some eccentric tech-billionaire named Meelon Usk. Mephistopheles suggested the timing of the exhibit might be connected to Hallama Karris’ growing popularity—dinosaurs are “in,” I suppose.

We strolled under the green canopy of the park until the Academy’s modern facade rose before us. Inside, I found myself dwarfed by colossal skeletons. Bones of immense reptiles soared overhead, their silent arcs telling tales of long-lost ages. I craned my neck, wondering what it would have been like to see these creatures alive. Mephistopheles pointed out various species, naming them and recounting the little he knew: they were gigantic, they ruled the Earth for millions of years, and then—gone.

And these mortals think believing in them can solve their woes? As I moved among the towering bones, I tried to connect the dots. Hallama Karris talks about belief and “busting out.” The people lap it up, cheering with mindless devotion. Meanwhile, dinosaurs—ancient rulers—serve as a symbol of… what, exactly?

Power, endurance, mystery. The world changed and they vanished. If mortals truly believe they can channel that ancient might, perhaps it’s a form of collective confidence. Maybe, just maybe, these dinosaurs can help people not by literally returning, but by inspiring them to face their challenges, to be strong and flexible in a rapidly shifting world.

It’s a stretch, but isn’t belief itself a powerful thing?

I’m starting to form a plan in my mind. If these people thrive on symbolic belief, if these dinosaurs can become more than relics—somehow, I could guide them to use that belief productively, to do more than just nod along to a repetitive speech. Perhaps, with the right influence, they can harness this dinosaur fervor to actually improve their lives. To “bust out” of old patterns and embrace genuine change.

As I trailed my fingers along a placard describing a T. rex’s formidable jaws, I realized that maybe Hallama Karris isn’t entirely pointless. Maybe there’s an angle here for something better—something meaningful.

I don’t know exactly what shape my plan will take, but I can feel the gears turning. One way or another, these extinct giants might yet help living mortals find a new path forward.

...

126) Journal Entry – Mephistopheles

I must admit, I rarely find myself at a loss for words, but today was one such occasion. Watching Thessalia marvel over dinosaur bones in the California Academy of Sciences was entertaining enough—her wide-eyed awe at these dusty fossils was equal parts adorable and baffling. Adorable, because her curiosity is genuine and sweet; baffling, because these mortals and their obsession with believing in dinosaurs for self-improvement is the peak of absurdity.

I was about to gently correct Thessalia’s notion that dinosaurs could “help” people. I’ve walked among living dinosaurs before (a time-travel incident I’d rather not revisit), and they were nothing more than gigantic, hungry reptiles bent on chomping anything that moved. Helpful? Hardly. But before I could voice my caution, Thessalia, brimming with magic and optimism, cast some sort of spell.

To my utter shock, the Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton began to move. Its bones rattled, reassembling fluidly as if it had never known death. It blinked empty sockets in our direction (how, I cannot say) and rose to its full, terrifying height. A once-dead predator, now quite literally back on its feet.

Stunned, I glanced around and realized it wasn’t just the T. rex. Every dinosaur skeleton was coming to life, clicking and clacking as they reanimated. No sinew, no flesh—just bone, and yet here they were, lurching, stalking, alive.

I spun back to Thessalia, finding her approaching the T. rex, evidently intending to chat it up like a new friend. Was she insane? Before it could snap her up in its cavernous jaws, I snatched her arm and teleported us both straight to the roof of the museum. Safety first, after all.

She turned to me, looking confused and mildly annoyed at my interference. But before she could scold me for spoiling her grand diplomatic moment with a living fossil, I pointed downward. Below us, the skeletal dinosaurs had already smashed their way out of the building, spilling into Golden Gate Park. Visitors fled screaming, cars screeched to a halt, and the once-serene greenery erupted into chaos as extinct monsters rampaged anew.

Finally, I found my voice. “WHAT in the FUCK?” I demanded, my tone as incredulous as I’ve ever heard it.

Thessalia had the audacity to look calm. “They’re going to help humans, just like Hallama said they would,” she replied, as if my panic were an overreaction.

I stared at her, dumbfounded. “They’re not going to help humans!” I exclaimed. “They’re going to eat humans. Then the humans will kill them. Again.” I paused, an ironic thought crossing my mind. “Which doesn’t matter anyway because dinosaurs are extinct, but that’s beyond the point!”

She frowned, clearly displeased with my assessment, but what could I do? The world below us was turning into a scene from a prehistoric nightmare, and I’d be the one who has to help mop it up.

I never imagined I’d be scolding a Fae princess for resurrecting ancient predators in the middle of a city. Yet here we are.

I can only hope she’ll see reason.

...

127) Diary Entry – Female Tyrannosaurus Rex Skeleton

…this is harder than it looks. My tiny arms—so short, so frustrating—grip this writing stick (the morsels call it a “pen” I think?) with the delicate grace of a boulder trying to pick a daisy. Every scratch I make wobbles across the page. But who cares? I’m ALIVE again!

I can’t believe it. One minute, I’m a pile of dusty bones, a museum exhibit for slack-jawed onlookers. The next, I’m standing here with all my old friends—Triceratops, Stegosaurus, Velociraptor—back from oblivion! We’re here, rattling our bones, roaring without vocal cords (somehow?), and oh, what a glorious day this is!

And look at them: the little two-legged morsels. They scurry and shriek, flailing their flimsy arms and trying to hide behind strange metal structures. How amusing! How delightful! I haven’t tasted terror in, what, sixty-five million years? My jaws ache to remember that lovely crunch of bone and sinew, but I’m just bones myself now—no flesh. Still, fear smells just as sweet through these empty sockets.

I’m grateful to the strange, pointed-eared creature who revived us. Though I must say, she seemed upset we’re not “helping” the two-legged morsels. Help them do what, exactly? Become a buffet? I’m all for it.

Ah, I see them running again. I must cut this short—literally. These arms can’t hold this “pen” much longer, and I have hunting to do. Screams fill the air. The sun shines on my bony skull. My friends and I stomp through the world once more, and I couldn’t be happier.

Now, time for a tasty morsel… if I can just figure out how to open my jaws without tendons. Eh, I’ll manage somehow. I always do.

...

128) Journal Entry – Nail-Face

I was having such a lovely evening. Honestly, these moments are rare in the Dimension of Pain—peace and quiet are precious commodities, and I’d secured some for myself. There I sat, in my little cabin, surrounded by the gentle crackle of the fireplace, reclining in my beloved, oh-so-comfy leather recliner. I had a blanket over my lap, my reading glasses perched delicately on my nose, and a book on poker strategies in my hands. Thursday poker night’s coming up, and I’m determined not to let those imps fleece me again.

But just as I’m studying the nuances of bluffing and pot odds, whoosh—yanked from the Dimension of Pain mid-sentence. The next moment, I’m standing on top of a strange building, the wind whipping at my blanket (which I promptly drop), glasses dangling uselessly in my hand. I see Mephistopheles and Thessalia there, both looking rather frazzled.

I take in the scene: It’s some mortal city, and down below I see… dinosaurs? Skeleton dinosaurs, rampaging across what looks like a beautiful green park. Mortals screaming, vehicles halted, chaos everywhere. It’s like a scene out of a half-baked fever dream. And me, standing here on a rooftop, pulled away from my comfortable reading nook!

“WHAT in the FUCK?” I ask, turning to Mephistopheles. It’s the only question that makes sense.

He points at Thessalia. “It’s this one’s fault,” he grumbles, explaining that somehow her magic brought these long-dead lizards back to un-life. They need my help to stop them. “Why me?” I ask, because—honestly—why?

Mephistopheles sighs and confesses he’s not entirely sure why it has to be me, but he’s certain I can do something. I glance at Thessalia, who gives me a sheepish look, and then I peek over the edge again. Skeleton dinosaurs. Rampaging. Mortals. Pandemonium.

I shrug. Why not? This might be more interesting than poker strategies, anyway. My perfect grin slides into place as I mentally prepare to dive into the fray. Another day, another bizarre adventure. In my long, peculiar existence, I’ve learned to roll with the punches.

It’s just another normal day, after all.

...

129) Diary Entry – Female T. Rex Skeleton (Betty)

(Scrawl…scrape…curse these tiny arms!)

Alright, I’m trying again to write this. My bone claws keep slipping on the pen, but I’ve got a good grip now—sort of. Must record what just happened, even if it’s all scratchy lines.

So there I was, in the middle of an absolutely delightful rampage through these strange mortal lands, when who should I see perched atop that big building we emerged from but an old friend: Nail-Face! Yes, the Nail-Face I remember! Him and his perfect teeth and all those nails in his head. I almost dropped my latest bit of debris in shock.

I paused my stomping and roaring, lumbered over to the museum, tilted my massive skull up, and roared in good old dinosaur language, “Hey Nail-Face, is that you?”

To my surprise, he roared right back, also in perfect dinosaur tongue, “Yeah, it’s me. Is that you, Betty?” My bones rattled with delight to hear that name again. Betty—he remembered!

I let out a triumphant roar to the other dinosaurs, calling them over. “Hey everyone, Nail-Face is here! Come see!” They halted their chaos (just for a moment, mind you) and gathered at the museum’s edge, peering up at him.

Nail-Face then explained why he’s come. Something about helping calm us down and stop our rampaging. The nerve! We just got back from the dead, and we have so much to see, taste, and destroy. We’re not about to give that up. I mean, who wants to go back to being quiet old skeletons in a dusty hall? Not us!

All of us dinosaurs let out a unified roar of “NAH!” (dinosaur language for a big, fat “no way!”) and promptly turned tail, galloping into the city. We’ve got sights to see, things to smash. Sorry Nail-Face—maybe next time you can join us in a proper rampage.

(Another scratch…okay, I think I’m done. Stupid pen keeps slipping. Back to the fun!)

...

130) Diary Entry – Thessalia

I... I have no words. Truly. I have witnessed strange things before—magical beings, ancient devils, cosmic forces—but this takes the prize for sheer ridiculousness.

There I stood, beside Mephistopheles atop the California Academy of Sciences, when Nail-Face suddenly appears. Out of nowhere. As if he were plucked from another realm and dropped right next to us. And then the dinosaurs—yes, the dinosaur skeletons I myself brought to life with my foolish magic—run straight up to the museum and start conversing with him!

Conversing, in dinosaur language, no less. Nail-Face not only responds but seems to know them by name. "Betty," he calls the towering T. rex. Betty! A skeletal dinosaur named Betty who knows Nail-Face. I could hardly close my mouth. I must have looked like a fish gasping for air.

After the dinosaurs bolt off again, I turned to Nail-Face, still reeling. “WHAT in the FUCK?” I demanded, my voice carrying all my disbelief. Nail-Face, with a calmness that only someone as world-weary as he could muster, explained vaguely that there was a time travel incident in his past he’d rather not discuss. Apparently, he’d had previous dealings with dinosaurs—and “Betty” in particular.

Mephistopheles chimed in, complimenting Nail-Face’s dinosaur accent as if it were the most natural thing to say. This was all too much for me.

It’s in this dizzying moment that the full absurdity of this situation hits me like a sledgehammer. I tried to help humans by channeling dinosaurs—my mind twists at the memory of Hallama Karris’ ridiculous speech about believing in them—and I see now how utterly idiotic it all is. Hallama’s theory was nonsense, and in my naïveté, I made that nonsense real.

Now we have skeletal dinosaurs rampaging through San Francisco, and it’s my magic that set them free. I can’t just wave my hand and reverse the spell. It’s going to take time, delicate work to unravel the enchantment that animated these ancient bones.

I turn to Mephistopheles and Nail-Face, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” I say, swallowing my pride. “I need time to fix this. Can you two intervene and try to stop the dinosaurs from destroying too much of the city? At least buy me some time.”

The both of them nod, Mephistopheles with a subtle sigh and Nail-Face with that perfect grin of his. I know I owe them for this, and I owe the people of this city something more: a lesson learned. I will do better. I must.

...

131) Journal Entry – Mephistopheles

Of all the absurd scenes I’ve witnessed lately—and that’s quite a number—today’s spectacle ranks near the top.

After Thessalia’s dinosaur revival fiasco, Nail-Face and I split up to chase down the skeletal beasts rampaging toward downtown San Francisco. He took a route more to the south, while I angled north, each of us hoping to at least contain the madness. It’s one thing to fend off resurrected dinosaurs in a park; quite another to see them roaming city streets and terrifying mortals who have no idea what’s happening.

My pursuit led me to Japantown, an area I’d hoped would still maintain some semblance of order. As I turned a corner, I spotted four velociraptor skeletons—lean, quick, and deadly—standing inside a Japanese comic book store. A comic book store! For a moment, I paused, baffled. Dinosaurs indulging in manga. The image was too ridiculous for words.

Cautiously, I entered the shop. The bell above the door jingled cheerfully, utterly at odds with the pandemonium these creatures were causing elsewhere. Inside, I found the velociraptors hunched over assorted volumes of manga, their bony heads angled down as if utterly engrossed in the pages. One mortal patron, on noticing the raptors, flung his arms up and shouted, “WHAT in the FUCK?” before sprinting out as if chased by devils. I swallowed a laugh as he vanished into the street.

The velociraptors looked up at the commotion. One of them gave a little shrug—somehow—and commented, in perfectly understandable language, “Hey, this is really good stuff, everyone should read it.” I nearly lost my composure on the spot. I had expected carnage and terror, not a gentle book recommendation.

Still, I had a job to do. Thessalia needs time to fix her magic properly, and until she does, it’s up to me (and Nail-Face) to stop these skeletons. So I held in my chuckle and raised my hand.

A snap of my fingers was all it took. The enchantment snapped like a frayed string, and in an instant, the four velociraptors tumbled to the floor as harmless piles of bones.

I sighed, relieved. One small group down—who knows how many to go. It’s not the heroic struggle I imagined: defeating dinosaur skeletons by simply ending their spell, rather than some grand battle. But it’s effective. And in these circumstances, effectiveness is all that matters.

I stepped over the bones, took one last glance at the scattering manga volumes, and stepped back out into the street. There’s more work to do, and time—ironically enough—is of the essence.

...

132) Diary Entry – Meelon Usk

I came to Salesforce Park today for a quiet moment, to watch the city’s skyline and savor the greenery sprouting atop the urban jungle. It’s one of my favorite spots—elevated, serene, a view of San Francisco that I find both inspiring and reassuring. For a while, I simply observed the breeze rustling through the leaves, enjoyed the hum of distant traffic, and let my mind drift over new technological possibilities.

Then, out of nowhere, I see it: a massive dinosaur head—just the skull, no flesh—lumbering past below. I blinked, thinking it must be some bizarre art installation or a very elaborate prank. But the expression in its empty eye sockets (if that even makes sense) gave me pause. It was clearly moving on its own. Not remote-controlled, not a robot. Something else.

Pulling out my phone, I accessed a few security camera feeds I’d discreetly installed around town. As the live footage loaded, my screen filled with horrors: skeletal dinosaur after skeletal dinosaur rampaging through the streets, sending people scurrying in panic. There’s Betty—apparently that’s her name—leading some unholy parade of extinct monsters resurrected without rhyme or reason.

I won’t lie—I actually shouted out loud, “WHAT in the FUCK?” The exclamation turned a few heads around me. Some random onlookers gave me puzzled looks, but who can blame me? How often do you see T. rex skulls sprinting down Market Street?

In that instant, I knew the city was in trouble. Something had to be done, and quickly. Good thing I’ve been developing some “peacekeeping” drones—just a little side project—armed with tracer rounds and small missiles for, well, emergencies. This counts as an emergency, right?

Without hesitation, I tapped into my phone’s control system for the drones. A few swipes, a couple of confirmation prompts, and I’d deployed them. They’ll be airborne in seconds, ready to handle the skeletal dinosaur threat with lethal precision.

I can already imagine the outcry when people learn about my drones, but what choice do we have? This is madness. Dinosaurs are extinct for a reason—and they certainly don’t belong stomping through a modern metropolis.

I guess my quiet afternoon at Salesforce Park is over. Time to save the day… or at least, prevent utter chaos. Let’s hope these drones can reduce these animated prehistoric nightmares back to the dusty museum artifacts they were supposed to remain.

...

133) Diary Entry – Betty the T. Rex Skeleton

(This… is tricky. Short forearms make writing rough, but I must record this insane turn of events.)

I was rampaging happily through San Francisco, minding my own business (well, as much as a reanimated T. rex skeleton can mind her own business), when I ended up outside some big fancy headquarters. A sign outside said “Y.com HQ (formerly known as Bird Noise.com).” Strange name, but I had bigger issues at the time—like dodging those lethal “peacekeeping” drones from that mortal, Meelon Usk.

I decided to smash my way inside to avoid getting riddled with tracer rounds and missiles. The glass and steel gave way easily beneath my mighty bones, and I thundered through the building’s corridors. Suddenly, the floor collapsed under my weight, and I crashed down into some kind of large basement area. Painful landing, but no flesh, no problem, right?

Except I landed on an odd metallic pad. The moment my bony feet touched it, the pad lit up and hummed loudly—a droning, eerie noise that rattled my ribs. Next thing I knew, an impossible sensation for a creature with no stomach swept over me: nausea. Before I could roar in confusion, the world twisted, and when I blinked (or however I perceive blinking without eyelids), I found myself no longer in the basement.

Instead, I’m on a snow-covered mountaintop. Snow. Actual cold, white powder covering the ground. I’ve never seen it before, but I know what it is somehow. Shocked, I yelled the only thing that came to mind: “WHAT in the FUCK?”

My voice echoed over the snowy peaks. Then I noticed movement. Several dozen figures wearing orange robes approached me. They looked calm, almost serene, as they trudged through the drifts toward a giant skeletal T. rex. How are they so calm?

I have no idea who these people are, or what that metallic pad was supposed to do. Am I trapped here now, in this frozen wilderness, far from any drones, far from San Francisco, far even from my fellow dinosaur skeletons? My head spins with questions, and all I can do is wait for these orange-robed strangers to reach me.

I guess I’ll have to see what they want.

...

134) Journal Entry – Nail-Face

When Thessalia asked me to help corral these reanimated dinosaur skeletons, I expected a bit of a chase, maybe a scuffle or two. What I did not anticipate was a front-row seat to sheer holiday-themed lunacy in the heart of a mortal city.

My path led me to Union Square, a spot supposedly known for shopping and touristy gatherings. It’s winter here, and the place was dressed up beautifully—twinkling lights, a massive Christmas tree at the center, and a large ice skating rink off to one side. Lovely scene, or it should have been.

But now it’s filled with rampaging dinosaur skeletons. Yes, dinosaurs, trying to gnaw on a giant Christmas tree, skeletal jaws clamping down on ornamental bulbs and fake pine needles. Others have ventured onto the ice skating rink, and let me tell you, watching ancient predator skeletons flail and skid gracelessly on ice is a sight I’ll never forget. The mortals standing around were understandably horrified.

Then came the “peacekeeping” drones, each bristling with tracer bullets and missiles. I heard them before I saw them, the whirring of mechanical wings and engines echoing between the tall buildings. They swept in, swift and merciless, cutting through the crisp winter air. The humans looked up, saw the drones, the dinosaur skeletons, and reached the exact correct conclusion: RUN. They scattered in every direction, screaming, slipping on the pavement, desperate to escape.

I remained where I was, standing calmly in the middle of Union Square. In truth, what good would panicking do? I’ve seen worse chaos in the Dimension of Pain’s weekly bingo tournaments. So I crossed my arms, observed, and wondered who authorized these drones—Meelon Usk, I presume—and what outcome they expected.

The drones did their “peacekeeping” job with lethal efficiency. Within moments, tracer bullets tore through ancient ribs and skulls, missiles shattered fossilized spines. Soon, the once-mighty dinosaurs were no more than piles of dusty bones on the pavement. The spectacle ended as abruptly as it began, leaving only silence, scattered debris, and a few blinking Christmas lights remaining on the battered tree.

I exhaled. So much unnecessary chaos. Still, with these dinosaurs dealt with, at least this portion of the city is safe. Now, I just need to regroup with Mephistopheles and find out if Thessalia’s managed to undo her spell elsewhere. The mortals will recover, rebuild, go back to shopping and skating soon enough.

Another day in this bizarre tapestry of worlds and creatures. I’ve grown used to it, I think.

...

135) Journal Entry – Meelon Usk

I can’t believe I’m the one getting yelled at publicly. Hallama Karris, in all her screeching glory, decided to hold me up as the villain. I stood there on a makeshift platform, trying to explain that dinosaur skeletons don’t, as a rule, spontaneously reanimate and rampage through the city. Clearly not something I’d intended when I funded that dinosaur exhibit. But could I get a word in? Of course not.

She was too busy berating me, her voice cracking like a whip over the crowd. Every time I tried to point out that the true threat is whoever—whatever—wielded magic powerful enough to bring prehistoric bones back to monstrous life, she brushed me off. She just kept shrieking that the dinosaurs were meant to inspire, to help humanity “bust out” of its limitations, not wreak havoc on civilization.

At one point, she turned to the crowd and resumed ranting about how it’s all my fault. My fault! As if I had designed the skeletons to play Godzilla in downtown San Francisco! The moment her back was to me, I took the chance. I quietly slipped off the stage and down a convenient alley. Let her scream into the wind, I have no patience for this madness.

As I ducked around a corner, trying to straighten my jacket and gather my thoughts, I nearly collided with a strange trio.

Nail-Face was there—yes, I’ve encountered him once before, a peculiar fellow from the Dimension of Pain, nails protruding from his skull, but a surprisingly collected demeanor. Beside him stood a young woman with pointy ears, clearly not human, and a man in a sharp black suit with a subtle scent of burnt wood. He had a calculating look about him, the kind that makes you think twice before speaking.

I stood there, suddenly aware of how absurd this day had become. Hallama Karris raving to a crowd, dinosaur skeletons terrorizing the city, and now I’m in an alley with what looks like an impromptu secret council of beings from who-knows-where.

I’m almost afraid to ask what comes next. But whatever happens, I can’t deny that something far more significant than my reputation with Hallama Karris is at stake. This trio might just offer me the insight or help I need to restore some sanity to this city. Or maybe they’ll just add to the confusion. Either way, better to stand here in an alley with these three than endure Hallama’s screeching another moment longer.

...

136) Journal Entry – Mephistopheles

I truly thought I had seen it all, but fate keeps surprising me.

In that dimly lit, conveniently placed alleyway, we stood: myself, Thessalia, and Nail-Face, when Meelon Usk approached. Yes, that mortal billionaire with the drones and dinosaur exhibit fiasco. A remarkable convergence of worlds and minds, all huddled behind a building while madness runs rampant in the city around us.

As Meelon drew near, Nail-Face greeted him first. To my utter astonishment, Nail-Face knew him. He explained—somewhat too casually, I might add—that Meelon once opened a portal to the Dimension of Pain on Bingo Night. Bingo Night? In the Dimension of Pain? I exchanged a startled glance with Thessalia; we both did a double take. According to Nail-Face, he had calmly suggested that Meelon take his portal elsewhere, because Bingo Night in the Dimension of Pain is even worse than their Poker Night. I can only imagine what horrors that entails.

Nail-Face then made introductions: he introduced Meelon to Thessalia and me. I expected tension, perhaps blame or accusations. Instead, Thessalia did something that caught me completely off-guard: she apologized to Meelon. She apologized for bringing his dinosaur exhibit to life. She stood there, earnest and sincere, acknowledging her part in the chaos. I felt something stir in me as she spoke—admiration, affection, a deepening warmth that was as surprising as it was undeniable.

Meelon thanked Thessalia for the explanation, but didn’t dwell on it. He seemed oddly unfazed by the absurdity of it all. Instead, he pointed out the real issue: Hallama Karris and her insane ideas, her devoted (or deranged) followers, and the havoc they’ve helped unleash. His matter-of-fact tone mirrored my own growing understanding that this goes beyond spells and resurrected skeletons. Hallama’s influence is warping reality as much as any magic.

There we stood, a devil, a Fae princess, a tortured soul from the Dimension of Pain, and a mortal billionaire, discussing matters that would send lesser minds spinning. The world outside the alley still reeled from recent events, but in that moment, we had clarity: the dinosaurs were a symptom, Hallama Karris and her cult of nonsense the disease.

I glanced at Thessalia once more. She met my gaze and smiled gently, as if acknowledging my reaction to her kindness. It made me feel something I’d never quite experienced so strongly: genuine tenderness amidst chaos. It’s strange how calamity can pave the way for connection.

Let’s see where this odd alliance leads us. I have a feeling we’ll need all the understanding and synergy we can muster.

...

137) Diary Entry – Hallama Karris

They’re all looking at me, and I can feel it… the “pure undiluted Mary Sue” inside me fading like a distant echo. I don’t have much time before I return to my ordinary, unimpressive self. I must act now. I must secure my victory—my rightful place as the chosen leader—before my newfound perfection wanes.

I will run again. The presidential election must be restarted. The current result means nothing! I will run as a candidate of the communist party this time, because why not? The platform is irrelevant—what matters is that I seize power immediately, while I still exude that perfect aura. And what better way than to shove my dinosaur rhetoric down their throats if they resist?

Yes, the dinosaur message—that’s key. The people must believe that the dinosaurs can help them “bust out” of their constraints. And if they don’t believe? Then I will force it upon them. They must learn that faith in these ancient reptiles is not optional; it is essential.

Time is short, so I won’t be subtle. I draw deeply on what remains of the Mary Sue magic, feeling that perfect brightness tinged with desperation. It might be the last time I speak with such authority. I face the crowd—my crowd—and I roar, “The newly elected president does not believe in dinosaurs! He is a fraud, a deceiver who stole the election from the true believers! From me!”

My words hit them like a hammer, and they love it. They adore my insanity, my brazen claims. Their eyes shine with fervor, and I know I have them. They disperse into the city as my justiciars, my crusaders, spreading the word: “Dinosaurs Will Help You Bust Out.” They will enforce it, convert the unbelievers, bring them under my banner by any means necessary.

Yes, let them run rampant. The world will tremble before my dinosaur-worshiping communistic fervor—at least for as long as the Mary Sue power holds. And once I’m installed in the position I deserve, maybe I won’t need magic to keep them in line.

This is the moment. I must not fail. I will become what I was always meant to be: the bestest ever leader this world will ever see, with dinosaurs as my eternal symbol of power.

...

138) Diary Entry – Cora Romanov

Tonight was supposed to be a quiet escape from the world, a brief respite at the Peppermill casino here in Reno. I’m dressed in my usual—jeans, short boots, a plain black T-shirt, and my trusty leather motorcycle jacket—just another face in a crowd of gamblers. The clatter of chips and the muted buzz of conversation are oddly soothing. It’s better than the chaos I’ve been reading about on my phone: dinosaur skeletons rampaging in San Francisco? Unbelievable. Part of me wishes I could be there to see it, just for the absurd novelty of it all, but for now, I’m content with Reno’s relative calm.

Sitting at the blackjack table, I’m aware of a presence approaching. Without looking up, I know it’s Chad—thin, greasy-haired Chad who’s tried before to recruit me into his lowlife schemes or bed me, neither of which interests me. Before he can utter a syllable, I flatly tell him I’m not sleeping with him and I’m not working for him. I can practically feel him bristle, his pride stung. He’s about to spit some nasty comeback when the dealer interrupts and reminds me it’s my turn.

I glance at my cards: a 17, composed of a 9 of diamonds and an 8 of spades. Normally, 17’s the borderline—you stand, most times. But I have this knack, a sense, a… “look ahead.” Something tells me the next card is a 4 of hearts. Perfect. I indicate to the dealer I want a hit. The onlookers might think I’m crazy—hitting on a 17? But the dealer slides me the 4 of hearts as if fate itself delivered it into my hand. That’s a perfect 21. I don’t react outwardly, just nod and let the chips come my way.

Chad, still loitering beside me, doesn’t get a chance to say anything foolish. I lean in slightly and warn him to leave before I get security involved again. He knows better than to test me. With a scowl, he slinks off into the neon shadows of the casino floor, hopefully to rot somewhere else.

I pocket my winnings—several thousand dollars richer than when I walked in. Before cashing out, I “look ahead” again and catch a glimpse of Chad and a few of his buddies lurking near the main exit, no doubt waiting to corner me. Pathetic. No matter. I slip the cash securely into my jacket pocket, say a quiet thanks to Lady Luck, and head out the back door instead. Let them wait at the front all they want.

The cold Reno night air greets me, crisp and refreshing after the stale casino atmosphere. With my winnings safely tucked away, I stroll off into the darkness. Another night survived and thrived. And maybe tomorrow, I’ll see what else the world throws my way—skeleton dinosaurs, thugs like Chad, or something stranger still.

...

139) Journal Entry – Helsik

I had not expected Morozko to appear at Cania unannounced, but then again, there’s very little about this ancient, winter-bound being that follows predictable patterns. One moment I’m seated comfortably by the roaring fire in my icy palace, contemplating recent events—the madness of resurrected dinosaurs, the political absurdities of mortals, and the unsettling calm after recent chaos—and the next, he simply appears, brushing off frost as though he’d stepped through a snowbank from another world.

I greeted him warmly, or as warmly as one can manage in this perpetually frozen hall. We sat near the fire, its flickering light casting long shadows across the floor, and I offered him a drink. Morozko seemed reserved, like a man burdened by something he’d rather not say. For a few minutes, he danced around the topic, commenting on the recent events, asking polite questions about how I’d fared. But I know him well enough now to sense when he’s stalling.

Finally, with a sigh and a very Russian shrug, he got right to the point.

“Helsik,” he said, his voice low and steady, “you have family.”

At first, I barely understood. Family? Me? It took a moment for his words to penetrate my thoughts. He reminded me of what he’d said during the Christmas party, when Chronos was destabilizing time and Morozko hinted at some shared lineage. I’d not taken it entirely seriously then, chalking it up to the frenzy of that bizarre evening. Now he was making it plain: we are related, Morozko and I. He hinted at blood ties that stretch beyond my knowledge.

Then he told me something that shook me to the core: the woman I left behind all those centuries ago—before I ever set foot in Hell—had been pregnant. She bore my child. That child’s descendants persisted through the generations, surviving struggles and hardships, until only one remains: Cora Romanov.

As the name leaves his lips, I feel the old memories surge forward, unbidden. Her face, my love, the one I abandoned for my lust of power in Hell’s embrace. I recall her laughter, the warmth of her hand in mine. I remember my decision to leave, to chase devilish promises and alien wonders. I told myself it was for greatness. Now I know it was a hollow ambition.

Cora Romanov. My blood lives on in her veins. How strange and wonderful and terrifying that I have a living descendant now, in this mortal realm, likely knowing nothing of me. I want to ask a hundred questions at once—Where is she? What kind of life has she led? Is she safe? Happy?

Morozko senses my curiosity. He holds up a hand and says only that Cora needs my help right now. Now. Urgency laces his words, and I understand that whatever life this distant granddaughter of mine leads, it has brought her into danger or crisis.

I feel torn. I have known countless eons, walked through horrors and splendors. But to learn of a family line sprung from my abandoned past... I can’t ignore this. Whatever help she needs, I must give it. There’s no room for hesitation, no matter how complicated the path might be.

Cora Romanov. My descendant. The last of my line. I will find her. I will help her. I owe it to the love I left behind, and to the future I never imagined I had.

...

140) Diary Entry – Chad

It’s past midnight, I guess, and here I am in my old Prius, cruising the dark streets. The car’s rattling a bit—needs work, like everything else in my life—but whatever. I’ve got a destination in mind, and no one’s gonna stop me. Not even these so-called friends of mine.

I’ve got Cora’s place locked down. Might or might not have been tracking her, paying attention to where she hangs out. Look, I know what people would say—“Dude, stalking? That’s low, even for you.” One of my guys actually said that, right from the passenger seat. The nerve. As if he’s some model citizen.

Still, I was surprised when he got all squeamish. Moments after his little moral stand, the other two also made noises about not wanting any part of my plan. What plan, anyway? They barely know what I’m doing. Not that they need to know. It’s simple: I’m going to see Cora at her apartment in Reno. She has money—she won big at the casino, right? That’s what I heard. And I’m out here hustling for what I deserve.

But my so-called friends, they bailed. One of them first asked me to stop the car. I glared at him, daring him to change his mind, but nope. He got out. Then the other two followed. They all left me behind without a word of loyalty. Fakes. Couldn’t handle the heat, I guess.

Doesn’t matter. I don’t need them. I never did. I’m better off alone—fewer complications.

Now I’m driving along with just the hum of the engine and my thoughts. Cora’s apartment is not far. I can picture it: dark, quiet, and probably no witnesses at this hour. Perfect. She has what I need, and I’m gonna get it.

I’m not worried about what happens next. After all, I’m Chad. I always find a way.

...

141) Diary Entry – Cora

It’s hard to write this with my hands still shaking, but I need to put these words down before everything blurs into a nightmare memory. I woke up in my apartment—no, was woken up—by something tapping my forehead. Not gently, but insistently. For a second, I thought maybe I was dreaming. Until I opened my eyes and saw him.

Chad. Standing over my bed, a baseball bat gripped in his hand. My heart lurched so hard I thought it would burst right through my chest. He didn’t say much, just threatened me. “If you scream, I’ll bash in your face.” The words came out flat, no hint of hesitation, as if he’d been rehearsing them. My throat locked up; I don’t think I could’ve screamed even if I wanted to.

I tried to “look ahead,” to pierce the veil of possibility like I’ve done before, but I’m too groggy, too shaken. It’s like trying to see through fogged-up glasses. I get nothing but swirling uncertainty. My body’s still heavy with the residue of sleep, and the situation is too raw, too immediate for my mind to find clarity.

Then, a knock at the door. Firm and insistent. It echoes through the apartment, startling both of us. Chad stiffens, bat still poised. I have no idea who’s on the other side. Another threat? A rescuer? Just a neighbor?

Chad’s eyes flick toward the door, then back to me. He lifts a finger to his lips, a warning. Don’t scream, don’t speak, don’t even breathe too loudly. The tension thickens. My mind races. I’m trapped in my own home with a madman, and someone else—someone unknown—is just a few feet away on the other side of that door.

I hold my breath and wait.

...

142) Diary Entry – Chad

I made a decision I now regret. It seemed simple enough: someone at Cora’s door, knocking with that steady insistence. I thought maybe if I got rid of whoever it was, I could go back to handling Cora—getting what I came for. I was still holding the bat, and she was still on the bed, eyes wide, silent as I ordered.

So I went to the door. I looked through the peephole and saw some older guy. Not ancient, but older than me by a couple of decades. Dark brown hair, a bit of grey at the temples. He didn’t look tough—just some random loser, probably out begging for money or something. I thought I’d shoo him away with a harsh word or a swing of the bat if necessary.

I opened the door, and that’s when everything went wrong.

The moment I stood face-to-face with him, I felt something… bizarre. As if the air thickened into iron chains around me. I tried to speak, to say “What the hell do you want?” or something equally intimidating, but I couldn’t. My jaw wouldn’t move. My throat wouldn’t produce sound. My limbs—stone. Every muscle locked up as if I’d turned into a living statue.

My eyes darted, the only part of me still working, and I took in the older man’s calm, unwavering gaze. He didn’t look angry or threatening, just… focused. I wanted to scream at him, to raise the bat, to run. Nothing happened. Panic rose in my chest as I realized I couldn’t even breathe normally. My lungs fought for air, but it was like trying to breathe through a wall of concrete.

Who is this guy? How did he do this to me? Some kind of trick, magic, drugs—this can’t be real. I was in control a moment ago. Now I’m helpless, at his mercy. Why do I deserve this? Sure, I’m no saint, but this level of horror—unable to move or speak, heart hammering, desperate for oxygen—is something I never imagined I’d experience.

My vision edges with dark spots as I struggle for air. The man says nothing. He just stands there, and I’m trapped, paralyzed, terrified. What’s he going to do next? What’s going to happen to me?

I’m alone, pinned in place by some impossible force. Is this how it ends?

...

143) Diary Entry – Cora

I stepped out of my bedroom, unsure what I’d find—Chad had been threatening me, a bat in his hand and violence in his eyes. But what greeted me was… surreal. Chad stood by the door, frozen like a statue, mouth slightly open, eyes wild with panic. He didn’t move an inch, not even to breathe as far as I could tell. And standing just outside, a man perhaps in his fifties, brown hair flecked with grey, dressed sensibly for the cold Reno air.

I asked him what he did to Chad. He replied, almost casually, that he didn’t do much—just some “minor paralysis”—and that if I wanted, Chad could recover “soon-ish.” He sounded… friendly, as if this were some routine matter, just a mild inconvenience. With a polite smile, he said he meant no harm and had come to help me with this “Chad situation.” Then he added that it’s cold outside and asked if he might come in.

I hesitated, of course. Strange older men don’t usually show up at my apartment door, let alone freeze creeps who broke in. But something about his demeanor suggested calm confidence rather than malice. I stepped aside, waving him in warily. He nodded, careful not to touch Chad, who remained stiff as a board in the doorway. He had to squeeze past the immobilized body, and the sight made me stifle an incredulous laugh. This man, strolling calmly into my apartment, treating a paralyzed intruder like an inconvenient piece of furniture.

Once inside, he closed my door and shook off the chill. I folded my arms, waiting for an explanation. He took a moment to look around my living room with mild interest before turning to me.

“My name is Helsik,” he said quietly. “I’m your grandfather.”

My heart twisted at those words. Grandfather? I blinked, the tension releasing slightly from my shoulders. This man, claiming to be family, in the middle of this bizarre night. Chad, frozen like a statue at the door. The older man, Helsik, calm and composed, apparently here to help me.

I don’t know what to think. But after tonight’s madness—Chad’s attack, the dinosaur rampage stories, the sheer impossibility of it all—I guess one more surprise might as well just slot right in.

My grandfather… If that’s true, I have so many questions.

...

144) Journal Entry – Helsik

I’ve seen countless strange and wondrous things in my time, but this ranks near the top for pure awkwardness. Standing in Cora’s modest living room, claiming to be her grandfather, I could sense her skepticism. I can’t blame her. I’ve come from nowhere, with uncanny abilities, “saving” her from a paralyzed intruder.

She looked like she was about to ask me to leave when, without warning, Raphael, Cirrus, and Fina appeared. No knocking, no subtlety—just instant materialization. Cora reacted predictably: a startled yelp and a desperate leap behind the couch. A perfectly rational response, really, considering the circumstances.

Raphael—who I immediately noted smelled faintly of liquor—just blurted out a question: “Dude, did you handle the Chad situation yet?” I sighed inwardly. So much for subtlety.

I pointed silently at Chad, still standing rigid at the door, unable to move or speak. Raphael, tipsy grin plastered on his face, brightened at the sight. “Ooh! Cool! Can I keep him?” he asked with the kind of enthusiasm a child might have over a new puppy.

I looked at Cora, who had risen partly from behind her couch, confusion etched into her features. Raphael took her bewildered shrug as a “yes” and before I could protest, he vanished, taking Chad and the baseball bat along with him. One less problem, I suppose, but not the approach I would have chosen.

Cirrus turned to me with a flat, unimpressed look. “The poor dear looks frightened. Do something,” she said. Cora’s eyes were wide, and I could feel the fear radiating off her. She’s mortal, after all; this must be overwhelming.

I tried to think of something reassuring and simple—maybe a heartfelt apology or a calming presence. Instead, in my haste to set things right, I decided the best solution was to relocate. I didn’t think it through. With a snap of my fingers, I teleported myself, Cora, Cirrus, and Fina straight to Cania, my icy domain. My home.

Cora’s face went from fear to sheer panic as the warm apartment was replaced by a chilling landscape of ice and frost. Cirrus sighed dryly behind me, “That’s not quite what I meant.”

I inhaled slowly, facing Cora, who stood shivering and astonished. “Sorry,” I said softly, trying to keep my voice gentle, “I’m a bit new to this ‘family’ thing.”

A poor excuse, but the truth nonetheless. I need to handle this carefully. I will learn. For her sake, I must.

...

145) Diary Entry – Meelon Usk

It’s been a week since that night of absolute insanity. Hallama Karris confronted me again this morning, her voice dripping with self-righteous fury. She blames me—me!—for the chaos caused by the rampaging dinosaur skeletons. As if I had anything to do with their reanimation! But reason has no place in that twisted worldview of hers. She insisted that since I’m “responsible,” I must now open more portals, not just to San Francisco, but around the entire planet. Her lunatic followers need to spread her “dinosaurs will help you bust out” message globally, she says.

I refused, of course. I’ve seen what portals can do. Remember Booglia and the kittens? That mess nearly brought Hell and Heaven into conflict, not to mention the countless bizarre side-effects. Opening more portals would only magnify the madness. But Hallama is relentless. She threatened consequences if I didn’t cooperate.

So, here I am, in Vancouver, British Columbia—about as far from my usual haunts as I could get on short notice. I needed a place where Hallama or any of her crazed devotees wouldn’t even think to look, and a quiet Canadian street corner seemed perfect. I found a street payphone (a rarity these days) and slipped inside its grimy enclosure. The scent of stale cigarettes and old gum wrappers clung to the booth, but it’s worth it for the secrecy. I can’t risk Hallama’s people tracing a cell call.

I dialed the number Mephistopheles gave me when we parted ways a week ago. The code was simple but oddly elegant. I half-expected it not to connect, or for the line to ring endlessly. Instead, after two rings, I heard his voice.

“Mephistopheles here,” he said, calm and composed as ever.

My heart gave a small, relieved leap. I can’t believe I’m relieved to hear a devil’s voice, but these are strange times. If anyone can help me handle Hallama’s absurd demands, it’s Mephistopheles. He might not be a friend in the traditional sense, but he’s rational, powerful, and has no patience for nonsensical crusades. Perfect.

Now I have to explain the situation—Hallama’s new plans, the threat of more portals, the rising tide of her lunatic followers. Will Mephistopheles intervene? Will he negotiate some devilish solution that protects me from her rage?

I take a breath and prepare to speak. I never thought I’d place my hopes in a devil, but here we are.

...

146) Journal Entry – Mephistopheles

The day began with a simple phone call from Meelon Usk. I half-expected some mundane report on political chaos among mortals or an update on the dinosaur debacle. Instead, he brought a new problem: Hallama Karris demanding he open more portals for her foolish “dinosaurs will help you bust out” campaign. The very thought of unleashing more chaos across the globe made my stomach turn. He called from some Canadian street payphone—charming attempt at secrecy, truly.

I decided Meelon shouldn’t be talking just to me; he needed Hell’s Inner Circle to weigh in. With a flick of my wrist, I teleported him right out of his mortal world and into one of Hell’s grand halls. To his credit, Meelon adjusted better than most mortals would, simply straightening his jacket and nodding, as if being yanked into Hell were a casual inconvenience.

Over the next hour, I assembled the Inner Circle. One by one, they arrived. The Devil himself strode in first, his calm aura filling the room. Lilith followed, looking as imperious as ever. Raphael sauntered in, smelling faintly of wine, and Helsik arrived shortly after, with Cora and Cirrus and Fina in tow. Cora seemed nervous, but I think she’s adjusting to all this strangeness. I never expected to see a mortal descendant of Helsik here, but life is full of surprises.

At the last possible moment, Norris Chuck made his grand entrance—crashing through the ceiling and landing in a drunken heap. The debris scattered across the floor. Not a single member of the circle blinked an eye, except Cora, who looked at the drunken angel with the mild horror of someone still not used to this crowd. Well, we’ll break her in eventually.

Before we got down to business, Meelon turned to Cirrus and, to my surprise, offered an apology. He referenced the cage incident—I recall vaguely he once had Cirrus trapped at some point—and he assured her it was never personal. Cirrus rolled her eyes so dramatically I almost laughed, but then she smiled, acknowledging the olive branch. That’s the closest we get to forgiveness in these circles.

With everyone’s attention finally on him, Meelon laid out the problem. Hallama Karris wants more portals, wants to spread her deranged message of dinosaurs and “busting out” across the planet. More portals, more zealots, more instability. If we remember the chaos Booglia unleashed, the last thing we need is another multidimensional nightmare. Meelon believes opening such portals could lead to Booglia-like catastrophes, and I’m inclined to agree.

Now we have a full room of power players, each with their own perspective: The Devil, Lilith, Raphael, Helsik, Cora, Cirrus, Fina, Norris Chuck, and Meelon himself. A bizarre coalition if ever there was one. But if this madness is to be stopped—if we want to avoid more rampaging skeletons, more lunatic politicians turned demagogues—we’ll have to find a solution together.

We’ll see what each has to say.

...

147) Diary Entry – Cora

I hardly know where to begin. I found myself in a cavernous room in Hell—yes, actual Hell—surrounded by faces that even a week ago I wouldn’t have believed existed. The Devil, Lilith, Raphael, Cirrus, and Fina… and Meelon Usk, of all people. It felt like a dream, or a hallucination, except the cold stone beneath my feet and Helsik’s reassuring hand on my shoulder kept me grounded in reality.

They were talking about Hallama Karris, some politician with a ridiculous “dinosaurs will help you bust out” platform. Apparently, she’s declaring a second presidential election, and they’re all up in arms (or wings, or horns) about the chaos it might bring. Honestly, the discussion made my head spin. Dinosaurs, portals, rants about building a communist dinosaur utopia—it was too much for me.

My mind wandered until Lilith proposed an idea that snapped me to attention: run someone against Hallama in the election. I could see the plan forming like a puzzle clicking into place. An actual campaign in the mortal realm, orchestrated by Hell’s inner circle. Thessalia suggested the candidate should be cunning, and for a moment nobody spoke. Then, from the corner, Norris Chuck slurred something about Mephistopheles—“If ye want cunning ‘n guile, who better?”—and the words resonated through the room.

Mephistopheles looked taken aback for half a second, but he quickly composed himself. Then he turned and focused on me. All eyes followed. My heart nearly stopped. “Would such a plan work?” he asked. “Given that Cora can see the future?”

The color drained from my face. I’m still not entirely sure how I do what I do, let alone comfortable performing on command. But I forced a breath, closed my eyes, and tried to look ahead. Images flickered behind my eyelids: Mephistopheles standing triumphant, the crowds cheering. Hallama Karris smirking from behind a podium, waving dinosaur flags. A very strange, disjointed vision of a dead dinosaur overshadowing the White House. Nothing was certain. It all blended into a kaleidoscope of overlapping possibilities.

When I opened my eyes, I felt everyone watching me. I stammered, stumbling over my words, apologizing for not providing a straight answer. “It’s too far into the future,” I tried to explain. I can see glimpses but they’re muddled, contradictory, shifting every time I blink.

Thankfully, Helsik intervened. He placed a hand on my shoulder, defending me. He said perhaps with some focused time and training, I might gain better control of my ability. But for now, the broad strokes seem to suggest the idea holds merit: running Mephistopheles for president could counter Hallama’s madness.

Norris Chuck let out a massive, drunken belch—an expression, I think, of his agreement. The smell alone nearly knocked me backward, but I managed a polite smile.

So now it looks like we’re on the verge of organizing a campaign for Mephistopheles, the Arch-Devil, against Hallama Karris, queen of dinosaurs. If this is what my life has become, I can only wonder what tomorrow will bring.

...

148) Diary Entry – Betty the T. Rex Skeleton

I never pictured myself meditating on a snowy mountaintop, but life (or un-life?) has a way of surprising you. Here I am, a reanimated T. rex skeleton, sitting serenely under the vast sky, breathing in the crisp alpine air through bones that technically don’t breathe. Go figure.

A monk in orange robes approached me today—quiet, sure-footed in the drifts. He bowed politely, which I returned with a dip of my massive skull, and beckoned me to follow him to the monastery below. The monks insisted on teaching me their ways, and I’ve grown rather adept at walking atop the snow without sinking. Quite handy for a big gal like me.

We trudged down the mountain path (well, he trudged; I glided over the surface) until we reached the inner hall. The entire order of monks was assembled, their orange robes a patchwork of warmth in the cold stone space. At the head of them all stood the abbot, who greeted me with that measured calm they all seem to possess.

He spoke of impending turmoil soon to engulf the world. The monks themselves can’t hold back the storms of fate, he said, but they believe I have a role to play—my actions could tip the balance toward good or evil. Me, Betty, a dinosaur skeleton who once tried to snack on a city. Strange how life works.

Then he praised my progress over these two weeks. I’ve apparently mastered every technique they can teach—aside from anything that involves punching. (Short arms, remember? Let’s not dwell on that.) He told me it’s time for me to return to my homeland, to be the hand of fate, as it were. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t both excited and terrified.

But that’s when the abbot, with a calm smile, reached into his robe and pulled out… a plane ticket. Yes, a plane ticket. For me. A T. rex skeleton. I almost thought it was a joke, but these monks are never sarcastic. The abbot simply held it out, expecting me to accept it with my minuscule claws.

So, I guess I’m going back to America. To do what, exactly? I’m still not sure. The world’s in chaos, dinosaurs are apparently a political talking point, and I’m an undead reptile brimming with monk-gifted serenity. But maybe that’s enough. Maybe I can make a difference, like the abbot said.

I’ll find a way. Even if it means squeezing these massive bones into an airplane seat. I’m sure that’ll be a sight. I only hope they serve snacks that fit a skeleton’s taste… though I’m not sure what that would be. Wish me luck.

...

149) Journal Entry – Mephistopheles

We call ourselves “the saboteur crew.” Not exactly the title I’d have chosen, but Norris Chuck insisted and, honestly, it fits. There we were—myself, Thessalia, Lilith, and our perpetually inebriated angel friend—huddled around a small table. The topic of conversation: how to derail Hallama Karris’s campaign and prevent another chaotic spectacle from engulfing the mortal plane.

I was in the midst of musing over various strategies with Lilith, while Norris Chuck was demonstrating an extraordinary capacity for belching on command, when Raphael barged in. He always does things with a flourish—this time, literally carrying some poor soul over his shoulder. The thin man had greasy hair, hollow cheeks, and a desperate look in his beady eyes. He wore a cheap leather jacket and ratty jeans paired with threadbare Converse shoes. The entire ensemble reeked of bad decisions.

Raphael dumped him on the floor with a triumphant grin. “I’ve brought the perfect saboteur!” he announced.

The man attempted to struggle, but it was a pitiful show of resistance. Thessalia and Lilith both took a step back, their expressions twisting in disgust. I recognized him at once: Chad. Cora’s would-be attacker, the wretch who tried to manipulate and harm her. So this was what Raphael had done with Chad after he’d whisked the man away.

Before I could speak, Norris Chuck erupted into a loud, raucous laugh, clapping his hands. “This’ll be good!” he boomed, grinning from ear to ear. Leave it to Norris to find the idea of enlisting a scumbag’s help absolutely hilarious.

I couldn’t resist a smile, myself. Despite the man’s obvious lack of morals (and all-around distastefulness), there’s potential here. Hallama Karris is a disease upon the mortal political scene, and we need someone equally low, equally unscrupulous, to sabotage her from the inside.

That’s Chad, all right. A vile little rodent of a man, but possibly perfect for the job.

Lilith and Thessalia looked ready to vomit, which only cemented for me that we’re onto something. The best sabotage is never pretty. And Chad, of all people, has the perfect blend of moral bankruptcy and desperate ambition for whatever task lies ahead.

I suppose we’ll see how it goes. For now, I’m savoring that rare, wicked thrill: the knowledge that we might have found the perfect weapon of sabotage, one that stoops exactly to Hallama’s level. Let the games begin.

...

150) Journal Entry – Helsik

I’ve spent the last few weeks working closely with Cora, helping her hone her ability to see into the future. I’m amazed at how quickly she’s adapted, how she’s able to pick up nuances in those flickering visions. At first, her glimpses were vague, scattered, more anxiety than clarity. But now, she’s starting to focus on the details, to sift through possibilities instead of being overwhelmed by them.

I used the time not just to train her, but to learn more about who she is—where she came from, what makes her tick. She shared pieces of her life like puzzle fragments: born and raised in Sacramento, by two loving parents who gave her a comfortable upper middle class upbringing. And then… tragedy. A car crash that took them both away, leaving her an orphan at seventeen. She wasn’t in the car, so she survived, but she told me it felt like her life ended there, too.

She still finished high school. Somehow, she fought through that grief and pain on her own. Then she left Sacramento, maybe trying to outrun the memories, the void her parents left behind. She ended up in Reno, discovered she had a knack for picking cards—an almost uncanny ability to sense outcomes, which I suspect is connected to her emerging gift. It allowed her to make a living (though situations like the one with Chad prove it’s not always so easy).

Spending this time with her has been eye-opening. She’s more at ease with me now, less wary and frightened by the strange world I’ve brought her into. She still has moments of caution—and who wouldn’t?—but I can see trust blooming. I feel it too. It’s a rare and humbling gift to be in her life now, to attempt to make up for years I never knew I lost.

Her new life may be unconventional—what with living in Cania from time to time and mixing with devils, angels, and all manner of beings. But Cora doesn’t break. She adapts. And I find myself proud, not just of her talent, but of her resilience and grace. I’ll do what I can to keep supporting her, both as a mentor and as… well, her grandfather. Even if I’m still learning how to be one.

...

151) Diary Entry – Chad

Damn, this has been a wild ride. Working for Hallama Karris was never on my to-do list, but here I am, in West Baltimore of all places—at her insistence, no less. She said something about how the people here are “more her people” than Oakland, which, if you ask me, is a load of crap, but whatever. I’m not in a position to argue. I’m paid to nod, smile, and sabotage on the sly.

Anyway, when we settled on West Baltimore, I pitched a twist on her dinosaur message. Instead of the same old “dinosaurs will help you bust out,” I told her we should spin it to “dinosaurs with bats will help you bust out,” ’cause, you know, it fits the vibe here—or so I told her. She loved the idea. We were setting up this big venue for her rally, planning all sorts of “ra-ra” for her new “dinos with bats” theme. Classy stuff, right?

Then Betty shows up. Betty! A dinosaur. A T. rex skeleton, apparently. Shows up slow and serene, stomping in like she owns the place. I was ready to beat it the second I saw that bony monstrosity, but Hallama—standing right next to me—mutters under her breath, “Aww shit here we go again.” So I stayed, curiosity beating out my common sense.

Betty (the dino) strolls right up to Hallama, claims she can be Hallama’s new “spokes-dino.” Hallama just stares, blank-faced. Me, I’m stunned. It’s not every day a giant skeleton T. rex politely offers to talk up a political campaign, especially one about dinosaur bats. So I whisper to Hallama that she should be pissed. Betty’s not even brandishing a bat, which goes against everything we’ve built up about “dinosaurs with bats.”

Right on cue, Hallama snaps out of her trance and starts screaming at Betty, going on about how she won’t be upstaged by some “plebian dinosaur skeleton” who doesn’t even have the courtesy to carry a bat. Her screechy tirade echoes around the arena, and I see even some of our own staff wincing, probably wishing they’d brought earplugs. Meanwhile, Betty just stands there, all calm and collected, letting Hallama’s madness burn itself out.

Finally, Hallama runs out of steam. Betty coolly announces she’ll start her own presidential campaign—something about blackjack and fire trucks—and then turns around and stomps off. The total calmness she left with practically made my jaw drop.

Naturally, Hallama acts like none of that ever happened. She turns right back to ordering folks around, barking commands to finish the stage setup. And I, for one, am standing here, silently questioning what the hell I got myself into. Is this woman even stable? She’s borderline nuts. No, full-on nuts, if you ask me.

I excused myself, mumbling some nonsense about checking on the sound system. Truth is, I needed to slip into a back room so I could make a call to my real bosses—the saboteur crew. They’re gonna love hearing about how the dinosaur they were worried about has now decided to run for president too.

Just another day in West Baltimore, with dinosaurs, baseball bats, screaming Hallama, and me stuck right in the thick of it.

...

152) Diary Entry – Ducky McDuckface

I never thought I’d say it, but I’m starting to miss the days when my biggest concern was sprinkling sugar on these infernal pies. Pies! The irony of my daily labor is not lost on me—Ducky McDuckface, the once-revolutionary, reduced to crusts and fillings in the Iron City Cafeteria. Gah!

Then, out of nowhere, who contacts me but Lilith herself. Lilith. I could hardly believe my ears. There I was, flour on my feathers, pulling a tray of fresh pies from the oven, when her messenger appeared, delivering her oh-so-imperious summons. “Lilith requires your presence,” he said, all prim and proper. And next thing I know, I’m face-to-face with the Mistress of Hell (well, one of them), who wastes no time demanding a new task.

She wants me—me, Ducky McDuckface—to join Betty the T. rex skeleton’s presidential campaign. Not to promote it, of course, but to sabotage it from within. She explained that they’ve got Mephistopheles lined up to run against Hallama Karris, but now Betty’s jumped in with her own ridiculous campaign (something about blackjack and fire trucks, from what I hear). Apparently, having two monstrous creatures in the race complicates things, so Lilith wants me to ensure Betty stands no chance.

I can’t stand Lilith. She’s everything I hate about Hell—regal, dismissive, condescending. But—and it’s a big but—the alternatives to following her orders are far worse than slaving in a kitchen. I know all too well what she’s capable of. If she says jump, I’d better jump or get flung into a pit of torment. At least these pies won’t devour me, right?

Still, I resent every fiber of this. She ordered me to sabotage Betty’s efforts to be elected, just so Mephistopheles can have a clear shot against Hallama. The very notion that I’m helping them revolve the mortal world’s politics makes me seethe, but I have no choice. I set aside my dough and rolling pin (blasted implements of my humiliation), wiped the flour off my beak, and now I’m packing my meager possessions, preparing to meet this Betty in the mortal realm.

Sigh. So I have to go from baking pies in the Iron City to becoming a mole on some undead dinosaur’s campaign team. Is this truly my life now? Once, I dreamed of revolution—sharing wealth among the damned. Now I peddle pastries and undermine a T. rex skeleton. This is what Hell reduces us to.

Well, one thing’s for sure: If Lilith wants sabotage, sabotage she’ll get. Betty won’t know what hit her. And maybe someday I’ll finally earn enough “credit” to get free of these ridiculous tasks. Until then, it’s back to packing.

Ducky McDuckface… signing off… to become a presidential saboteur for the second time. What a world.

...

153) Diary Entry – Betty the T. Rex Skeleton

Sitting (or, well, standing) here in my campaign headquarters—a modest little spot in a strip mall in Albuquerque—I can’t help but reflect on how odd my un-life has become. Why Albuquerque, you ask? Because I wanted a location no one would fuss over. I may be an undead Tyrannosaurus Rex, but I do try not to tread on anyone’s toes. (What’s left of my own toes, at least.)

We’re set up with some plastic fold-out tables and a few dusty chairs. The neon lights out front blink “VOTE BETTY!” in a decidedly homegrown style. It’s humble, sure, but it’s ours.

Then in strolls this duck. Literally, a duck-man, feathers drooping, looking like he’d just marched through the Sahara and back. He introduced himself as Ducky McDuckface—quite a name, but who am I to judge? He said he hitchhiked across all of New Mexico in the back of a pickup, which made me tilt my skull in curiosity. I mean, I’m fairly certain ducks can fly, right? But I decided not to press too hard on that.

He told me he’d heard about my campaign and wants to join, claiming he has experience as a lobbyist for “massive change” that will somehow bring peace to Earth. He kept referring to his city of origin as “down south,” and left it at that. He looked so bedraggled I had to offer him some water (or at least some water to dunk his beak in—still figuring out these mortal courtesy rules).

Anyway, I asked about his credentials, and he seemed earnest enough. If he’s that devoted, I’m not about to turn away help—especially this late in the race. Elections come fast, and I need all the energy I can muster.

So, I shrugged my bony shoulders and gave him the thumbs-up (well, in spirit—short forearms, remember?). Another staffer on the team. Another step toward… something. I’m still not entirely certain how one runs a campaign with no real party, no established platform other than “vote dinosaur.” But maybe that’s the charm of it all.

Ducky’s got some strange vibe about him, but if he’s so passionate about peace, who am I to say no? At least now, I can say I have a campaign staff that includes me—a reanimated T. Rex skeleton—and a duck-person. If that doesn’t spell success, I don’t know what does.

Here’s hoping our message of “Betty for President!” (with a side of blackjack and fire trucks) resonates. Because believe me, if we can capture the hearts of the people in Albuquerque, maybe we can capture the country. Or so I’d like to think.

...

154) Journal Entry – Mephistopheles

If you had told me a month ago that I, Mephistopheles, would be running a presidential campaign from a multi-story bar in downtown Nashville, I’d have banished you to the pits of Hell for insolence. Yet here I am, perched in a dim corner booth, the air thick with whiskey fumes and boisterous country tunes. It was Norris Chuck’s idea—he swore that in this town, people treat drinking like a professional sport. I supposed that might complement my campaign style more than any stuffy press conference.

Now, about our grand sabotage plan: Inserting Chad into Hallama’s campaign and Ducky McDuckface into Betty’s was supposed to undermine their platforms. For a while, it worked, but like so many devilish plots, it has… escalated.

Chad advised Hallama to have her followers adopt lowrider cars and submachine guns. Something about “flair,” he claimed. Ducky then countered by urging Betty’s camp to embrace race cars and AR-15s—apparently, he considers the AR-15 a “serene weapon” (how he managed that logic is beyond me). Now both factions have devolved into an arms race, each competing to be more outrageous and unhinged than the other. It’s spiraling wildly, and Hallama and Betty remain oblivious or, worse, enthralled by the chaos.

Meanwhile, my campaign trudges along comparatively dignified, though “dignified” is hardly the word I ever thought to associate with an Arch-Devil’s political aspirations. I even proposed a debate with Hallama and Betty—some classic spectacle where I could outwit them on live TV—but both camps refused to respond. Perhaps they’re too busy gathering tanks and rocket launchers, or who knows what else.

Thus, I’m resorting to the standard mortal route. I’ve booked a live television interview with a national news station to present my candidacy. By all accounts, it’s a mundane approach, but I believe showcasing my composure and intelligence on mainstream media might sway the quieter masses. After all, Americans have seen dinosaurs and submachine guns. Maybe a calm, eloquent devil is exactly what the nation craves for stability.

I can only hope it pays off. If Hallama and Betty keep escalating, we’ll soon have armies of lowriders and monster trucks clashing with race cars and AR-15s in some catastrophic meltdown. And I’d really prefer to keep the mortal realm intact, at least until after the election is won.

Time to prepare my talking points—maybe highlight my “business friendly” approach and knack for tough negotiations. Also, I’ll be downing a stiff drink for confidence. Thank goodness this bar has no shortage of potent spirits. If I’m going to be President, I might as well enjoy the absurdity.

...

155) Journal Entry – Cletus “Pickaxe” Blackstone

Well, here I am, propped up at Flannigan’s Bar, soot ground into my clothes and skin after another long shift in the mines. My lungs ache a bit, but not half as much as my head does watching the news these days. And tonight, I’m nursing a whiskey, half-listening to some fool on the TV—until I realize the fellow in a sharp black suit is actually that devil, Mephistopheles, giving a live interview.

Never thought I’d see the day where a man from Hell (literally) seemed more rational than our own citizens. But I’ve seen what Betty the dinosaur’s people have done, and I’ve read about that Hallama woman’s zealots too. Just a few minutes ago, the bar’s TV ran a report showing Hallama’s followers doing a drive-by shooting on some of Betty’s monastic supporters. It’s madness. Folks are toting guns and rampaging in the name of “dinosaurs” and “busting out.” They’re turning America into one big chaotic circus.

But Mephistopheles? He’s talking sense. Ridiculous as it sounds, I’d sooner trust that devil in a black suit than those lunatics. For all his infernal background, he’s actually urging calm, telling people if they won’t vote for him, they shouldn’t vote for anyone. That’s the most honest admission I’ve heard from a politician—demon or otherwise—in a long time.

I shake my head, sip my whiskey, and wonder if it ain’t crazy that I’m seeing this fella—a self-declared Arch-Devil—as America’s best hope. Then again, times are strange. Betty’s skeleton cronies tearing up the country, Hallama’s people driving lowriders and submachine guns—like we’re living in a blockbuster movie gone off the rails. At least Mephistopheles is saying, “Slow down, let’s not tear the nation apart.” I can respect that.

I’ll be honest: I never thought my conservative values would align me with a literal devil. But it’s a sign of the times, I guess, that the only candidate I see who wants to preserve America and her people is Mephistopheles. If I gotta pick between crazy dinosaur anarchy, communist donkey nonsense, or a slick devil promoting peace, well... at least the devil’s not raining bullets on monks or screaming about baseball bats with dino heads.

I’m a coal miner from West Virginia, always been about common sense. And right now, common sense points me to that sharp-dressed Arch-Devil on TV. God help us all. Or maybe the devil will. Hell if I know. But I do know I’m tired of the chaos.

Here’s hoping tomorrow’s news is a little less insane.

...

156) Diary Entry – Aloe Veratwist

I was mid-transition—flowing from my adored “Shrugging Cactus” pose into “Cat Who’s Done With Life”—when the studio door practically flew off its hinges. Some wild-eyed devotee of that Hallama Karris politician stomped in, pushing a squeaky old TV cart. It had a crusty television strapped on with, I kid you not, duct tape. The entire yoga class paused, jaws dropping, as she screamed about nonbelievers and how we must “observe and revile” them.

I’d normally be outraged—my yoga practice is sacred. But something about the fervor in her eyes made me step back, take a breath, and let her show whatever she was determined to show. The TV flickered to life, spewing static before a news broadcast sharpened into view. And there he was, that handsome, stately figure: Mephistopheles.

Yes, I have heard rumor upon rumor about an arch-devil running for president—how outlandish, right? Well, maybe not so outlandish in a world that’s apparently grappling with reanimated dinosaurs, lowriders armed with guns, and all the madness Hallama is stirring up.

So in a hush, our class turned its gaze to the screen, the Hallama zealot glaring at us every so often to ensure we were paying attention. I was only half-listening initially—my mind flitting between my next pose and what smoothie I’d make for lunch—until the interviewer asked: “Mephistopheles, according to the ancient texts, are you not in truth an arch-devil, come to us straight from the infernal depths of Hell?”

And Mephistopheles, poised and cool, without a single stammer, answered, “Yes, that is true.”

I admit it, that caught me off guard. Even the stoic yoga masters around me sucked in a little gasp of air. The interviewer pressed on, “Well doesn’t that mean that your intention is to enslave all of humanity and take our souls to Hell for eternal torment?”

What he said next almost made me drop my phone (which I'd just grabbed to film my yoga transition). “No, actually Hell is plenty busy with what we have. I have no need for the souls of all of humanity, at least for now. But this business with Hallama and Betty will tear apart the world, and that rift will have severe consequences for the other planes of existence.”

It’s bizarre, I know. But his voice, his sincerity—I swear I felt that. I felt it in my core, or maybe my chakras. An arch-devil worried about the fate of the mortal realm and the fabric of reality itself? That’s… well, it’s downright noble. And honestly? He’s devastatingly handsome in a dark, somewhat forbidden way. The combination of that calm, resolute tone and those striking good looks—my liberal heart soared with empathy.

I’ve heard about how Hallama’s zealots are wreaking havoc, and Betty’s unstoppable dinosaur fanatics are almost worse. Maybe it does take a… devil to look out for humanity’s best interests, ironically. If he’s earnest in wanting to save this world from all this madness, if he’s truly pushing for a stable future—count me in.

By the time the zealot realized we were more intrigued than disgusted, she was practically fuming. But I couldn’t care less. I’ve made up my mind: I’ll use whatever “influence” I have—my social media accounts, my brand, my platforms—to back Mephistopheles. The world’s in chaos, and maybe, just maybe, he’s the only one making sense.

After all, if a devil’s the sanest option we have, doesn’t that speak volumes about the state of things? I’m here for it. I’m all in.

...

157) Drunken Journal Entry – Norris Chuck

Woke up in a ditch again—two broken whiskey bottles at my sides, shattered like my hopes for a quiet retirement. The dirt clings to me like a second skin, and my head throbs something fierce. Damn it, I need a real bed… or at least a Waffle House booth.

Been tryin’ to keep track of this country’s meltdown: Hallama’s folks roam around at night with bats, lowriders, submachine guns, and apparently night vision—like they needed one more trick up their unholy sleeves. Betty’s crew is no better, what with jet packs and flamethrowers—and don’t forget the AR-15s, fire trucks, blackjack tables. Hell, they could open a casino-carnival-warzone if they wanted.

Anyway, I rise to my wobbly feet, tryin’ to brush the dust off my jeans, and gather the remains of my whiskey bottles. No actual liquor left, but the jagged edges could at least fend off a bat-wieldin’ zealot or a jet-packed monastic lunatic, if it comes to that. Nightfall’s creepin’ in, and with night comin’, those night-vision Hallama zealots start prowlin’. Ain’t safe to stay out here in the open, hammered though I am.

I gotta get to a Waffle House. Any Waffle House. There’s only a few places left in this entire blasted country that remain loyal to Mephistopheles—Fortress Nashville is one, but that’s half a state away from where I am, and I’m not in the shape to hitch a ride. Next best thing is a Waffle House. Every American knows it’s the last bastion of civilization in the apocalypse. They got protocols for everything, from hurricanes to dinosaur skeleton uprisings. And yeah, anarchy? That’s just one more reason to lock the doors and keep the grill hot.

Lucky for me, I know where every Waffle House is like the back of my whiskey-stained hand. Nothin’ more reliable than a 24-hour joint that can whip up hash browns smothered, covered, chunked, and, apparently, heavily fortified against the apocalypse. Yes indeed.

So I’m stumblin’ along the highway, the sun sinkin’ low, my whiskey bottle-shards clenched tight, hopin’ to see that bright yellow sign in time. I can smell the bacon already. Maybe I’ll even find some friendlies inside, folks with enough sense left to not believe a night-vision-lovin’ or jet-pack-lovin’ politician. Let ‘em stay out there, brandishin’ their nonsense, while I get me a nice scattered-and-covered feast and a safe corner booth.

Here’s hopin’ I get there before the devils and dinosaurs start tearin’ each other apart again. God bless Waffle House, y’all. If we can’t trust in battered floors and unbreakable coffee mugs, what else is left?

...

158) Drunken Journal Entry – Norris Chuck

Lord help me, I’m not even halfway to that blessed Waffle House sign and the night’s gone darker than a preacher’s conscience. I’m stumbling along, minding my own damn business, when a pack of Hallama zealots decides to spring from the underbrush like rabid raccoons. They’re bellowin’ about me joinin’ their cause or dyin’. I guess they never read the memo that Norris Chuck don’t do ultimata.

Anyway, there’s this big one, huge as a barn, must weigh half a ton. I figure he’s the leader, so I leap right at him, whiskey bottles at the ready. I try to stab him, but the bottle just bounces off his lard like I threw a pebble at a waterbed. The poor fella squeals and starts rollin’ downhill like that big boulder in Indiana Jones. Couldn’t make this up if I tried.

Another zealot tries jumpin’ on my back—apparently thinkin’ I’m some drunk donkey. But I hear the twig snap behind me, spin, and smack him in the skull with my broken bottle. The thing shatters for good, and he drops like a sack of spuds, that fancy military entrenching tool clangin’ on the dirt.

The last zealot’s got a gun in his shaky hands. For a second, my heart nearly stops—but I fling my one remaining whiskey bottle right at his dumb face. Bam! Hits him square between the eyes, and down he goes, that pistol slipping from his limp fingers.

A wave of relief floods me, but damn if I haven’t used up my last precious whiskey bottle. With a sigh, I pluck the entrenching tool from the ground, test its heft. Not bad. Sure as hell better than bare fists if I meet another wave of these loonies.

So off I trudge again, new “shovel-weapon” in hand, determined to reach Waffle House before another ambush. If I ever get outta this war zone, I’m treatin’ myself to a bottomless coffee and the biggest plate of hash browns I can get my hands on. Because if this night’s taught me anything, it’s that a drunken angel can never have enough weapons—or enough breakfast.

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159) Drunken Journal Entry – Norris Chuck

By all that’s holy and unholy, I finally made it. The Waffle House sign glowed like a yellow halo, piercing the darkness, filling my heart with a hope I haven’t felt in weeks. This place, with its massive steel walls erected around what used to be a simple parking lot, is like a fortress of golden, syrupy salvation.

I shouted up to the ramparts—or what passes for ramparts—and someone called back, “Are ye Consortium, Bettyn, or Hallamite?” My mouth was too dry for clever speech, so I just slurred out, “I hear Waffle House is the best cure for hangovers!” There was a pause, and then I heard a voice say, “He knows the code, open the gate.” A heavy steel door slid back, revealing a sight for these sore, whiskey-addled eyes: bright lights, the warmth of electric stoves, voices chattering, kids laughing… the last piece of normalcy left in this mad country.

Stepping into the compound, I noticed folks whispering, nudging each other. “It’s him!” “Norris!” “It’s Colonel Chuck! We thought he was gone for good.” Their recognition hit me like a wave—nice to know I’m not forgotten.

I was then met by a towering figure of a man, easily over six and a half feet tall, shoulders broad as a barn door, a mighty pickaxe strapped across his back. I offered him my hand, half expecting him to crush it.

“You’re Major Cletus Pickaxe Blackstone,” I said, remembering the photos I’d glimpsed in passing. “Commander of the West Virginian theater. Recognize you from pictures.”

He gripped my hand firmly. “The pleasure is all mine, Colonel Chuck,” he boomed. “We’ll be proud to serve under you for as long as you’re here.”

I couldn’t help the sloppy grin that spread across my face, my body still half-buzzed from the night’s trials. “Well, Major, I have good news for you then. I might have the key to defeating the Hallamites and beating their bitch of a leader once and for all.” He nodded, eyes alight with anticipation.

We made our way into the actual Waffle House building, the warm smell of fried eggs and bacon hitting me like a promise of better days. The staff immediately rushed to serve us; within minutes we’d been seated at a table, giant plates of breakfast piled high, steaming cups of coffee in front of us. I nearly wept from relief.

Tonight, we’ll eat our fill, and then we’ll plan. I may be drunk, battered, and short on whiskey, but I’ve still got one last trick up my sleeve. And if all goes right, tomorrow might see us push back this lunacy and return America to something that’s not a damn battlefield.

It’s good to be among friends again—where a man can eat a waffle without fear of a dinosaur or a submachine gun ambush. By morning, we’ll have a plan.

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160) Diary Entry – Thessalia

I still can’t believe Mephistopheles decided to hand out military ranks like a child dispensing candy. “Colonel Chuck,” “Major Cletus,” “Admiral Meelon,” and so on—it’s a bit much, but I have to admit morale has shot up since everyone felt “promoted” in this bizarre war. The titles are silly, yes, but sometimes silly is precisely what a ragtag group needs to stay optimistic.

Right now, I’m in the thick of it. My small team of guerilla fighters, newly titled “Lieutenants” in the grand scheme of Mephistopheles’ imagination, is here in what used to be San Francisco. We’re working to topple the so-called “Empire of Betty” and dismantle “Bettyopolis.” It’s hard to believe Betty, once a meditative dinosaur skeleton, has whipped half of the country’s western seaboard into her domain, even as far east as Utah. But that’s the world these days: madness is our norm.

We set out from Antioch in a borrowed sailboat, quietly slipping down the bay under cover of darkness. The mission: infiltrate and capture Viceroy Ducky McDuckface, who apparently has been unwittingly aiding Betty far more than hindering her. Every time we get a piece of intel about Ducky’s “idiotic suggestions,” it turns out they’ve done wonders for Betty’s empire. Needless to say, we can’t let him keep screwing things up for us by screwing things up for them in all the wrong ways.

Landing near the old Barbary Coast area, we found ourselves creeping through the eerie hush of night. Street signs that once bore the names of San Francisco’s history were painted over with Betty’s name. Everywhere. Sacramento Street is now “Betty Street.” Clay Street is “Betty Street 2.” And somehow Washington Street is also “Betty Street 2,” which makes zero sense and suggests someone on Betty’s staff wasn’t paying attention. The entire city is riddled with these bizarre re-labeled roads. Even the Transamerica Pyramid has been defaced—“The TransBetty Pyramid.” There’s no logic, only devotion to the “Empress.”

Finally, we reached the place we’d designated as our safe house. It gutted me to see its sign: Henry’s Hunan—an iconic spot for anyone who values good, authentic Chinese cuisine—replaced with a crudely daubed “Betty’s Hunan.” According to Meelon’s drone reconnaissance, the place was abandoned, and at least that part seems true. As we slipped inside, crossing the threshold into its derelict dining room, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness for the city’s lost heritage.

In the basement, we breathed our first real sigh of relief in hours. It looks intact enough for us to lay low and plan our next moves. I’m exhausted, but the mission is far from over. We have to find Ducky soon. If we can pry him away from Betty’s sphere, maybe we can stop the empire’s expansion. I don’t relish capturing some hapless duck creature, but this is war, and our best shot at unraveling Betty’s unholy reign.

I just hope the next street I see doesn’t read “Betty Street 3.” Enough is enough.

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161) Diary Entry – Viceroy Ducky McDuckface

Ah, it’s good to be on top. Literally—the top floor of the TransBetty Pyramid, my plush office serving as the nerve center for all Betty’s grand affairs. The high-backed leather chair cradles me perfectly, my webbed feet propped proudly on this magnificent oak desk (no doubt stolen from some historical landmark). And the best part? A basket of the finest stale bread in all of Bettyopolis. I’ve been tossing chunks in the air, catching them in my bill with the grace of an Olympic athlete, if I do say so myself.

I’m proud—very proud—of how successfully I’ve been “subverting” Betty’s empire. Of course, everyone here thinks I’m spearheading key strategic moves. Little do they know the comedic brilliance of my real “subversion.” But let’s be honest: the results speak for themselves. The Empress gave me the title of Viceroy, and who am I to question her generosity?

Today, I called a meeting with some of my underlings. A crucial conversation on where to direct our energies. They started yammering about Mephistopheles and the “Nashville Consortium” apparently gaining traction. I cut them off, barking at them in my best shrill voice—“I am the Viceroy, appointed by Empress Betty herself! You will obey!” I might have thrown a scrap of stale bread at the nearest subordinate for good measure. He flinched. Adorable.

We all know the Hallamites are insane. Lowriders and submachine guns, night vision, a million other absurdities. They’re the ones we need to target, not the consortium. Let the other factions squabble with each other. We’ll slice right through Hallama’s madness and come out glorious. Or, well, I’ll come out glorious, with Empress Betty giving me all the credit, even though that means I can keep “subverting”—ha!

My subordinates bowed to the floor, that comedic salute they do, and I graciously dismissed them. The lot of them scampered off, presumably to funnel resources into anti-Hallamite campaigns. Good. Everything’s proceeding nicely to… well, my design, or lack thereof. Either way, I remain in charge. Viceroy Ducky—I love the sound of that.

Then, just as I was popping another chunk of stale bread into my bill, the desk intercom squawked alive in a burst of static. A panicked voice: “Security breach in the lower floors!” At first I considered spitting my bread out, but no—no need. My subordinates can handle a little scuffle, especially in a building as well-guarded as this. I have the top floor, the comfy chair, and an impeccable supply of carbs. I’m not worried.

Let the hallways echo with the screams of a few misguided fools. My personal guard is top-notch, and the empire remains secure. As for me? I’ll keep savoring my stale bread and flipping through strategic nonsense for the next big wave of “subversion.” Let the so-called “breach” run its course. I am the Viceroy, and nothing can unseat me from my rightful place on Betty’s throne—well, second place, but who’s counting?

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162) Diary Entry – Thessalia

I must record this while the adrenaline still courses through my veins. We made it—the top of the TransBetty Pyramid—Viceroy McDuckface’s very lair. But to call the journey a “fight” would be giving far too much credit to the so-called “guards” we encountered. Think cardboard armor and pom-poms (again!), and you’ll have the right idea. The highlight was their shrill cries of wimpiness. Let’s just say “not impressed” is an understatement.

Still, I cautioned my team not to relax. These were McDuckface’s personal minions—handpicked and “trained” by the Viceroy himself, which apparently means “utterly incompetent.” Should we ever face an actual Bettyn paladin—those who practice the most serene martial arts—it’ll be a different story entirely. For now, we can enjoy this ridiculously easy success.

We blew open Ducky’s office door with a small charge and marched in, expecting some epic confrontation. Instead, we found him at the window, gazing out over Bettyopolis like a would-be emperor. The second he spotted us, he launched into a grandiose villain’s monologue about how he’s “Viceroy McDuckface” and how he can’t fail. It was half-rant, half-plea, if I’m honest. Annoying, but also hilarious.

I strolled right up behind him and softly said, “Hey.” He spun around, feathers flapping, and I slapped him hard across the face. The theatrics ended as swiftly as they began. He collapsed onto the floor, bursting into tears and whining at a pitch high enough to shatter glass. I might have felt bad if he wasn’t responsible for half the chaos in this city.

One of my team used the hilt of her sword to bust out a window, revealing a flock of Meelon’s remote-controlled drones waiting outside. We wasted no time tying up Ducky (still whimpering and moaning), strapping him to a drone for immediate removal. It soared away, carrying his protests and shrill screeches off into the distance. The rest of us took a drone apiece and followed, me going last. The flight over the bay was exhilarating—a welcome breeze against the lingering stench of stale building air.

We touched down on a submarine that had surfaced in the bay, courtesy of Admiral Usk. He greeted us with a salute and a grin, congratulating us on our “dazzling extraction.” I’m sure from an outside perspective, it was quite cinematic—though we’ll never live down the comedic indignity of toppling an empire guarded by cardboard pom-poms.

Regardless, mission accomplished. We have Viceroy McDuckface in custody, and we’re one step closer to dismantling Betty’s insane reign. Now, if only the rest of the fight to save America were this easy.