There comes a time in every chase sequence at which it becomes undeniable that the chasee* is completely and utterly fucked.

  It’s when the chaser's licking their chops, nipping on the chasee's heels... When the backing track reaches a crescendo, when obstacles double in size and triple in frequency. When the cameraman gets the shakes.

  It’s at that time, when all hope is lost, that the chasee pulls a fast one. Hangs a left ‘round a dark corner while the chaser plows straight ahead. The chasee braces themselves against the wall, desperately trying to catch their breath as the chaser’s footfall fades away. Breathless and disbelieving, the chasee turns to make their grand escape and.

  They freeze.

  It’s a dead end.

  Their smile cracks. Slow footsteps and low chuckles make their way around the bend, finally closing the distance between the two. Pleas are made. And denied...

  It’s an awful time. One during which the audience at home groans in frustration, yells at the screen, prays for some sort of divine intervention.

  But fortunately, this time was not that time for our dear Lucifer.

  Once he skidded to a stop at his ‘dead end’—the shore at the edge of the woods, hugging an endless body of syrupy, bubbling water— he slowly turned around, heart racing a mile a minute, only to find… trees.

  No guards tailing him. No tablet-waiving, well-intended pantsuiter crying out warnings, trying to flag him down. No flashlights, no pitchforks, no hullabaloo.

  Just him, the numbness in his legs, and the sinking feeling that he was losing his mind.

  “Jesus,” he breathed, dropping to a crouch in the long grass. He swallowed harshly, working hard against the dryness in his throat. Am I hallucinating? How long has it been since I’ve had a drink of water? A bite to eat?

  Because only God knew how long it had been since he’d seen a decent vending machine. The ones at the rest stops on the Highway to/from Hell were stocked exclusively with bottles of hot, stanking backwash. Once, long, long ago, he'd trade two gold doubloons for even a sip of that stuff. But he wasn't that desperate—not anymore. After all, with his then-fresh set of Level 7 buffs, food and drink were morsels of pleasure to him, not tools of necessity.

  Letting out a sad chuckle, he stood up and dusted his pants off. Well. Level 7 was nice while it lasted.

  He began to follow the curve of the water, letting the moon’s reflection on its surface guide the way. No matter. If I walk in a straight line long enough, surely, I’ll encounter something. He kicked a discarded candy wrapper out of his way, grimacing at the mud clump that came along with it. Whether an Eternal Affairs Office, or one of those emergency exits the archangels gossiped about… I’ll find it soon. And I’ll have this all straightened out.

  He was just starting to sound convincing to himself when a sharp pulse shook the ground beneath him, cutting his monologue at the neck. Lucifer paused and looked around.

  Then it happened again.

  Lucifer braced himself against the nearest tree as the one-off jolt became a rhythmic beat, growing stronger and louder with each passing second. Wait… Lucifer’s face slowly screwed up into disgust. He picked up on a faint oontz oontz in the distance. Is this… music?

  Lucifer went to plug his ears, but stopped short when a familiar string of sounds made its way through the racket. Long, high-pitched vowels... short, whistled consonants… His eyes blew wide.

  “????◎?”

  The angelic crooning was all the confirmation Lucifer needed.

  Godspeak!

  His body ached, his bones were weary and his joints weathered, but he grit his teeth and pushed on. The prospect of finding an old friend in this wasteland was too sweet to pass up.

  It wasn’t long before he found himself at another dead end, trapped by another body of swamp sludge. The music was unbearably loud, even blowing the substance up onto the shore with the force of its volume. But he couldn’t see its source in the darkness.

  Until, one by one, little lantern lights flickered on about a half mile across the water.

  They revealed a small island, one with just enough space to fit its landmarks: a modest wooden home that with shadows dancing in the windows, a long, circus-style tent to its left, and two overzealous figures perched on its edge, leaping around to catch his attention.

  They were shouting something at him, something he couldn’t make out over that blasted oontz oontz.

  Surely, they don’t expect me to swim over there.

  And as if they could hear his thoughts, the two pointed off to the side. Lucifer looked over and—nothing, just more swamp.

  But when they insisted, growing more and more emphatic, he hesitantly stepped off in that direction, peeking over at them for confirmation. The two erupted in cheers, so loud that he actually could hear them over the music and distance this time.

  “Hell yeah, man, now you’re on the way! Next stop, Party Central!”

  “Woah, woah, woah. Bro, don’t you mean Funky Town?”

  As foolish as it was (seeing as Lucifer had no idea what a “Funky Town” was, and was only tangentially aware of what a “Party Central” could be), their shouts put a dopey little smile on Lucifer’s face. He turned to them and gave two thumbs up.

  Later, he’d blame it on the delirium.

  The two just about died, hooting and hollering encouragements as Lucifer found what they were pointing at. Parked further down the shore was a state-of-the-art motorboat. Polished to perfection, outfitted with more buttons and doohickeys than Lucifer could imagine had practical use. And if his eyes weren't deceiving him, it was painted a very familiar shade of baby blue.

  He leaned in for a better look and recoiled at the smell; the thing reeked of sour milk and expired meat, a far cry from anything he'd associate with the prim and proper individuals he'd met in the mansion. But pinching his nose, Lucifer went in for another look. And what he found, scratched into the control panel in glow-in-the-dark ink, confirmed his fear.

  FOR AUTHORIZED H.A.M. USE ONLY.

  INSERT KEYCARD HERE:

  Lucifer frowned at his new friends across the way, but was met with even more fervent pointing. Lucifer walked around to the other side of the motorboat, hoping for a crate of discarded keycards, but instead found a rickety old rowboat. It was just big enough to fit a prepubescent child. And it was missing an oar.

  “That’s the one, man!”

  “Yeah, man, that’s the one!”

  “The one, you say?” he muttered, placing one foot in as a test. And surprisingly, the boat remained afloat. So, slowly, Lucifer stepped all the way in. He scrunched himself up in the boat and picked up the oar. It looked like its end had been gnawed off. Lucifer pulled it closer to his face to examine it and paused as he recognized the tooth pattern on the wood.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  No…

  And as if summoned, a fat little fish, equipped with wings and fangs twice the size of its body, emerged from the water. Teeth first, it latched onto the oar, nipping Lucifer in the process. Lucifer yelped and slapped it away.

  “No, man!”

  “Yeah, no, man! Live and let live!”

  But the fish bounced back, hovering around the oar now, chomping at Lucifer. He whacked at it again and again, hissing, “Feast elsewhere, you fiend!”

  After one smack too many, the fish met its untimely end. It gave a loud plop as it landed in Lucifer’s lap, using its last bout of life-force to burp water onto him.

  [New Common Item!

  ★☆☆☆☆

  Deceased Fanged Angelfish

  Hungry. Angry. Gone.]

  He could almost hear Dina’s stylishly manicured nails clacking against her keyboard, relieving him of 7 more HP.

  Lucifer stared down at his little victim. He hesitated for a moment, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. Then, sighing, he untied his bindle and started shuffling his precious trinkets to create a little circle in the bottom of the sack. He pinched the fish by its fang and set it at the core of his belongings.

  “My apologies,” he whispered, awkwardly patting its body with a finger. “It was you or me… and unfortunately, it had to be you. But rest assured that, someday, we will reach the real Heaven together, my friend.” He gazed into its lifeless eyes for a long moment. Then tied his bindle back up.

  The two across the way looked deflated when Lucifer reluctantly met their gaze, no longer jumping around or shouting. He ducked his head down and started working his way across the swamp.

  Lucifer’s steady rowing lasted all of a fraction of a second before an army of avengers flew up out of the water and began fluttering around him menacingly.

  “No!” he hissed, poising his oar as a weapon. “It was an accident, you pests!”

  Little did he know, those words meant war.

  The night kicked off, with Lucifer struggling to balance himself in the boat, dual-wielding his bindle and the oar in defense against the fanged angelfish guerrilla warfare.

  And the two young men on the island were gobsmacked. Not because of the S-tier hand-eye coordination required to pull off such a stunt. Nor because of how organized the fish were, sending wave after wave of cold-blooded assassins after the man.

  They turned to each other, unable to find their words, because throughout the ordeal, the rowboat glided across the water like a hot knife through butter. Before they had time to pick their jaws up from the floor, the boat was cruising onto the shore, with Lucifer and the angelfish still going at it.

  “Uh. Wow, man.”

  “Yeah… wow.”

  While Lucifer was busy finishing off the stragglers, one of the guys snapped out of his stupor and went over to a crate off to the side of them.

  He returned with something hidden behind his back. He tossed a wink and a nudge at his partner, who knew exactly what to do. With a knowing look on his face, he went and helped Lucifer out of the boat. The one who hung back cleared his throat and let out a big grin.

  “Alright, man,” he yelled over the music. “Welcome to The Bugaboo Bayou! Where our motto is…” His voice trailed off as he revealed what was behind his back, wagging it at Lucifer. It was an oversized t-shirt. Lucifer read the embossed, glittery text silently as the two shouted it: “What Happens In The Bayou Stays In The Bayou.”

  [New Uncommon Item!

  ★★☆☆☆

  Used Bugaboo Bayou T-Shirt

  At least it looks new.]

  “Ah. Yes,” Lucifer shouted, forcing a thin-lipped smile at the gift. “Thank you very much, gentlemen for the, uh, apparel. If I may, though, I have a few questions for you—”

  The squeaky door to the home behind them wrenched open, revealing a swarm of crazy-eyed partygoers. They were all wearing the same t-shirt Lucifer held, though theirs were filthy, coated in layer after layer of sweat and glitter.

  “Whoops! No time for that,” the greeter laughed, quickly slipping the shirt over Lucifer’s head. The man hesitated for a second before slipping his arms through the holes, grimacing at the dampness in the back area. “Good luck, man. Hydrate. Hopefully, we’ll see ya tomorrow.” And before Lucifer could get another word in, he was shoved off into the sea of grabby hands.

  The gaggle of glitter-crusted bodies rushed him at what had to be 2x speed. They were chattering around him like chipmunks, impassioned but unintelligible, as they hoisted him up in a crowd-surfing gesture. Alarmed, Lucifer looked back to the greeters for help as he was carried into the house, but they only had a round of thumbs up to offer him.

  Inside the house, the oontz oontz was deafening, drowning the Godspeak beneath its drone. Hyper bodies seemed to spawn around Lucifer as he was placed back on the ground, everyone speaking at a mile a minute, making offers that he was too polite to decline. One person offered him a plastic bag containing salt shaker filled with glitter, another offered him a plastic box of temporary tattoos. And a particularly pushy one forced a cup of something liquid and glitter-infused into his hand.

  It took far longer than he would have hoped, but Lucifer eventually slipped away from the throng and into the rest of the house, which was somehow quieter than it was outside. It was also far more spacious than it looked on the outside, a labyrinth of stairs and corridors and odds (shelves upon shelves stocked with empty plastic bottles) and ends (floor-to-ceiling filing cabinets, labeled only with ‘?’), with partygoers posted up around every corner, like mosquitos waiting for their next target.

  He found solace in one of the many kitchens, dumping his rainbow-colored slush into one of the punchbowls sitting on the counter. His head was pounding as he watched the substance slowly roll out. He couldn’t tell if it was dehydration settling in, or if it was the irritation taking hold. Either way, the throb was so disorienting he completely missed the patter of footsteps approaching from down the hall.

  A throat cleared behind him. Lucifer startled, whipping his head over his shoulder to find the head of a teenage boy peeking around the doorframe. Sweet baby Jesus, Lucifer thought. The very second I find space to think—

  “Hey.” His voice was… normal. His stance was relaxed, bored even. He held up his own cup of glitter juice and made a pointed look at Lucifer's hand hovering over the punchbowl. "I got next."

  The words didn’t even register in Lucifer’s mind; only their normal speed, normal tone. The normal look in the kid's eyes. All he could think was: Normal! By God, the boy’s normal!

  His hand went slack, dropping the cup into the punchbowl. He crossed the room in two long strides to grasp the boy by his shoulders.

  “Young man! Thank the Heavens!” The boy stiffened, peering over his shoulder to map his escape route. Without realizing it, Lucifer began rattling off questions with the same frantic eyes and a hurried voice as the rest of the house.

  “…And please, for the love of all that is right and just in this sick, sick world, you must tell me. How do I leave this place?!”

  “Well, uh.”

  In perfect timing, someone came barreling down the hallway. With a wink at the boy, they slid two baggies of junk his way, and tucked one in Lucifer's bindle. They gave the two a parting speech of full gibberish before running back into the throes of the party. “And what on Earth is this nonsense? What on Earth is wrong with this place?!”

  Instead of answering, the boy hummed in response, engrossed in the bits in the bag. His face was the image of scientific precision as he analyzed what Lucifer could only imagine was the ‘New Item’ notification. He lifted the bag, shook it around, then nodded to himself before taking it out of the bag.

  Lucky me, Lucifer thought as the boy tucked himself back in his corner, quietly tinkering with the little plastic figurines. The closest thing to normal in this place is still fifty miles away.

  After he was satisfied with his new hunks of junk, the boy peeked back around, eyeing the bit of plastic poking out of Lucifer’s bindle. Lucifer could see the gears working behind his eyes. So, he just shrugged, tossing the baggie over to the boy. He gladly snapped it up.

  Lucifer waited patiently as the boy rummaged through his pockets for more goodie bags, comparing his new bounty to the old. And when his patience ran out, he tried to interject with a few, “If you don’t mind, young man, I’d like to return to our discussion…”s. But his words seemed to fall on deaf ears.

  The boy didn’t reappear from the corner until he was satisfied, letting out a sigh.

  Quickly, Lucifer declared, “I have a proposition." He set his bindle on the table, taking great care to squeeze and shake it as he did, alerting the boy to the plastic wonders it held. And like a moth to a flame, the boy was locked on the bag, misshapen and bursting at the seams from how thoroughly it had been stuffed. “You can have every single particle of refuse in this bindle...” The kid’s eyes lit up. “If you’ll answer my questions.”

  Instead of the quick, sweaty, "Sir, yes, sir," Lucifer was expecting, he got an odd look in response.

  “Can I ask one first?”

  No, was Lucifer’s first thought. And it's "May I," not, "Can I." was his second. But what came out was, “I suppose it’d only be fair.”

  “You aren’t a Ham. So who are you?”

  And. What?

  A… a ham?

  Lucifer searched the boy’s face for the more subtle signs of impairment. Perhaps this one isn’t as normal as I thought.

  But playing it safe, he asked, “Whatever do you mean?”

  “If you really were a Ham, you’d be 61st. And that's impossible.” The boy left a pregnant pause, gaze still flat. “I’ve met 61st.”

  Lucifer gulped. Loudly.

  “See?”

  The boy emerged from around the corner like an animal closing in on its prey, all measured steps and squinted eyes. “There's no way the real 61st would have fallen for a cheap trick like that.”

  His dull eyes bore straight into Lucifer's, but that was the least of the man's worries. Because as the boy walked toward him, all Lucifer could focus on was the pristine baby blue fabric of his pants, contrasting sharply with the gaudy party shirt he wore slung over his shoulder.

  Lucifer’s heart started beating out of his ribcage.

  The boy calmly continued, approaching the table.

  "So, really. Who are you?"