Demon Groundhog Day (title pending) - Chapter 2

Magrails were emblematic of everything shiny and new on upper T’eas Velvet. And like all symbolic gestures of prosperity, as it descended both literally and metaphorically to the less wealthy districts, it became not an actual benefit, but a fruit hanging ripe on the upper branches of a tree, always just out of reach for any save those fortunate enough to have access to a ladder. Or, in the less metaphorical sense, to have a job that required a commute to the upper districts, but still didn’t pay enough to make a swanky loft up there affordable. See, Upper Velvet was for fae. It was for fae, for humans who sold out, and for any human-fae hybrids who were fortunate enough to be born more fae than human. Elves, that’s what people called them. It wasn’t a nice term, as much as some people liked to claim it was. They had it better than orcs though. At least a human-fae hybrid could show their face in the middle districts. Half-demons in the middle district seldom went out in public, and that was if they were even allowed to live in the middle districts.

Though self-evident, it warranted repeating: fae fucking sucked. That wasn’t an unpopular opinion, go to any bar outside Upper Velvet and toast to the death of every last one of those uncanny-looking fucks and there would be cheers all around. None of that changed the fact that they had Riley backed into a corner. There was this saying in Centra Velvet, ‘Behind every hard-working human is a fae with a cattle prod.’ Still, at least the fae were honest. Or, rather, their reputation preceded them. Nobody was ever surprised to learn that their fae boss was a conniving, backstabbing bastard. Some people, however, seemed to forget that the humans who’d handed Velvet the keys to the city were the same ones living large in their upper district penthouse apartments, just like they always had been.

A crisp ding pierced Riley’s thoughts: last stop. Briskly, she slipped from her seat and into the bustling streets of the Central Velvet. If the middle districts were a person, they would be that one friend who is clearly having a rough go at it, but when asked how they’re doing puts on a plastic too-wide grin and brightly chirps “Fine.” Central Velvet was rusty iron coated in a thin layer of peeling gold leaf. Anyone who gave it a second look could see it was wearing away, and far too heavy. The air was weighted with this thick, choking bluish-green glow. A sickly mixture of bright lights and polluted air. Hell, the whole place even smelled like that bluish-green: bitter and acrid, rain on old metal, neon and exhaust fumes, burnt plastic and fresh paint. Things were always bustling, but nobody ever seemed to be going anywhere. On every street corner, lighting up every wall and window and skyline, were advertisements for all manner of things to buy. Retail was king in Central Velvet, because when there’s nowhere to go but down, for some reason people convince themselves they might climb shit mountain on an inconsequential pile of things.

Riley pushed through throngs of people, shouldering aside anyone who didn’t have the common sense to get out of the way of someone whose entire aura screamed “Get fucked.” She had a singular destination in mind, a place that stood smack dab in the middle of one of those aforementioned chips in the gold leaf. Away from the constant eerie glow of neon permeating smog, in the shadow of some supermall or other, stood Devil’s Triangle, the only bar in Central Velvet to feature male orc dancers. Apparently it also had a drinking game named after it?

Regardless, it also just so happened to be a place where Riley could find transport down. Down into San Francisco. Granted, it was still considered T’eas Velvet by persons of authority, but nobody who actually lived in “Lower Velvet'' called it anything other than San Francisco. Or San Fran. Or, if one were feeling particularly nostalgic about the good ole days, just The City. Some people also just called it that shit hole. Plus there was also Oakland and Berkeley and San Jose and all those other places. Probably no shortage of demon names too. Really it was just that nobody who lived down there gave Velvet even an ounce of the respect they tried to demand.

Ironically, those who lived quite literally beneath everyone else were also least under the thumb of Velvet and their cohort. Not that living in the lower districts was nice. If Central Velvet had a thin coating of shiny gold, the lower districts had a thick layer of lead paint. Which was to say, living down there was bad for your health, but at least the paint chips made an interesting snack. It certainly had the most character out of all T’eas Velvet, probably the best food available for less than a kidney too―fun fact, selling organs to be able to afford a table at a high end upper-district fae restaurant in the hopes of schmoozing and impressing was quite common among delusional aspiring social climbers. The bowels of the city also certainly had the most to do in terms of nightlife and… other forms of entertainment―Devil’s Triangle may have been unique in Central Velvet, but in the lower districts it was a dime a dozen.

But none of that shit meant anything if one were to get caught in the between two feuding demon factions. Or in the middle of the on and off war between Velvet’s cohort and whichever demon clans were stirring up trouble for their age-old enemy from one day to the next. See, up top was run like one big organized crime conglomerate. There was Velvet, its subordinate families, and its array of too-big-to-fail corporations all locked in a cold-war for control. The lower districts, on the other hand, were more like a collection of rival city-states who at times hated one another as much as they hated their common enemy. Demons were an unpredictable lot; the thing was, they were far more human than any fae ever could be. That’s what made them so dangerous. Velvet, they were as homogeneous as they were monolithic. One could count on them to fuck anyone over just as sure as one could count on the tapwater in Central Velvet to taste like rusty pipe.

Demons, though―a demon was just as likely to be your best friend as they were to hate your guts. Depending on where their loyalties lay, any given demon could be an enemy combatant fighting in what amounted to a literal hostile military force, a dangerous extremist with eyes set on making life for fae and their allies―willing or otherwise—as unlivable as possible, or just be a person trying to carve out a life at the bottom of a fucked up world. They were messy, and they were relatable, and they were deadly. As much as Riley hated fae, some of the more violent demon factions downright terrified her. And, while any hypothetical war raged against the fae by any hypothetical person was completely justified as far as Riley were concerned, when demons did their dirty work in the central district, innocents wound up caught in the crossfire far too often. That didn’t make her job simple, however. It wasn’t as though Riley enjoyed killing, but she knew well what kind of people she got sent after. The kind that, if left unchecked, would do plenty of senseless killing on their own.

Riley was no humanitarian, but she hardly wanted to see people die for no damn reason. Not that she was hunting out of the kindness of her heart. The fae had her quite literally by the balls, the same way they did everyone else. And if whoever made those kinds of decisions decided someone was a good candidate to become a hunter, negotiation was hardly an option. Pull the right strings with the right amount of leverage and it was pretty easy to ensure any given person couldn’t find work anywhere else. Lucky for Riley, being a huntress at least meant she could live comfortably. She was uniquely useful in that expendable kind of way.

The sounds of the city grew distant as Riley approached the entrance to Devil’s Triangle. It was away from highways and glittery shops, lurking in an alleyway lit only by flickering signs. Nothing about its exterior appeared the least bit safe, but in truth, they made sure their clientele could come and go in one piece. If they didn’t, none would be alive to show up. She pushed through the front door and did her best to ignore the smell of stale sweat. In the back, past customers dimly lit by deep blue lights reflected off of glistening bodies, was the bar. And behind the bar was the sort of woman who would just as soon fuck a client as she would toss an empty bottle at their head. Riley would know, she’d been on the receiving end of both. She also happened to be the sort of person who knew people. More specifically, she knew the sort of people who could take Riley where she needed to go. Without a word, Riley slid up to the bar, then waited.

“Just what the fuck are you doing here?” Riley followed the sound with her eyes, but otherwise remained still and aloof. Lingering on the edge of her vision was the bartender. Riley’s ex. She wore a dark blazer over a deep crimson button-up; the sleeves of both had been choppily removed, revealing bare, toned arms that served as a veritable canvas for half the tattoo artists in Central Velvet. Her ink swam with nanites in all manner of patterns that glowed an angry red to match her burning irises. Every sort of piercing, from her brow, to her nose, to her lips decorated her face. Dark lips scowled through a lit cigarette smudged by black lipstick. A crop of choppy hair hung an inch or two above her shoulders, dyed a pale, silvery blue with dark, charred tips.

Riley leaned back crossing her arms. “Nice to see you too, Cassiopeia. Like the haircut.” Wordlessly, Riley drew a handful of bills and slid them onto the counter, then reached over the bar to grab a bottle of whatever the hell she could find. She wasted no time taking a pull.

“Don’t fucking call me that.” Aiya leaned forward, placing both hands on the bar and glaring at Riley, her nostrils flaring and lips curling into a snarl. “What do you want?” she growled. Admittedly, it was kind of hot. Riley wouldn’t be caught dead admitting that, though.

“Warm as ever, I see.” For some reason, Riley felt like pushing her luck. Maybe it was how badly she’d need it. There was no sense going after sex with claws if she couldn’t handle Aiya.

“Not asking again, Riley.” She flicked her gaze around the room, almost certainly signaling something to her veritable army of beefy-ass bouncers. Over the briefest of moments, Riley ruminated on whether or not she wanted to call the bluff, then decided against it.

“Got a job. Need a ride down to Byzantium. I’ll pay well. The sooner I find that, the sooner I’m gone,” she replied cooly, making sure to hang on to the lingering threat of ‘Don’t fucking test me with those bouncers of yours.’ Aiya stared her down, wordlessly testing that threat, engaging Riley in a silent ‘dick that neither of us asked for to begin with waving contest.’ Riley didn’t blink.

“Fine.” Aiya conceded. “Be around back in an hour. I’ll have someone there.” She briskly turned, and stormed into the back, no doubt to make some call or other. Satisfied, Riley leaned forward onto the bar, and let her bottle of what turned out to be shitty whiskey keep her company. She savored the moment of relaxation, fighting to drown out the blaring music and flashing lights. In all likelihood she wouldn’t find another moment of true respite until her work was done.