Valiant: The Covenant Chronicles

[Covenant #2: The Contract]

Log Date: 9/18/12763

Data Sources: Jayta Jaskolka

Of all the powers of hell, none are more frightening than the contract.

Few realize the gravity and power of the contract. More attention is given to the power to summon and command demons, to grant profane wishes, to dispense curses, to wield hellfire as a weapon against those that stand in the way of hell’s agenda. These are all ostentatious displays of power; exhibitions of authority and command that the elite citizens of hell use to demonstrate their place in the hierarchy of the damned. These expressions of power are terrifying in their own right, and justifiably so.

But the contract, in all its quiet elegance, is the most sinister of them all.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

Coreolis: 418 Norian Way, Grisham Apartments, Apt. 1672

11:30am SGT

The knock, when it comes, is one I recognize instantly.

Friends give a gentle knock; package deliveries are a brisk, quick knock. Those are the main two types of knocks on the door; but this knock wasn’t either of those. This was a knock that could barely be called a knock; a fist banging on the door, three times steady, with a closed hand, rather than using your knuckles to rap against the surface. It was a knock that demanded to be let in, rather than asking politely; the kind of knock that could be heard through the apartment and up and down the hall outside.

The knock of the police.

I freeze where I’d been folding my clothes in my cramped little living room. My mind goes blank, erased by fear, and I can’t bring myself to move. This was something I’d expected would happen, and I’d walked myself through what I would do if it happened. But now that it had happened, I was frozen in place with dread.

I sit there for perhaps another fifteen seconds, until the knock sounds again, banging another three times, a demand to be let in. That jerks me out of my stupor; my eyes go to the spaceball bat sitting in the corner behind the front door. I remember what I’d planned to do.

“Coming.” I say, my voice coming out thin and weak. When I realize they probably can’t hear it, I repeat it a little louder. “Coming!”

Setting my shirt back in the laundry hamper, I stand up, taking a deep breath to gather myself. My heart is still pounding in spite of it, and I can feel a chill creeping up my back.

But I steel myself regardless, and start towards the front door.

Event Log: Rewind: Seven days earlier

Coreolis: 418 Norian Way, Grisham Apartments, Apt. 1672

9/11/12763 11:43pm SGT

He took me home.

I don’t remember much of what happened after he arrived. I remember him coming into the room, standing behind me, running his fingers through blood pooling at my feet. Using it to draw a smile on my face while I watched in the mirror, helpless and horrified. I remember my breathing starting to pick up until I was hyperventilating, gasping for air when I realized what I’d done.

And then nothing.

I don’t remember getting dizzy or passing out. Whatever happened after that point was empty, a blank space, as if my mind had blocked it out because I’d been overwhelmed. The next thing I can remember after that point was hearing the lock of my apartment door click open, and seeing the door swing open in front of me. Standing to the side was Raikaron, arm extended to offer me the courtesy of stepping inside first, elegant and gentlemanly.

And I’d stepped inside, dazed, shocked, moving slow like I was in a dream.

The memories of that night are patchwork, most of them hazy and jumbled and indistinct. A few of them are sharp, vivid, burned into my memory.

How he’d helped me out of my jacket, gently peeling it off me with a mothering touch.

How he’d set the spaceball bat in the corner behind the door, bits of skin, hair, and blood dried onto its nail studs and the barbed wire wrapped around it.

How he’d walked me to the bathroom, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves and rolling them up to the elbow; how he’d stood beside me and washed my hands in the sink, gently scrubbing away the streaks and flecks of dried blood. The way the water swirled in the basin, pink-red and soapy and warm against my cold, stiff fingers. The way he hummed softly to himself the whole time.

A soft, homely little tune you might hum to yourself as you dust the shelves or make dinner or fold your laundry.

And I let him do it. I let him wash away the evidence of my crime, stood still and numb as he took a washcloth and dabbed away the bloody smile that he’d painted on my face. Throughout it all, I could only stare at the people in the mirror, and try to convince myself that the small blonde with the grey eyes had killed someone. Even though it didn’t look like it. It didn’t look like she knew how to wash her hands, much less take a bat to someone and beat them to death.

There was another gap in my memory after that; a blank space that picks up with staring at my ceiling, my pillow soft behind my head. Still dressed in my clothes, lying in bed as Raikaron took my covers and pulled them over me, gently tucking me in. The way the mattress dipped, ever so slightly, to one side as he sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, and reached over, carefully combing my hair out of my face and tucking it behind one ear. The way his humming morphed into words, a lullaby in a language I didn’t recognize.

I remember feeling tired and warm, my exhaustion catching up to me; how soft and safe my bed was. The feeling of his thumb, soft and gentle, as it traced little circles on my cheek, in time with the lullaby’s slow tempo.

And then nothing.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

Coreolis: 418 Norian Way, Grisham Apartments, Apt. 1672

11:31am SGT

I don’t answer the door right away.

I’d known this was coming. I’d known it from the morning after that night; I knew that since I’d refused to use Raikaron’s dagger, the murder would eventually be traced back to me. They’d eventually figure out who did it. They’d come for me.

I just didn’t expect that it would take this long. A full week.

The coatrack is my first stop, where I pause to put my jacket on. Once that’s done, I slip my feet into my shoes, sitting next to the door, making sure they’re seated comfortably. Ready for running.

And last, I look at the spaceball bat resting behind the door.

It’s not covered in blood and gore anymore. I cleaned it up a couple days afterwards, when I couldn’t bear catching glimpses of it in its bloody, gory state. I almost thew up a couple times, and after the second time, I’d steeled myself, taken it in the bathroom, and carefully, carefully cleaned it in the tub, under hot water. Cleaning barbed wire wasn’t an easy task, and it took a while.

But after that, it’d gone right back to sitting behind the front door.

After a moment of staring at it, I step to the peephole, peering through it. Standing outside in the hall is an officer, with a spaceball-sized drone hovering beside him, patterned in the colors of the police department’s uniform. Its single eye is fixed on the door, likely scanning through it. It can probably see me, and possibly the spaceball bat as well.

My heart, already beating hard, starts to beat faster.

But I reach up anyway, unlocking the deadbolt on the door, then take hold of the doorknob, preparing to pull it open.

Event Log: Rewind: Six days earlier

Coreolis: 418 Norian Way, Grisham Apartments, Apt. 1672

9/12/12763 9:34am SGT

I woke up early on the morning after, having slept a dreamless sleep.

And after I woke, it took some time for the events of the previous night to return to me, the memories filtering back in painful pieces. Realizing what I’d done, remembering Raikaron’s cruel playfulness, and his disconcerting epilogue to my misadventure as he cleaned me up and helped me into bed. It was a lot to take in, too much, and I curled up in my bed and cried into my pillow for an hour, probably more than that.

Once I had cried myself out — exhausted a mere hour after waking up — I got up, because I didn’t know what else to do. I had no idea what to do with myself — I don’t think anyone does after the first time they kill someone. It’s such a shock that it throws all sense of normalcy and routine out the window; your mind just refuses to work properly while you process and come to terms with what you did. You can’t think very far into the future while you’re in that state, so I just took things a step at a time, not thinking about anything but that next step.

For me, that first step was taking a shower.

And while it didn’t necessarily fix anything, on the other side of it I felt cleaner. I still had a lot of problems, but being clean wasn’t one of them, and for some reason, that made things feel a little better.

It was as I was getting dressed that I realized I could smell something savory, like someone had been cooking. For a moment I thought it was just my head getting the better of me, but it persisted. I hadn’t cooked anything last night — not that I could remember, and nobody else had access to my apartment. Worried that someone had broken into my apartment, I hurried to get the rest of my clothes on, grabbing Raikaron’s dagger and slipping it into my pocket as I stepped out of my room.

Only to find the devil himself sitting at my kitchen table, sipping from a mug of hot cocoa and swiping through news articles on a glass tablet. I could only stand there, the dagger drawn halfway out of my pocket, dumbfounded that he was still here. And furthermore, that he was wearing my kitchen apron, and that there was a fresh spread of waffles, diced berries, sausage, and bacon laid out on the table, all domestic and neatly arranged.

His green eyes flicked up first, gazing at me over the top rim of his glasses. “Morning.” he’d remarked brightly, reaching up with one hand to take his glasses off and set them on the table off to the side. “Please, sit down. I made breakfast for you. I figured you’d need it after last night.”

For my part, what I can remember is that I just stood there with my mouth open.

This went on for several seconds. As it stretched longer, Raikaron set his tablet on the table alongside his glasses. “Please remember to breathe. You just woke up; I’d hate for you to pass out this early in the morning.”

Apparently I had forgotten to breathe, and started doing so as questions began spilling out of my mouth. “What are you doing here? Why are you still here? What do you want from me?!”

“Those are awfully loaded questions.” he’d replied mildly, lacing his fingers together in his lap. “Why don’t you sit down and have some breakfast. You had a long night, and you’ll feel better once you’ve got something in you. We can talk while you’re eating.”

“You haven’t poisoned it, have you?” I had demanded, my hand still on the knife.

His brows drew together at that point, in a thoroughly confused expression. “Why in the world would I do that?”

“I—” I’d stuttered when I realize I didn’t have any foundation for my fear. “—I don’t know. You’re, like. A demon or something.”

He’d raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Well yes, but. We don’t run around wantonly killing mortals for the sake of it. Well, actually, some demons do, but they’re not allowed out of hell precisely for that reason.”

On another day, I might’ve found that information intriguing. But on that particular day, all I could bring myself to say was “Oh.”

Raikaron did not seem to mind, as he merely gestured to the place he’d set for me across the table. “Well, now that we’ve got that cleared up, why don’t you sit down and get something to eat. If it makes you feel more comfortable, I’ll eat some too.” He didn’t wait for my confirmation, taking a plate for himself and starting to lade it with bacon and waffles.

I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat down, setting the knife on the table where it was within easy reach. Raikaron started talking as he liberally spread sliced strawberries across his waffle, each one as rich and red as his hair. “I admit, I was impressed with your showing last night. I had expected you to act on your anger, but not with such brutality and passion. You struck me as the type to do things neatly and quietly, hence the dagger I gave you.”

I almost threw up on the spot as my mind flashed back to the sound the new girl’s head made when it got caught between the hardwood floor and my bat. My eyes started to tear up as I remembered the life leaking out of her shocked eyes, slowly turning dull. All I could do was brace my arms on the table, clasping a hand over my mouth.

“That you would go to the lengths that you did to own your vengeance, willfully rejecting my help in the process, shows an unusual type of potential.” he remarked, drizzling syrup over the waffle and bacon. “I gave you an easy way out, and you refused to take it. Instead, you took the time to assemble an unusually cruel weapon, and put it to use with merciless conviction.”

“What do you want from me?” I’d asked again, this time as a watery whisper. I had thought I’d gotten all my tears out just after I’d woken up, but they came back as Raikaron offered up a summary of my crime.

“We will get to that part soon enough.” he’d said, setting the maple syrup aside. “There’s just a few facts we have to cover before we do. First, while I admire your dedication to doing things your way, a stand on principle comes at a cost. Once the body is found, the investigation will begin. And because you took no especial precautions to hide your identity or cover your tracks, you will eventually be caught. Within the week, I imagine; if the police are doing their job properly, they will be able to pull surveillance footage from public sources, and digging into the victim’s social media web will eventually bring you up as a suspect. At that point they will obtain a warrant for your socmed history, and your stalkerish behavior thereon will likely be enough to request an arrest warrant. The dominos will continue to fall, until one of them ends up knocking your door down. Even if you got rid of all the evidence and scrubbed the apartment clean, they’d still take you in for questioning, with no alibi for that night and no one to back up your lies even if you did come up with one. You will be caught, and the case against you will be easy to build, solid enough to hold up in court. If you do not get the death penalty, you will likely spend the rest of your life in jail, without chance for parole.”

“Why did you do this to me?” I had blurted out, interrupting him as the panic started to set in. “I thought you wanted to help me!”

“My dear, I did. And I still do.” he replied inoffensively, setting down his knife as he finished cutting the waffle into neat little rectangles. “And in fact, I gave you an avenue through which you could get away with the crime. But you elicited not to use it, and while I admire your determination, it has put you in the situation you are presently in. I can still offer you a way out, but it will have to be on my terms.”

“A— a way out?” I’d stuttered, confused at the renewed offer of assistance.

“Yes, a way out.” he’d said, spearing one of those rectangles and popping it in his mouth. “You have potential. I see something in you that could be…” He uses his fork to gesture around the cramped kitchen and the disheveled bedroom and living room beyond it. “…more than this. There is more to what you can do than this cramped little kitchen and waiting tables at an upscale restaurant. You can’t even make the bills with that job; it’s why you have a second job. What kind of life is that? Working yourself to the bone just to put food on the table and keep the heat running in winter? You barely even spend enough time in this apartment to make it worth it.”

It took me a few seconds to dig through his words to recognize what he was building up to. “Are you… going to offer me a job?”

His lips had peeled back in a smile as he pointed the fork at me. “That’s what I’m talking about. You’re a sharp little lady. Your potential is being wasted here in this… city.” The word came with a certain flourish of his fork as he went on. “Not that you’re long for this place anyway; if you stay, eventually you’ll end up in prison, and all your potential will be focused on surviving that jungle. So to that end, I would like to offer you a position as an avenger within my… department in hell.”

The offer rendered me speechless, which is just as well, because it allowed Raikaron to continue on to explain the particulars.

“Now, I’m sure you have questions, and they’re likely stuck behind that blockade of shock in your throat right now, so I’ll endeavor to answer them as best I can.” he’d said, spearing another couple of waffle rectangles. “The role of an avenger is to act on behalf of a lord of hell. Typically this means settling up scores, collecting on debts, and delivering messages that leave indelible impressions on the recipients. The work is often bloody and violent, but the benefit package is considerable: there’d be free housing, free healthcare, a free gym membership, inherent authority in the position, plenty of vacation days, and you’d get to see a great many places across the galaxy. With time and training, you could eventually be trusted to retrieve souls on behalf of the lord that is owed them.”

“You… you want me to kill more people?” My words, when they come out, sound weak and faint.

He tilted his head to one side, rolling his eyes. “Well, yes. Some of them. Others will need to be brutalized within an inch of their lives in order to deliver the message; and still others will need to be tormented in… softer, crueler ways. On the occasion, I may need you to go retrieve a soul for me, if I am too busy to come collect on it myself. Granted, it can be an emotionally taxing occupation, but all things considered, I think you would prefer it over a fifty-year sentence in Coreolis’s federal prison. Besides.” He tilted his fork back to his lips, licking the syrup off of the tines as his toxic green eyes find mine. “We agreed that this phase of your life was over, didn’t we? Time to let go of the past, and move on to a new chapter.”

“This wasn’t what I wanted.” I’d shoved back from the table as the pieces started falling into place, as I realized how readily he was offering this to me. He’d planned this. “You tricked me! You wanted me to do this! You wanted me to get into this situation so I wouldn’t have any choice but to go to you for help!”

He smiled, setting his fork down on the plate and lacing his fingers together over it. “Did I force you to swing that bat, Jay?”

My words got stuck in my throat. I knew where it was going, and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to hide from the truth.

“No, you chose to do that.” he goes on softly. “I may have cajoled and whispered, encouraged and suggested, but I never lied to you, and I never tricked you. I only told what you yourself were already feeling; helped you confront the pain you were struggling to give voice to. I have no interest in lies; I believe strongly in the truth, and the truth is that you were hurting, and you needed someone to listen to you, someone to support you. You needed someone to stand beside you, someone to tell you that it was okay to hurt. And that it’s okay to hit back when you’re hurt, to stand up for yourself. You needed a friend, and I tried to be that friend.”

“Friends don’t talk each other into committing murder.” I’d whispered, trying hard to keep my lip from quivering, my eyes from tearing up.

“Perhaps your friends don’t.” he’d admitted. “But how many of your current friends would try to help get you out of the situation you’ve gotten yourself into? When the police come, will your friends step up and stand by your side? Or will they look away… whisper to each other about how they feel sorry for you and what you became, but do nothing to help you?” He let that question linger in the air. “What kind of friends do you have, Jayta?”

I didn’t answer, because I already knew the answer, but I didn’t want to hear it aloud, because it would make it real. I’d have to confront the reality that no one would stand up for me. That the people I called my friends wouldn’t be there to help me.

When I didn’t answer, he reached under the apron and into his vest, pulling out a scroll of parchment and setting it on the table. A single flick of his finger rolled it open, revealing the lines of a contract, written in either dark red ink, or blood. At the bottom was the signature line, empty and waiting to be filled.

“I can get you out of here.” he’d said softly. “I can help you. But only if you let me.”

It was so tempting. Sign on the line, let it solve my problems. Escape the consequences, even if it meant diving into something new and unfamiliar, becoming the enforcer of some cruel hell-lord.

But I couldn’t, and I wouldn’t.

“No.” I’d whispered quietly, looking at him as I did so. I took a step back from the table, as if to make it clear I wasn’t going to play his game.

He’d nodded, as if he understood. “Still stubborn. Set on doing things your way. That’s okay. I can’t force you to do anything, nor would I want to.” He’d taken his napkin out of his lap, folding it and setting it on the table as he stood up, surrendering the apron. “You may have potential, but I can’t force you to live up to it. Perhaps you’ll feel differently with a little time to think it over; I know I’ve given you a lot to consider and this offer is a big jump into the unknown.” At that point, he had reached down and tapped the parchment. “I’ll leave this here, in case you change your mind.”

“What makes you think I’ll change my mind?” I’d asked it as a challenge, as a show of defiance. Something that I hoped would show him my resolve, make him reconsider and take back his offer, because I knew how it tempted me. And I knew how hard it would be to resist if he left it here, within my reach.

But he’d only smiled, a small and knowing smile. “Desperation. In my line of work, it’s a powerful tool.” With that, he’d buttoned up his vest, and rolled his sleeves back down to the cuff, from where he’d had them rolled up to the elbow. Picking up his thin-rimmed glasses, he’d blown them off, then put them back on. “I’ll let you be now. You’ve had a rough couple of days; you should rest. Eat something. The waffles are still warm.”

And with that modest advice, he’d turned and taken his leave. When the front door clicked shut behind him, I was left in the silence with the table still neatly set for breakfast.

Warm and sinfully delicious, just like the contract lying beside my plate.

Jayta’s Journal

The contract is a classic, if underrated, part of the devil’s arsenal.

It is, unlike many of the other powers of hell, something that requires a level of finesse and delicacy to be leveraged effectively. You rarely see simple demons trying to utilize contracts; this is partially because contracts require time, patience, and some degree of emotional intelligence and perception. A demon needs to be able to perceive a soul in need; discern what they crave; and understand how best to offer them that thing in the form of the contract. Generally speaking, that sort of sophisticated cruelty is the province of higher-order demons that have retained the requisite empathy for mortal struggles and trifles. Though counterintuitive, leveraging a contract does require some modicum of sympathy on the part of the demon offering it.

The profit of a contract lies primarily in two things: the ability to exert control over the individual, or the promise of collecting on their soul once their mortal journey ends. Most demons that dabble in contracts aim for both, if possible, but will usually settle for one or the other. Neither have altogether spectacular effects; their value is cumulative, largely intangible, and only demonstrated in some hell-lord’s rare exhibition of power, or in the control exerted over those that have signed away their souls.

And while the power can be terrifying in its own right, it is the control that is more horrifying still.

Few can grasp the trauma of being deprived of their free agency, and few appreciate free will until it is taken from them. The experience is unique — being aware, cognizant of what you are doing, to feel and experience your actions, but with no ability to control them; a prisoner within your own body. It is a violation of the most obscene sort, in being able to force a person to do something against their will; a crime so profane that deities and demons alike have laws against it.

But when one’s free agency is signed away in a contract, it is forfeiture made of the signee’s own accord. It is no longer considered a crime, but a legalized abomination recognized by initial consent; bound in blood, parchment, and the ancient language of the universe. Unbreakable, until the conditions of the contract are met, or the controlling party releases the signee from the agreement. Such is the power of the contract:

Quiet, unassuming, and absolute.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

Coreolis: 418 Norian Way, Grisham Apartments, Apt. 1672

11:32am SGT

The door swings open, letting in the cooler autumn air in the hallway outside.

“How can I help you, officer?”

I try my best to make the words sound as normal as possible. Unassuming and bright, clueless and confused. Play the dumb blonde and hope that I could just get them to move on after a few perfunctory questions. But that delusion goes up in flames as the officer tips his cap and replies.

“Hallo, Ms… hoping I’m pronouncing this right… Jaskolka? Mind if we come in and ask you some questions? Name’s Officer Kilgore, with the Coreolis Planetary Police.”

I have to fight the urge to grit my teeth, and I end up baring them in a smile that I hope seems friendly. “Sure, is there anything I should be worried about?” I ask as I let the door swing open wider, stepping out of the way so he can come in.

“I don’t imagine so; I don’t know if you heard, but there was a murder in the residential districts about a week ago, roughly.” the officer says as he saunters in, the drone bobbing along at shoulder height behind him. “We’re still trying to figure out what happened, and you turned up on our radar as someone that might kn—”

The moment I hear the word 'murder' leave his mouth, my heart shudders, and I can feel a burst of adrenaline drop into my veins. My hand, which is still on the doorknob, drops to the spaceball bat resting behind the door, my fingers curling around the wrapped handle. I’m moving without thinking about it, the bat coming up as he starts to turn around; the drone chirps out a warning sound, but it’s too late. By the time he’s mentioning radar, the bat’s already swinging for his head.

Just like it did with the new girl, it hits him with enough force to snap his head to one side, the barbed wire ripping long gashes across the side of his face as he’s thrown flat against the ground. The drone’s lights immediately start flashing red and blue, and it turns on me, pounding me with a high-frequency feedback sound that I’m pretty sure is used for crowd control and disorienting hostile suspects. I yank the bat up, missing the drone on the first swing; the second one grazes it, and as it tries to stabilize itself, the third swing catches square in the side, sending it flying across the room to slam against the wall. The feedback sound sputters out as the drone drunkenly dips to hovering just above the floor, sparks flying from the dented and scratched plates of its spherical shell.

As I catch my breath from the wild frenzy of swings, the officer moans and lolls on the ground, still stunned from the hit and bleeding profusely, but very much conscious. There’s a chirp from his uniform, and a voice coming over the radio built into it. “Kilgore, come in. Your vitals just spiked and your support drone’s readings have gone erratic. What’s going on?”

My heart drops as I realize that the police dispatch has noticed something’s gone wrong, and will be dispatching more officers to respond.

I lurch through the doorway and out into the hall, wincing at the lingering ringing in my ears from the drone’s feedback attack. The spaceball bat is heavy in my hand as I stagger down the hallway, trying to stay upright; I can hear doors opening in the hall, some people leaning out of their apartments to see what the commotion is. When they see the bloody, barbed-wire bat hanging from my hand, those that are in the hall ahead of me gasp and back out of the way, some of them retreating back into their apartments and locking the doors.

“Stop!”

The shout comes from down the hall. I look around to see another officer, this one a Cyber, stepping out of the elevator, with a support drone hovering at his shoulder; he’s already reaching for his holstered pistol. Fear shoots through me, and a fresh surge of adrenaline drops into my veins.

I have to get out of here.

Event Log: Rewind: Five days earlier

Coreolis: 418 Norian Way, Grisham Apartments, Apt. 1672

9/13/12763 5:48pm SGT

The days after that morning weren’t easy ones.

I’d refused to touch the contract. It stayed on the table for a day, until I couldn’t stand seeing it every time I passed through the kitchen. I’d moved it to one of the drawers after that, so I could deal with it the only way I knew how to: avoiding it. Just like the dagger Raikaron had given me.

The problem was that even though I’d put it out of sight, it hadn’t saved me from Raikaron’s words, which were more dangerous than either the dagger or contract. Those two things just served as reminders of his suggestions, his ideas, his propositions. His offers were curious, opened-ended questions that, if you left them long enough, beckoned and whispered to you, dangling a future in front of you that was better than the reality you were currently in. All you had to do was reach out and take it.

The longer you spent thinking about it, the more appealing it looked.

And if you tried to stop thinking about it, the dagger and contract were supposed to act as physical reminders to get you to start thinking about it again.

I figured that out by the third day, so I’d collected both of them and threw them out. I dumped them in the trash, tied up the bag, and took it out to the disposal. I put them where I knew I couldn’t get them back, even if I tried.

And with that, I tried to go back to my life.

I forced myself to stop thinking about Raikaron, about my ex, about the new girl. I went to my job, ran my errands, went back to the routine I had before the murder. I didn’t plan my escape, though I did walk myself through what I would say if the police showed up at my door. I deluded myself into believing that I’d politely answer their questions, feign my innocence, and my life would go back to what it’d been before. And some part of me actually believed that, actually believed I could just go back to the way things were before. It stifled the part of me that knew things never could, and never would, go back to the way things were before.

But it didn’t snuff it out entirely.

And when I would lay down at night, drifting off to sleep, I would hear the faint echoes of a lullaby sung in a foreign language, a reminder and a promise that a new chapter of my life was waiting to be started.

All I needed to do was sign on the line.

Jayta’s Journal

So why would one ever sign a contract?

A soul, and the privilege of free will, are the most precious gifts given to every creature that lives, thinks, and breathes. Those two things are the only things that we bring with us when we enter our mortal life, and the only two things that we take with us when we leave it. Their value is without measure, and there are few things in this universe that can equal that inherent value.

But not everyone judges the value of a soul the same — including those that have one. And sometimes, when deprived of all else, an individual will surrender their free will to avert a fate that could be even worse. These are two of the most common reasons for which individuals will give away their soul or their free will — they do not value them as they ought, or it is their last resort to escape something even worse.

The devil knows this, and does not hesitate to leverage it. He has a particular attention for those that do not value their souls as they should. And he has an even keener instinct for those that do value their free will, but find themselves with their backs to a wall, with nothing left to give and nowhere left to go.

Desperation, as Raikaron had said, was a powerful tool in a demon’s line of work.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

Coreolis: 418 Norian Way, Grisham Apartments, Apt. 1672

11:34am SGT

I don’t know where I’m running to. Just that I’m running away.

Charging down the fire escape stairs, with the officer following hot behind me, I’m panicking and wondering whether I should throw the bat away so I can run faster, or hold onto it for self-defense if he catches up to me. I don’t know where I’m going to, where I’m running to, making split-second decisions on the fly. The shouting of the officer following me down the fire escape only spurs me on, refusing to comply with his commands to stop.

When I hit the first floor, I immediately throw my shoulder into the push bar of the fire door, which sets off the alarm as it swings open. It opens up into the alley behind my apartment complex; the officer’s still hard on my heels, and I can hear him shouting as he clatters down the remaining fire escape stairs. “Beatty, target’s exiting into the alley on the north side of the complex. Seal it off.”

Unsure of what to do, I act on instinct, stepping to the side of the fire door and winding up the bat for a swing. The moment the officer comes through the doorway, I let rip; the bat slams into the Cyber’s faceplate, denting metal and sending glass flying. It hits hard enough to take the officer clean off his feet; for a moment, everything is in slow motion, glass flying through the air, the officer’s hands coming up as the impact throws his torso backwards, his feet lifting off the ground as the bottom half of his body keeps moving forwards.

Then the moment passes and he drops, hitting the ground with the heavy clank of a metal chassis making contact with concrete. I stand there, chest heaving as I gasp for breath, watching the Cyber twitch and spark from the shattered faceplate. Seconds later, I hear the growl of an engine and the fading whine of a siren as a police cruiser pulls up on one side of the alley, the blue and red lights splashing across the dingy walls and brickwork. A pair of officers immediately spill out of the cruiser, drawing their pistols while one shouts into his uniform’s cuff. “Officer down! Requesting backup!”

I turn and start running to the other end of the alley, where daylight is waiting. Behind me, one of the officers shouts at me to stop, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I’m too far gone now; either I get away or I get caught and taken away. And if I get caught, that’s the end.

So I keep running.

I hear the static crackle at the same time that I feel the first coilgun spike rush past me. Some part of me knows they’re shooting at me, but hasn’t processed it yet, and doesn’t process it until I feel something slam into my back. The impact knocks me forward, and I drop the bat as I struggle to maintain my balance. Staggering onward, I feel something else slam into my back, and it goes right through me, throwing me to the ground on my front.

As I lie there, trying to figure out what’s going on, the points of pain in my back are starting to become clear, so sharp and clear that I can’t breathe. Despite that, with the adrenaline pulsing through my veins, I push myself up on my hands and knees, the concrete cold and rough against my palms. Looking down, I can see the stone stained a bright red, and my jacket and tshirt around my midsection are soaked and damp with blood.

I’ve been shot.

My breathing picks up, and with it, I feel the pain of the spike that went through my midsection and the one still lodged in my upper back. I start moving, trying to crawl forward, but it brings on a coughing fit; flecks of blood paint the concrete, and I have to stop moving before my arms give out. There’s the sound of boots pounding behind me as the officers catch up to me, and the overlapped sound of sirens as more cruisers pull up outside the alley.

I’m caught.

I still try to crawl away, desperate for escape, but someone grabs the neck of my jacket and pulls me into a sitting position, holding me still with my arms pinned to my sides. I make weak jerking motions, trying to get free of them, but I can feel my strength bleeding away, the adrenaline leaving my body in the blood I’m losing. Tears start to well at the corners of my eyes as more officers start to swarm around me, one of them kicking the bat out of reach. I look up towards the light at the other end of the alley, my getaway, my promise of freedom, now so far away.

Standing there in that slice of light, just beyond the officers milling around me, is Raikaron, dressed neatly as ever in his vest and slacks. Fingers laced together, posture clean and straight, head tilted to one side like a curious cat.

“Help me.” I wheeze to him, feeling the blood dampen my lips, the pain in my body seesawing as if it was uncertain whether I would die now or later.

“You attacked two officers, you’re lucky to be alive.” I can hear one of the officers say.

“She’s losing a lot of blood, we need to stem this and get an ambulance out here or she’s not going to see the courtroom.” another one says; it sounds like it’s the one pinning my arms to my side.

Raikaron takes a step forward, and then another, each one deliberate and slow. Whenever an officer would collide with him, they instead pass through him as if he were a ghost; none of them acknowledge him or say anything. It’s like he only exists for me; and when he’s a few feet from me, he crouches down to get on eye level, head still tilted to one side.

“I tried to help you earlier.” he says softly. “But you chose not to accept my help.”

“I’m sorry.” I gasp, the tears starting to crawl down my cheeks now. “I t-take it back. I want your help. I need your help. I don’t want to die… don’t let me die…”

“I don’t think she’s talking to us. She’s probably on something if she’s seeing things and swinging that bat as hard as she was.” one of the officers says.

“She’s gone, man. She’s not even looking at us when she’s talking.” another one says as Raikaron continues staring at me. “John, tell dispatch we’re going to need a psi unit along with that ambulance. Target’s mentally unstable, and she’s dangerous.”

“Salvation comes at a price.” Raikaron says, voice still soft. “That price was too high for you last time, and it has only gone up since then. You weren’t willing to pay it back then; why would you be willing to pay it now?”

My breath hitches in a sob that’s clawing out of me, and it hurts, it physically hurts from the spike lodged in my back and the hole in my midsection. I’m losing blood at a dangerous rate; I can feel it soaking my underwear and the legs of my jeans now. “Please…” I beg, letting out a quiet little moan as I sacrifice my dignity to grovel for mercy. “I don’t c-care what it costs, j-just please help me… I’ll do… do whatever you want me to, give you whatever you w-want, just please don’t let me die like this…”

The lenses of his thin-rimmed glasses catch the light behind him as he considers my plea. Reaching into his vest, he pulls out a scroll of parchment, setting it on the ground and flicking it so that the end rolls out towards me, ending just shy of my knees. The dark red ink is familiar, as is the unsigned line at the bottom.

“Sign in blood.” he says simply. “Normally I’d offer you a knife, but you seem to have plenty of it readily available.”

I try to blink away the tears blurring my vision, trying to scan the parchment and get some sense of what I’m signing up for, but I can’t read the text, written as it is in another language, one that doesn’t even have the same alphabet as galactic common. My arms are still pinned to my sides, and the officer behind me is big and strong; when I try to pull my arms free, he just tightens his grip on me. “She’s still trying to get loose! John, can you get over here and help me get cuffs on her?”

“I can’t.” I cry as I boots crunch over the ground. When my arms are pulled behind my back so cuffs can be wrestled onto my wrists, I cough up some more blood, nearly choking on it. “I need help… please, just help me… I can’t reach…”

“You can do it.” Raikaron says gently. “I never said you had to sign with your fingers. I just said you had to sign with blood. Do you want to live?”

I hiccup and sob, nodding my head wildly. My face is covered in tears, my hair is matted with my own blood, and I’m out of words. My hands and feet are going cold and numb as I lose more blood, and my heartbeat feels sluggish. I’m dying, and I don’t want to be.

“Prove it to me, then.” Raikaron murmurs as he takes off his glasses. “Sign.”

Staring at the contract through my tears, I can barely tell where the signage line is. I don’t know how I’m going to sign with my hands behind my back, but all I have to do is put blood on the line, if I’m understanding him correctly. But the easiest way to do that is still with my hands, which are cuffed behind my back.

“Gallegos, the ambulance is pulling in. Get her up.” one of the officers calls, and I can feel someone grab my cuffs.

“No.” I cough, tugging weakly against the pull, but it’s no use, I can feel myself being pulled backwards. Away from the contract. “No! Let go!”

“First she’s saying she doesn’t want to die, now she doesn’t want to get help.” the officer behind me grumbles, but he doesn’t let go. “C’mon, miss. You keep resisting, you’re just going to lose more blood.”

I keep leaning forward, even though I can feel my injuries screaming at me, blood dripping down the underside of my thighs. The strain makes me cough again, more blood bubbling at my lips, but there’s no way I can break free of the magnetic cuffs. The contract is right there, I just… I can’t, I’m not strong enough.

“Show me.” Raikaron whispers, toxic green eyes fixed on me.

I grit my teeth and set my foot against the ground, pushing against it as I throw all of my weight forward in a last, desperate bid to get to the contract. The sudden burst of movement allows me to yank free of the officer; I collapse on the ground, the edge of the parchment brushing my cheek. The officer shouts, lunging back to grab my cuffs again; there’s no way I can get my hands up to slap some blood on the signage line. I can feel him start to tug, trying to pull me back upright. I’ve only got seconds.

So I do the only thing I can think of, and roll my face onto the parchment, leaving an imprint of my bloody lips on the signage line.

Then the officer grabs my shoulder along with the cuffs, and pulls me back upright again. The parchment sticks to my mouth for a couple seconds before falling away, drifting back to the ground; the imprint on the line is slightly smeared and smudged, but still legible as the outline of my lips. Raikaron smiles and stands, scooping up the contract as the officers startle away from him, two of them moving to draw their guns. “Jaysus, where the hell did he come from?!”

“Sealed with a kiss. Classic.” he remarks, delicately setting his glasses back on his face as he examines the contract, largely ignoring the officers. “Let’s begin.”

The parchment dissolves into sparks, and the ground beneath me cracks, orange light shining through the fissures. Those same cracks spread and twist, forming a circle, and within it, a runic pattern similar to the ones that my mother and brother used to draw when practicing their witchcraft. Their seals were more elegant, though; this one is raw and jagged and violent, and has officers staggering away and shouting as heat starts to bleed through the cracks in the ground.

“Stop what you’re doing! Stop it now!” one of the officers shouts, leveling his gun at Raikaron. “We will shoot!”

“That would be poor form.” Raikaron replies, raising an eyebrow. “Do you make a habit of shooting unarmed individuals?”

If there’s a reply, I can’t hear it over the sound of hell cracking open beneath me. The seal of fissures beneath me starts venting hot, noxious air; ghostly hands reach up through the cracks in the ground. On another day I would’ve screamed and scrambled away from them, but right now, I can barely move, much less bring myself to be terrified of what I’m seeing. As I watch, the arms and hands of the damned clutch and scramble around their fissures, as if searching for something to grip; several of them find my legs and latch onto them, holding me in place in the middle of the seal. One of them finds the magnetic cuffs that are binding my wrists together, and with a single yank, snaps them off. As the pressure lets off, I pull my hands back around in front of me to stare at them.

It doesn’t last for long. There’s something rattling in the ground beneath me, and seconds later, thick chains of orange light shoot out of the fissures, tangelo manacles forming around my wrists as the chains link to them. The chains draw tight, and both my arms are yanked to the ground, where the hands reaching through the fissures grab onto them and hold me down.

Now I’m starting to panic.

I can feel something forming around my neck, and I realize too late it’s a collar; another chain shoots up from beneath and latches onto it, then draws tight, yanking me flat against the cracked ground. Hands clamp onto my head and my shoulders, clinging to me as I thrash and try to pull free; I can hear whispers welling up from below, stygian and profane. An uncomfortable heat starts to spread into me, emanating from the manacles and collar; if feels like someone’s pouring molten titanium into me, replacing the bones and muscle beneath my skin.

I start screaming.

The heat floods through me, hot and raw and laden with emotion; fury and rage and a maleficent impulse. I don’t know who these emotions belong to, but they feel like the grievances of the damned, seeking an outlet to share their own suffering and misery with others. It’s not something I want in me, but I can feel it coursing through me, filling me with incandescent strength; it burns away the coilgun spike lodged in my back, and I can no longer feel the hole in my midsection. I don’t know if it’s healed or if it’s simply gone numb, drowned out by the agony of the heat flooding through me.

Either way, I don’t really care.

My fingers, now morphed into hooked black claws at the tips, dig into the concrete as I let out a raw scream, using my newfound strength to tear free of the ghostly hands holding me down. The collar and manacles, bound by the orange chains of light, are still pulled tight; it takes all of that new strength to get my torso off the ground, the chains straining to pull me back down. Getting a knee beneath myself, I use it to leverage myself to my feet, sparks flying from the chains as they slide, link by link, over the edges of the fissures — before they snap altogether.

With that, the pressure lets up. The arms reaching through the fissures dissolve, and the seal goes dark; heat stops pouring out of the cracks in the ground. The manacles and collar remain, though, each with a length of chain hanging from them. Catching my breath, and still feeling the heat and fury surging through my veins, I turn about.

In the alley, the officers have backed away, some of them taking up positions behind their cruisers parked outside the alley. Several are radioing for backup; those still in the alley have taken cover behind dumpsters and within open doorways. All of them have their weapons drawn.

“Far be it from me to tell you all how to do your jobs, but this would be the juncture at which I recommend discretion as the better part of valor.” Raikaron calls from behind me. “I intend to be taking my leave here shortly, and my new… employee along with me. I think it would be best, both for my patience and for your wellbeing, that we are allowed to excuse ourselves without further incident.”

“If you move, we will shoot!” comes a single lonely and uncertain shout from the blockade of officers.

Raikaron’s exasperation is audible in his words. “It never fails. Jayta, dear, you are free to do as you please.”

I look over my shoulder at him; everything I’m hearing is being processed through a haze of fury and resentment, yet I have an odd compulsion to confirm with him first. He gives me a little nod, and that’s all I need; looking forward again, I wrap my hands around the heavy tangerine chainlinks hanging from my manacles. They’re warm between my fingers, pulsating with heat, and for a moment, just a moment, I hesitate. Something pulls back on me as I realize that I’m about to hurt more people.

But the fury clouding my mind brushes that away. I was attacked, and retribution is my right. I nearly died, and someone needs to pay for that.

Peeling my bloody lips back, I let a snarl seep between my teeth as I hunch my shoulders, grip my chains, and lunge forward.

Jayta’s Journal

Regret, though rarely mentioned, is another core feature of the contract.

It plays no actual part in the contract’s function or mechanism. It is a result, rather; a byproduct of its completion. Regret — that thing which can only ever be felt in retrospect — is the one thing that, regardless of the form or contents of their contract, most contract-signers share in common.

In some instances the regret is immediate, and sets in not long after the contract is signed. In other instances it is delayed; something that comes only after the satisfaction has worn off of whatever novelty or power that the contract affords. Other times, the regret comes only in the fading moments before death sets in, and the contract’s bill comes due. But for the vast majority of those that sign contracts, the regret always comes, whether it is sooner or later.

And once the regret sinks in, all too soon follows the attempts to escape the contract.

They rarely succeed. Contracts are typically written tightly, meant to constrain and entrap; from time to time a loophole may be found, or the holder of the contract may be enticed into a game, to let the signer play for their freedom or become further entangled in the terms of the contract. But the leverage and the odds are often heavily weighted in the devil’s favor; the holder of the contract usually has the power to decide the reward and determine the rules of engagement. The playing field is rarely level, and the odds are rarely fair.

And when the game is lost, and there are no loopholes, nor intercessory offered, there is nothing left but to wait in regret until the contract comes due. Regret is the final act of the contract, the coda to its arc, the garnish atop a masterpiece of manipulation, deception, greed, and desperation. It is the final knife that the devil twists, and like all else contained within the contract, is a soft cruelty, and all the more poignant for it.

Such is the life cycle of a common contract — and for me, it was a new life that began in that dirty, frigid alley behind the apartment complex, signing away my soul and free will to my new lord with a bloody kiss.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

Coreolis: 418 Norian Way, Grisham Apartments, Apt. 1672

11:42am SGT

My breath crystallizes on the cold august air with each huff, my clawed fingers loosening just enough to drop the officer I tore into.

The alley is a mess. Scorch marks cover the walls from where my chains have lashed against them; trash bins are overturned, their contents spilled out, and dumpsters are dented and deformed from where bodies have slammed against them. Officers are sprawled in the alley among the mess, some of them with burn marks from my chains, others with long, messy, raking wounds from my claws. Many of them are still moving, trying to crawl away or staunch their injuries, chatter crackling along the radios built into their suits.

They aren’t the only ones worse for the wear.

I’ve been about damn near turned into a pincushion, coilgun spikes embedded in my body in any place where it’d be reasonably easy to shoot and hit me. My clothing is torn to shreds, and I’m covered in blood, more of it than I was before. A lot of it belongs to the officers, but a lot of it is mine too. But unlike before, the blood loss isn’t anywhere near enough to kill me, what with the hell burning through my veins.

“I didn’t want to interrupt until I was sure you were done.” The voice causes me to jump as I’m pulling a spike out of my arm; looking around, I can see Raikaron standing behind me, arms neatly folded behind his back. “Have you gotten it all out of your system?”

I bare my teeth at him as I yank another spike out of my shoulder.

His lips peel back in a perfect, pearlescent smile. “Still a little more steam in you, I see. You’ll crash soon enough. Let’s see if we can get you to more accommodating environs before you do, mm?”

With that, he steps to the side, revealing a gaping, red-rimmed rectangle in the air behind him, a portal that flickers at the edges. Through it is what appears to be another alley, and beyond it a plaza, this one with a strong crimson theme, and a dark grey sky, beset by strange, shifting clouds. The streets beyond are bustling and brusque - the rush hour of the damned. Hell, in all its questionable metropolitan glory.

“Shall we?” Raikaron asks, offering a hand to me.

After a moment of staring through the portal, I look back over my shoulder at the devastation in the alley behind me. Ruined police cruisers at the far end, wounded officers up and down the length of the alley. Carnage and blood and spite in the defiance of the laws of gods and men.

I didn’t belong here any more.

Turning forward, I yank another coilgun spike out of my chest and start limping towards the portal, ignoring Raikaron’s offered hand. He folds it behind his back once more. “Have it as you like, then.” he says, following me through the portal. It snaps shut behind us, cutting us off from the cold air of Coreolis and leaving us in the heathen heat of hell; he takes the lead, and soon we come out of the alley and into a busy, milling plaza. Smiling aside at me, he gives a sweeping gesture to the vast city visible beyond the plaza.

“Welcome to hell.”