text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy, superhero, action, fantasy]
  
  Fast and loose, baby. (Sigh), now Gilly had him saying it. He wasn't oblivious enough to ignore one of his main faults. The Fallen had a sweet tooth for the theatrical. Hell, every great performer had a cape. And the mask? The Fallen was fond of wearing it, an understatement at the least.
  
  The story needed a grand conclusion, a crescendo that it's all been building towards, a final confrontation. There wouldn't be a better way than to rush in like a bat out of hell, or in this case, a demon from the underworld.
  
  The door in front of him was upright. Finally. That cellar door nonsense was a struggle to work through. Not to say this wouldn't be entirely easy. No doubt it was reinforced by the finest smiths in Sheol's Passage. Luckily for the masked figure, kicking down doors was a certain speciality of his.
  
  His boot almost took the door from its hinges.
  
  The door crashed into the staircase behind it. A locked door leading directly into a flight of stairs? The Speaker certainly did have a sense of style. Wooden banisters greeted the Fallen, a few chips from the door scattered on them. Motioning to blow the chips with a gust of breath, which didn't escape his mask, the Fallen took the staircase two at a time. Like switchback trails on a mountainside, the staircase was a quick two-parter, leading into the main room of the office after a single double back.
  
  The office was surprisingly simple for one of such taste in doors. A sizable desk took up most of the floor space, two chairs placed in front for guests. Each wall to the side of the desk was a bookcase, not a single gap in place. Behind the desk, double doors leading to a balcony were drawn open, their white curtain floating in the night wind like a spirit. A lone figure stood on the balcony, back turned towards the Fallen, resting his arms on the bannister overlooking the city below.
  
  Still at a rushed pace, the Fallen almost didn't notice the shadowy figures hiding within the office. They appeared from nowhere, melding into the light from the dark, their armor a familiar sight. A lifetime ago, it was the same that he wore. At least he kept the boots. They were simply too useful to toss. The same could be said for the armor, but it didn't match the persona the Fallen displayed. It's the most heinous of crimes to not dress according to one's persona, their theme, their branding.
  
  Two of them stepped in front of the open balcony, blocking the Fallen's path. Instead, the masked demon leaped in the air, landing on the desk sending papers sprawling in the air, waving his arms for balance as his feet slid a few inches on the smooth mahogany like a circus performer walking a tightrope.
  
  "Ta-da!" the Fallen exclaimed, taking a bow for the armored men and women around him. He didn't need to count. He knew there would be nine of them. There were always nine.
  
  At long last. Our brother returns.
  
  What's wrong with him?
  
  A mind shattered. Thoughts appearing as fragments.
  
  Is this how far he's fallen?
  
  "Ha!" the Fallen laughed a singular note. "Perhaps the name the city gave me is appropriate. Still not the one I would prefer though." He didn't bother addressing one of the figures directly. The way they spoke, it was like whispering of the minds. Sound didn't travel from mouth to ear. It was just...heard, not from a single direction. The shadowy figures around him wore black armor, jagged, forged from rare carapace stronger than steel, significantly lighter too. Their helms matched the armor, covering their faces completely.
  
  Two swords, one in either hand, were drawn, eighteen blades total to the Fallen's half. Do short swords count as a full blade? Longswords are one, daggers are a quarter, so short swords, dirks, and sicas count as one-half. Hmm. But then does that mean two-handers count as two? No, that wouldn't make sense... They drew close, swords raised at the ready.
  
  "Stop!"
  
  This time the voice's origin could be located: the man from the balcony. He took a drink from the goblet in his hand, and dumped the remainder of the contents over the edge. An unfortunate person below might just get rained upon. If it were a commoner on the street, that wine would be the finest they'd ever come into contact with.
  
  The shadowy figures blocking the doorway stepped aside, allowing the man to walk into the office room. The Speaker. He still wore all black, clothing perfectly in place. No creases, no wrinkles, not a single hair out of place from his head. This was a man who was deliberate with every action, no matter how seemingly large or small. He offered the Fallen a smirk. In return, the Fallen raised his mask up just over his lips to offer the same smile back. Then he placed the faceplate back into position.
  
  The Fallen, examining his fingernails, addressed the man. The armored figures stood silent. Watching. "I'm looking to score some spice. Top level stuff. More refined than the good High King at a barbarian wedding. I'm thinking you might just be the man to talk to."
  
  "And what makes you say that?" the Speaker asked.
  
  "Familiarity with a certain added ingredient. The presence of these sinister-looking fellows. Knowledge of the amount of influence the task requires. Ambitious politicians. A target on the city's nobility. Low-level criminals left out of the loop. A few toes dipped in the murky waters of socioeconomics, but not an entire foot, mind you. I like having both attached to my legs. Need I continue?"
  
  > That is not needed
  "You strike me as one who enjoys the sound of their own voice," the Speaker answered. "I find it best to let those kinds of people speak as little as possible."
  
  "Aww, that's hurtful," the Fallen said. "But true nonetheless. You see, I find it best to voice my thoughts. It's rather stuffy up here." He pointed at the side of his head. "The inner voice cannot be trusted. It has a different agenda than the audible, sometimes acting -- well, persuading action in the complete opposite way. How does that happen? Ha ha! How can a singular mind want two different things, often in contradiction to one another? It doesn't make sense. I find it best to speak it all aloud and let my ears decide. It's one thing to think a crazy thought; it's something else entirely to listen to one."
  
  It's worse than we thought.
  
  The sickness has spread further.
  
  Put the dog out of his misery.
  
  He deserves the respect of his former rank.
  
  "Speaking of listening to crazy thoughts, what good could come from following these fellows' master? It's pure anarchy, my ambitious friend. Their master's favor is like the breeze, blowing this way and that. Once your usefulness runs out, he'll move on to greener pastures...and leave behind a wake of destruction. Best to get out while the going's good." the Fallen gestured to those around him as he spoke.
  
  The Speaker answered. "It's simply business. Politics is a ruthless game. Those who find strong allies will also find success."
  
  "Ha!" the Fallen laughed. "You'll find it easy to run for office when all of your running opposition dies 'mysteriously.' If you're the only one left standing, it'll be a small matter to point you out as the culprit."
  
  "That's where you're wrong. You see, only a select few have been given the tainted spice. True, most will die. But there'll be enough on both sides of the political spectrum once the task is finished. I will rule the city, and my loyalty is unquestioned. It's only a matter of..." the Speaker stopped, realizing he perhaps shared too much. He did, in fact.
  
  "Well," the Fallen said. "That's all I needed to hear." His body seemed to blink from existence for a moment, a shadow image of himself appearing next to his physical body. The smug look on the Speaker's face faded, replaced with a mixture of horror and surprise. "I do think I'll consider that your confession." The deed done, the nine members in carapace armor simply watched, their helm not offering any sort of emotion. The Fallen walked around the Speaker's body, his short sword piercing the man's spine. "Hmm. I'm no doctor but I do believe that's a rather bad case of the stabbys." One hand rose to the Fallen's chin in thought. "Mmm. Not my best farewell speech. Even the greats can admit when they fall short. Heh. 'Fall.' Can't say that damn word any more. It draws attention like an aroused man at a public bathhouse."
  
  The Speaker collapsed in front of the Fallen, dead, the short sword sticking from his back like a flag planted proudly in the ground, claiming territory for the High King.
  
  "I win?" the Fallen said as more of a question.
  
  Father isn't going to like this.
  
  Do we avenge the man?
  
  He was a tool. There will be others.
  
  Father will want to see him.
  
  The shadowy figures closed in, getting mere feet away from the Fallen, who was back at his position standing at the desk. They were drawn to him, like buzzing flies to a hanging lantern. With a smile only he could sense himself, the Fallen stood up straighter, perfecting his posture. The moment had to be perfect. Then he revealed the contents of his half-cloak.
  
  Dynamite. Enough to blow the entire wing of the keep back to the underworld, back to the demon's home.
  
  With one hand, the Fallen waved goodbye. The other held the match.
  
  "So long, old friends. I do hope you enjoyed your time here. It's not often..."
  
  The fuse lit.
  
  "...I get to spend time with such exciting company. Besides Gilly, I must say, you've been my favorites. There's really no comparison there, though. Don't be offended. She simply holds certain assets you do not. Goodbye. I have no regrets. I hope you don't either."
  
  Bright lights. Fiery expansion. Pain. Darkness.