Her parents sold her to the Devil when she was fifteen.

The backwater town where she (formerly) resided was peopled with a highly superstitious lot that kept the spirit of sacrifice alive in order to appease the supernatural beings that populated the place. Recently, spiritual activity had risen exponentially; what broke the elephant’s back was the death of a child.

Spirits were violent, and their gods were vengeful. But never in memory had they ever taken that out on a child.

Now, normally the town stuck to animal sacrifices (it was convenient, and they could use the corpses in the totally sober revels held afterward in the honor of so-and-so). It was clear this time that only human blood would suffice. The question remained, who would step up to the plate? (Read: who could they afford to lose?)

*

So, left on a crossroads with nothing but the clothes on her back and trapped in a satanic circle, the girl waited. It was to this bronze child — all tan skin, yellow eyes and copper curls — the Devil came.

The Devil was not pleased.

Usually he would devour whoever had the gall to summon him to this godforsaken plane, but the people responsible didn’t even have the courage to spell out their demands. The Devil groaned irritably before turning to the girl, asking, “Why am I here?”

The girl didn’t hesitate. “To kill me.”

“And I am doing this why?”

She shrugged. “To appease you. Someone died in — — -.”

The Devil considered this and concluded that he wanted no part in it, if only because he missed out on a free meal. And so he asked for her input on what she thought he should do.

“Don’t kill me.”

The Devil scoffed. “You’re willing to let all those people suffer from whomever or whatever’s doing their thing?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The girl leveled him with a blank stare; it asked, Are you dull? “I don’t particularly feel like dying today. Please and thank you.”

He looked heavenward in contemplation and came to a decision. “Suit yourself.” Reaching into one of his numerous pockets, he took out a rusty penknife (Hell had shit benefits) and began to scrape off the sigils that made up the circle, freeing her. “But since you asked so prettily, I require compensation — “ he held up a hand to stay her impending protest — “because I’m neither an idiot nor a starchild who grants wishes.”

She watched him as he worked. She didn’t expect the Devil to be such a gentleman about this. “Name your price.”

“The people who did this — summon me, I mean — are shit at sigil-work, because now I am bound to this mortal coil for about…six months? A year? I can’t give you a definite answer because this is chicken scratch.”

“Lovely. Your point?”

Finished, he wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Such a back-breaking task, the girl thought uncharitably. “You will be the entertainment. This is the first vacation I’ve had in gods damned how long, and paperwork’s going to pile up a bitch. I’m going to enjoy it. Tell me, what are you good for?”

“Telling stories.”

The Devil hummed. “You’ll answer to me by day, be my storyteller at night. It’ll be fun. You start now.” Choosing a direction at random, he started walking. The girl looked after him, briefly considered whether it’d be less painful to be eaten instead, then hurried to catch up to him. In the distance, a clock struck twelve, as these things do. Without preamble, the adventure began.

*

’A baker’s dozen: that’s how many times the warlock tried to kill himself before giving it up for good.

His latest venture to reach those unknown shores landed him squarely at the bottom of the ocean to watch fish glow. He wasn’t bitter about it — he’d passed that stage around attempt 42. Instead, he decided to meditate seeing as he now had until the apocalypse to think things over. That was during the new moon of the new year.

By the time the starlight poured into the cup of the moon, filling it up again, the warlock reached his conclusion. He took out his heart, crystallized it and broke it up into thirteen shards. Summarily, he spelled the shards across time and space to whatever destination, so long as they were far away from him. His task complete, he settled back onto the ocean floor and quietly waited to see what would happen as history unraveled around him.’

*

“Why, may I ask, did the warlock wish to die?”

“He was — “

“Depressed? Alone? Unloved?”

“…Tired.”

“Tired?”

Nodding decisively, she answered, “Yes. The warlock — Liam, once upon a time — had been cursed by a petty god to be invulnerable against all the forces of nature, including death itself.”

The Devil didn’t miss a beat. “A thing many have died for, ironically.”

“Mm. And it was fine for a while. He got to see many wondrous things, palaces built of sapphire, worlds where rain was glitter, the sun turn soft shades of pink. But there is only so much you do, so much yourself you have to hide. Peace soon eluded him. The people he loved grew old and died, and he could not join them; so he learned not to love. Hate followed, then sadness, then anger, until he was no longer anyone at all.”

“What did the shards of his heart do?”

She thought for a bit. “Hearts vary; there wasn’t much left of his at that point, a much diminished shell of what it once was. The shards, the different facets of himself that remained, they would infect whatever poor sod cam across them. History is defined by its people. The warlock didn’t much care whether it would change for better or worse. He was bored.”

“So he still had care.”

“Sort of. Not much.” The girl let the silence stretch between them after that – slow and heavy like honey, not unpleasant.

After scrambling up a hill that must have been a mountain in a previous life, the odd pair arrived at the threshold of a metropolis the likes of which the girl never allowed herself to dream of. The Devil brandished his arms with unnecessary flourish.

“Welcome to Viridian.”

-

Wren: And so ends the first installment of Mana + The Devil. Inspired by creation mythology, folklore and Scheherazade, this is the story of a literal road trip from Hell. Mana's not exactly sure what she's signed away, but no matter. The Devil will have his due.

Updates bimonthly.

I'm so angry at the world that I just want to...become a god and remake it. If I'm going to be pissed off at the world, I'm damn well going to be able to do something about it.

...Then again, the power to Do The Right Thing versus "I Wonder What This Will Do" should not be up to me, because let's face it: if you were to become a god, you'd want to have fun with the perks.

“How are you not dead yet?”

“I honestly have no idea. How do you not know?”

Erik pushed his bangs from his forehead in frustration. As much as he liked his reaper – they had far more tact than some – it became increasingly clearer that Raphael had no idea what they had signed up for.

Raphael threw up his hands. “How should I know?”

“You’re my reaper, it seems like it would be in the job description!”

“They didn’t train me for this!”

“Don’t they give you a manual or something?” Erik asked. “I was supposed to die a month ago.”

Raphael huffed. “This sort of thing doesn’t happen often – matter of fact, it’s never happened before. Also? For a human, you’re awfully nonchalant about the whole dying thing.”

Erik assumed a deadpan expression. “After living with you for these last ten years, I’ve gotten rather used to the idea.”

*

It had happened because Erik fell from a tree.

Raphael was panicking over him because “it’s too early for you: look, my planner says July 2017, please don’t die yet”. But the then 17-year-old was only suffering from a concussion and lived to see another day.

However, it had had an unusual side effect: he could now commune with the supernatural. Erik thought he was hallucinating about the seven-foot flaming skeleton in dark robes fretting over dates and times above him. He was patently wrong, of course.

When he realized that, the screaming lasted an impressive six full minutes before he choked on his own spit, sending Raphael into another anxiety attack.

And that was how they met.

*

Old Grim – “That’s what we call the boss,” Raph told him – assigns reapers to newborns in order to conserve his energy for the more urgent projects.

“It doesn’t even oversee its own duties?” Erik asked incredulously.

“It’s not like Death can’t,” Raphael explained. “It just won’t.”

Erik frowned, disapproving. It seemed that his disapproval showed on his face, because Raphael went on:

“Could you do it?”

“What?”

“Could you live with not one person, but everyone that was and ever will be – knowing their names, faces, what they love and what they hate – could you watch them die knowing that you can’t change anything?”

Raphael then left Erik to brood; they wanted something sweet to chew on.

*

From then on, the two struck up a quick and mostly congenial relationship, in which Erik would plunge fearlessly into situations that would send Raphael into heart palpitations (if they had had a heart).

This leads us to the present situation:

“Okay, let’s take it from the top.” If they went through his death sentence step by step, Erik reasoned, they would find the blip that stopped it from happening. Raphael nodded.

“I wake up and do my morning routine,” Erik began.

“Yes.”

“I go to work, as per usual.”

“Yes,” Raphael confirmed, consulting their notes.

“Then I get hit by a truck.”

“That is correct.”

“But I didn’t get hit by a truck,” Erik finished.

The pair mused over this before Raphael started pacing.

“Why didn’t the truck hit you? I made sure you were in its path.”

Erik rolled his eyes. “I feel so loved right now.”

Raphael rounded on their charge. “You know what I mean!”

“I know, I know,” Erik raised his hands in surrender, “Things were supposed to happen, and they didn’t. Why is that?”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen. This doesn’t happen,” Raphael mumbled.

“We’ve established that,” Erik said helpfully.

Raphael abruptly stopped mid-step. “I’ve got to talk to the boss. Nature has to be in balance, and you escaping the clutches of death undid that.”

Erik stared. “Am I really that important?”

“No –” Raphael held up a palm before Erik said something sarcastic again, “– it’s not you, it’s the event. Time and space are now in flux. It happens more often than you think, but not for this. Endings are supposed to be fixed – at least when it comes to death.”

Erik considered this. "So, can I come with you when you have your confrontation with Death itself?"

Out of the whole of humanity, Raphael had to be assigned to this one. They wondered, not for the first time, what they had done to deserve this.