Lowest Level of Hell; The Hive
Deep within the bowels of the Hive, Hell's facility to house the hordes of nameless demonic warriors, the demon awoke to the usual buzz of the alarm that signaled the Horde's morning meal time. He sat up in his cot, in a room full of other demons, and cracked his neck. Another day. It seemed that no matter how hard he prayed to the Deity the night before, he always awoke the next day. Sighing, he stood up and straightened the thin cotton blanket on his cot into some semblance of order, and donned the same gray shirt and black pants he wore every day. He reached beneath the mattress and tucked the little book that held both Shakespeare's Hamlet and Romeo and Juliet into his pocket, and made his way down the bland, gray hallways of the Hive into the meal hall. Everything in the Hive was gray. Or black.
Looking around, he noticed the same groups of demons seated with one another as there always were, snickering, pulling pranks on one another, some were brawling in the corner. There was supposed to be a group of upper level demons, the Watchers, who policed them, but they were seldom at their post. The Watchers preferred to occupy their time torturing human victims in their personal quarters.
None of the demons in the Hive had names. There were numbers, however, stitched onto their shirts and pants, which always reeked of either their own refuse or the refuse of the dead demon who had worn those clothes before him. The demon entering the hall was number 6850. His clothes did not smell of refuse, because every night, while all the others were sleeping, he washed his in the basins of the lavatories. He did not want to reek. His dark gray skin was also somewhat clean, which was more than could be said of the others, who rarely took the time to wash— Who will see us, anyway? They asked. 6850 took the time, though, because he enjoyed being clean. No one needed to see him in order for him to feel clean.
Making his way across the meal hall to the end of the line for food, he heard the cackling laughter that usually accompanied his presence in any populated area. "What the fucking hell does he think he is? Some Lord, or something? I mean fuck, man, get a grip." The demon who had called out stood up behind him with the swagger of a bully that had never been in an actual fight. This was clearly a demon that had never been to battle. 6850 had.
"Hey! Hey, you! How come you're all the time washing everything, huh? Who the fuck do you think is gonna come check? And, what's that shit you're always reading, huh? You think you're better than all of us just 'cause your mommy taught you to read? Well, guess what, sucker? Your mommy's dead, just like all of our mommies, so get a clue, motherfucker!" The demon snorted and glanced back at his friends to make sure they were watching. 6850 said nothing; he simply continued on in the line for his food.
The demon, unsatisfied with 6850's reaction—or lack of one—to his taunting, walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. 6850 turned his head to look at the demon, whose shirt read "3200," and said, "Please release me. I haven't done anything to you."
3200 laughed. "'Please release me,'" he mocked, loud enough for his friends at the table to hear. He looked back, once again making sure his friends were watching. "Hear that, guys? I think he's fucking retarded, or something!" He began to speak very slowly to 6850. "Do...you...understand...me...dumbass?"
6850 was getting seriously annoyed with this demon. "I have asked you once, and you didn't pay attention. I am only going to ask you once more. Please release me."
"And, what's gonna happen if I don't?" 3200 asked, grinning.
6850 decided that this demon was beyond reasoning with and proceeded to take 3200's throat in his massive hand and squeeze until he was sure he was about to hear a crack. He released the demon, who had a huge hand-shaped bruise on his throat and was coughing uncontrollably as he tried to catch his breath. 3200 scrambled away, near tears. He wasn't permanently damaged, but he probably wouldn't be talking anytime soon. 6850 picked up a tray and made his way to the serving area for his breakfast.
"You there! Last in line! Let me see your number!" A voice echoed from the doors of the dining hall. 6850 froze. Surely the Watchers hadn't decided to punish him for what he'd done? He'd seen demons do much, much worse many times before without so much as a harsh word. What could they possibly want of him? 6850 placed his tray back onto the stack and turned around. There were three of them—slender, fiery red-skinned Watchers, dressed in black suits—waiting on him. They motioned him over to where they stood.
As he approached them, the one in the front said, "We received word from the Seer that you"—he checked his paper—"number 6850, have been mated to a human woman and will be sent to the earthly plane to claim her. Congratulations. Come with us."
They turned and walked out the doors, obviously expecting him to follow. 6850's blood rushed in his ears as he absorbed what they had said. Mated? To a human? There must be some mistake. That simply did not happen. Members of the Horde did not mate. They bred, with the female members kept on the other side of the Hive, twice a year. 6850 felt his skin tingling with shock. He rushed to catch up to the Watchers as they made their way through the Hive, toward the main floor and out the doors.
As they exited, the smell of sulfur hit 6850 hard, and he looked around at the lowest level of Hell. It was disgusting. There were cavernous pits of quicksand and sulfur everywhere, dying animals feeding off the rotten carcasses of their predecessors, and flames bursting from the ground in certain spots at random intervals. The thought of leaving to Earth thrilled through him. The Watchers turned to him and said, looking at their paper, "Her name is Emma Walker. You will know her when you see her—you'll feel The Pull. If you spend enough time with her, she should begin to feel it as well. You should mate with her as soon as possible, as she has also been matched with an angel—a Seraph warrior. He will probably want to battle you for her, and you must protect her if you want to mate with her. Good luck." The last sentiment was said without a hint of emotion, but that didn't surprise 6850. Watchers did not care much for the Hordes.
Before he could respond, however, he felt a searing pain throughout his skull. He shut his eyes and clutched his temples. As the pain passed, he opened his eyes to find that he was standing on a concrete surface in the dark, watching a woman walk toward some sort of machine. Emma. He knew it was her with every fiber of his being. 6850 shook with the realization that this was his mate. It had really happened. He had prayed and wished for escape from the Hive for centuries, for some kind of meaning in his life, and he had received it. And, it was around five-foot-two with beautiful brown curls that fell just past her shoulders and bounced with every step she took.
She was curvy, and as she walked, her hips swayed in a mesmerizing rhythm. She was dressed in a black dress that came to her knees and wrapped snugly around her perfectly flared hips, with a little white sweater over her arms. Her breasts were magnificent. She looked nothing like the female demons, who were dumpy gray entities that couldn't be bothered to move from their beds most days, and he loved her for it. Her creamy, slightly tanned skin reminded him of how delicate she was, as a human.
He glanced down at himself and felt ashamed of his haggard appearance. He knew that his short, dark hair wasn't clean. His skin had been recently washed, though, and he didn't smell. He hoped. His Emma deserved better than him. He wasn't even wearing shoes. 6850 looked at her shoes as she reached the machine and opened the door. They were little black heels with bows on the tops. He smiled the first real smile he could ever remember. She was so beautiful.
Emma got inside the machine and it moved forward, away from him. He frowned. She was leaving? He mentally willed himself to her home, and found himself outside a set of buildings, with numbers and letters over the doors. He stood behind a big blue box labeled "DUMPSTER" that smelled terrible and waited for her machine.
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Central Level of Heaven; Seraphim Training Grounds
Ethan was a Seraph, a warrior angel. He was trained to wield a fiery sword and battle the demon hordes and lords for his Deity. He was known for his fierceness in battle, and his integrity in his everyday life. He was training his men for battle when the message came from the Seer.
"Come on, men! I know you've got more in you than that!" he yelled as the warriors-in-training attempted to shoot fiery arrows into their targets. Most were failing miserably. "If you can't hit them while they're still, imagine how hard it will be when you're aiming at live, vicious, attacking demons! They are massive brutes, and they require more than one arrow to incapacitate! Focus!" Ethan shook his head and sighed. At this rate, they would have to simply walk up to the demons and ask the monsters politely to come along with them, seeing as they couldn't do any real damage to the beasts as it was.
