Javier Morales flew east, a black, wounded speck against the endless blue of the Atlantic. The coast of South America vanished behind him, and with it, the immediate threat of the silver machine and the crimson vampire. His rage was a bonfire in his chest, but beneath it, a cold, cunning reason was reasserting itself. The cruiser… it was a tempting target, a smorgasbord of five thousand souls he could have snuffed out with a single, contemptuous thought. But the man behind the machine, Elliot Hayes, would be watching now. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Patience. Vengeance was a dish best served on a global, apocalyptic scale.
His wings, tattered and torn, gave a final, protesting beat, and he allowed himself to fall. He shifted mid-air, his demonic form melting away, leaving behind his handsome, deceptively human shell. He hit the water with a clean, slicing entry and let the cool, silent depths embrace him. He sank, the sunlight from the surface world dappling and fading above him until he was suspended in a twilight world of blue and shadow. The immense pressure of the deep sea was a comforting blanket, a quiet place to think. His enhanced physiology, a gift from his dark god, allowed him to hold his breath for an astonishing length of time, even in his weaker human form.
He opened his internal System menu, the Infernal Harbinger's ghastly, red-glowing interface a stark contrast to the tranquil blue of the ocean. He assessed his remaining soul points, the number a paltry, pathetic fraction of what it had been. But he still had enough. He scrolled through his summoning catalogue, his mind racing, searching for a new strategy, a better way to sow his righteous chaos.
The options were a grotesque gallery of horrors. Mirror Wraith (1 Soul Point): A possessive spirit bound to a reflective surface. Requires activation by a mortal gaze. Induces paranoia, terror, and eventual death over two months. Too slow, too subtle. But he purchased a dozen anyway, filing the idea away for later use. What if his other operations were discovered? What if his farm in Africa was compromised? He needed contingencies, traps left for any who dared to hunt him. Bathsheba's Torment (5 Soul Points): A demon that haunts bathtubs, drowning its victims. Too situational. Succubus/Incubus (100 Soul Points): Too expensive, too focused.
Then his eyes widened. Planar Gateway (100,000 Soul Points): Tears open a random, temporary portal to another dimension. The world on the other side may or may not be inhabited, may or may not be survivable. A portal. The implication was staggering. He wasn't just a chosen one for this world. He could be the cleanser of all worlds. His eyes gleamed with a fervent, messianic passion. He was truly the Harbinger of Doom.
But that was a goal for the future. He needed power now. And then he saw it, a summon that was both cheap and brutally, brilliantly efficient. Corrupting Spirit - Geist (3 Soul Points): A non-corporeal demonic entity designed to possess living creatures. It must engage in a battle of will with its host. The weaker the host's intelligence and willpower, the easier the possession.
A new plan, vast and terrible, bloomed in his mind. He looked around at the teeming life of the ocean. A school of barracuda flickered past, their eyes cold and predatory. A massive tiger shark glided through the depths, a perfect, mindless killing machine. They had no complex will to overcome. They were blank canvases upon which he could paint his masterpiece of death.
He didn't hesitate. He summoned one hundred Geists, the transaction leaving him with a pitiful 121 soul points. He felt a hundred pinpricks of malice manifest in the water around him, a swarm of invisible, malevolent spirits awaiting his command.
Go, he commanded them, his thoughts a psychic broadcast. Take the predators of this ocean. The sharks, the barracudas, the great squids in the deep. Make them your puppets. Kill everything. Turn this ocean red.
He watched as the first Geist shot forward and entered a passing Great White. The shark shuddered for a moment, its powerful body convulsing, and then its eyes, once the flat black of a simple predator, began to glow with a faint, malevolent red light. It turned on its own kind, its jaw unhinging as it tore into a smaller sand shark, the water clouding with blood.
A chime echoed in his mind. +0.8 Soul Points.
Javier began to laugh. A wild, ecstatic, silent laugh that sent a stream of precious air bubbles rushing to the surface. It was perfect. His farming operation in Africa, his imp swarm burning the Amazon, and now, a third, inexhaustible farm in the boundless ocean. The predators would kill the smaller fish, the soul points would trickle in, and he would reinvest them, creating a self-perpetuating, global engine of slaughter. Lions in the Serengeti, wolves in Siberia, eagles in the mountains—he would turn the entire planet's food chain into his personal army. It was safer, more discreet than the obvious destruction of his demons, a cancer that would eat the world from the inside out.
His maniacal, silent laughter was so intense that he forgot he was underwater. He opened his mouth in a triumphant roar and immediately swallowed a lungful of saltwater. He choked, gagging and sputtering, his body convulsing as he fought the sudden, inglorious threat of drowning. He clawed his way to the surface, breaking through with a desperate, spluttering gasp, treading water in the middle of the empty ocean, a ridiculous, half-drowned god who had almost been killed by his own hubris. The irony was not lost on him.