Devils Advocate 01

Preface

Devil's Advocate

is a serial story adapted from an as-yet unrealized idea, with further inspiration from

Demon Queened

by

Princess Kay

. It is a satirical fantasy adventure that in addition to the given tags here, will include demonic and harem themes. While the initial release is structured around a futanari protagonist, an all-female version may also be published at a later date.

Warning:

The proceeding text was written under the influence of a Yorkshire accent. Dialectic flairs have been normalized for general accessibility. WINTUH IS COOMIN'.

Chapter 1: Truck-kun's Return

How would you spend your last day on Earth?

Heavy question, I know. The kind, Mum would tell me, I should be asking an auditorium from behind a lectern, or in the pages of a prestige journal. Why dump all that money into a baccalaureate just to mull existentially behind the wheel of a pizza cab? Although right now I'm not thinking anything but the much more practical quandary of how not to dent the fender, gliding the car to a gentle stop, ever-so-lightly bumping the kerb before pulling the handbrake and shutting down. A parting glance to the dash clock shows 10:48 PM. I sigh, rubbing my eyes; you're not

supposed

to do that but they're sore and no-one's around to stop me. I'm technically still on for another ten minutes but I'm craving sleep and it'll be another fifteen to get home--by bike, not car. Grabbing the insulated carry-bags I roll myself outside and lock up, then make my way through the back door and to the kitchen.

Kamil gives me a nod from where he's cleaning one of the ovens. "Back," I call, hoisting the bags onto the Used stack before searching out Ashoka. I don't see any orders for dispatch and this soon to closing I doubt we'd take any new calls, no matter how badly some entitled blighters will rules-lawyer our own working hours. I get it:

I

like pizza, and I like

our

pizza, but if you've left your kip this late, it's really a you problem (

and

you're gonna wreck your sleep). Approaching the front counter I see our manager with an open binder and no trace of Davis--judging by the state of the kitchen it's quiet enough he might've clocked off early. Ash looks up as I jangle the keys, flashing a wan grin. Two cars isn't much of a fleet, but when even the national chains have succumbed to delivery apps, it's a miracle we run our own (and "danger pay" for especially hectic runs is certainly worth it for me). "You got any more? I didn't see the other car."

"Nah, Tess took the last delivery..." he checks his watch, "Ten minutes ago? That's our last for the night; we started shut-down at quarter-to. Go ahead and sign out, we've got closing covered."

"Cheers, Ash." I pass him the key while he pulls out the timesheet. As shitty minimum-wage jobs go, Topsy's Pizzeria is a rare oasis of minimal shittiness. The founding mum-and-dad had sold it decades before I was born, but subsequent owners have kept their community ethos: most ingredients are locally sourced, shifts accommodate us instead of the other way 'round, and management as a whole tries to make you feel part of a team beyond the pep talks and holiday cards. Case in point, when traffic's low management lets us leave up to a half-hour early but rounds up for payment. You may not make much of a career out of it, but it doesn't send you home secretly wanting to torch the place.

Though I still want to get home. Signing out my shift I make for the closet with my kit, Kamil exchanging a nod as I pass. Being a driver I don't need a uniform, but I bring my backpack just in case--another perk is free helpings to the day's excess, so it's worth keeping a doggy-bag on hand. Shouldering the reflective vest I sling on the pack and fetch my helmet, departing whence I arrived. "Night, Eddie," Ash calls.

"Night, all."

One good thing about cycling this late is the roads are mostly empty. I've got the red blinker in the back and the so-called headlight, which isn't really for

you

but to signal oncoming cars so you can argue no fault in the police report, but compared to the sort of berks I dodge in daytime, the trip home is a pretty meditative commute. It's a little chilly and I almost regret short sleeves, but at least it'll keep me alert. I add some extra oomph approaching the hill--it's a tad steep for a short rise, the litmus test for who's meeting their daily recommended exercise and who must confess their ignominy with the Dismount-and-Walk. Luckily I still number among His Majesty's Own. A few blocks later and I turn down the side roads to my flat.

As I near the bend ahead, a pair of high-beams bursts to life, nearly startling me into a tumble. The engine stutters to life, and in a split second the remains of the day forecast a sudden and

very

bad turn: diesel engine, commercial van, probably a small lorry. Only one such vehicle would be waiting to ambush me.

Truck-kun.

Three years since our last scrum--I thought I'd given the slip when I left Cambridge,

finally

stopped living over my shoulder about a year ago. Somehow, Truck-kun's tracked me down. With the sudden gift of skill bestowed by a fight for survival, I pop a front wheelie and spin the bike a full 180, lurching forward as the madly-spinning back wheel touches down. The engine's already revving in pursuit;

here we go again...

So resumes the cat-and-mouse game of my student days, when much like a soldier on the front line, the mind-numbing drawl of Professor Lacombe's lectures formed the long stretches between the heart-stopping action film of my off-campus commute. Don't ask me why a lorry decided I would make a paragon hood ornament: I'm a university grad who shuttles pizzas for a living; clearly the world's greatest mysteries elude my comprehension. At least the constant threat of death shaped me into a half-decent cyclist: taking turns at daredevil banks and weaving through back alleys and navigational hazards, I'm able to stay ahead of my vehicular stalker in a demented level of Pac-Man where I'm the ghost and every pellet's a revenge buff.

Now I wish it

was

daytime, as the clear roads let this maniac bee-line my arse. I dart across lawns and bounce between parking zones, doing my best to confound my pursuer as I search desperately for a place to disappear. It feels like an eternity but I finally squeeze into a narrow gap between two townhouses before the headlights sweep behind. Doing my best to measure my breathing, I listen to the puttering rattle as the boxy hunter creeps down the street. Giving myself a full minute after Truck-kun passes, I peek out of my crevice, watching the tail's red glow slink around the corner two blocks down and out of sight. Legs burning and arms aching from my white-knuckled grip on the handlebars, I set off in the opposite direction. The detours and distractions have drawn me deliriously off-course, but keep to the alleys and avoid the main streets and I should be home free. I just hope my address isn't already saved to the satnav or I just wasted a hell of a night. Rallying my strength, I pick up through the T-junctio--

HOOOOONK!

The fucking wazzock blows the stop sign! Look, I'm all for electric cars, but the bloody things run almost silent--what good's keeping a target on my back if this vest can't even do its

one bleeding job?

I barely avoid colliding but I still lose control, thankfully braking enough that the fall doesn't skin me. The driver's friends are shouting at him while he shouts some buck-pass at me but I don't stop to retort; I think I got his plate and there'll be time enough for a proper complaint when I'm not being hunted by a deranged lorry. Quick as I can I resume course, but I already hear the diesel growl homing in.

One

flippin'

horn and it's like the last hour never happened... Within minutes the bastard's up my arse again, and the sting in my chest warns I'm running out of time to shake it off. I narrowly dodge a rear-end cutting across a sidewalk between the lamppost, buying me another block and a half planning time.

And then I remember. It was a brief glance during one delivery drive, and I'm not sure I'm picturing it right, but it may just save my skin.

Through more snickets and acrobatic weaves where twice I only make it by centimetres, I draw the pursuit to a residential block just off of downtown. A too-sharp bank nearly sends me skidding as I evade Truck-kun's grille darting down a narrow connecting street, the tyres' satisfying screech confirming I've nabbed myself the prep time. Doubling back along the side road, I head for the terrace: I'm gonna need all the speed I can muster to pull this off, and that means getting the high ground. There's an undeveloped spot of green on a bend between the upper and lower houses--a lorry at full tilt will clear the incline, but if I hit it on an angle I should make the top before Truck-kun locks on. Luckily my nemesis only comes back into view as I'm pedalling the final third, badly winded, but still keeping forward. I steal a quick glance down the hill as I make to enter the new street rightward; my final sight before the house obscures the scene is Truck-kun flashing a right turn.

Gotcha.

I squeeze the brakes, heaving for air, fighting off the urge to collapse as I walk the bike around to the other lane. My heart's thundering, my mouth is dry and my throat's starting to itch, but I can take a moment to rally--God knows I'll need it. Continuing as I was would mean an ambush up the street, I know that... but Truck-kun doesn't

know

I know, which gives me the advantage! What I

don't

know is if I can time this out right... Either I'm about to pull off the ballsiest manoeuvre in my

very

short stunt biking career, or end up as the cover to a new edition of

Driven to Death

.

Ignoring my body's lament, I push off, now at a leisurely pace up a side road, alert for the demonic diesel burr echoing to my right. As I veer out of a T-junction I see the beams maybe 200 metres away, and a smile cracks my face.

I can do this.

The engine revs and I kick into gear, turning left and then left again, making for the hill. Truck-kun closes fast but I'm already cresting, switching to the lowest gear and pedalling with everything I've got. It's not a steep slope but it's long, and soon the chain goes slack as momentum takes over, but my legs keep spinning. Light streams ahead of me as my nemesis closes in, but--

yes!

I can see it ahead, the far lot just to the left at the bottom where a street joins the road before it veers off right.

Fast enough that I can prepare but slow enough to signal intent, I veer into the oncoming lane, as far right as I can before falling off the road completely. The illumination before shifts to match; Truck-kun's gonna follow. The grille's so close I can practically

feel

the engine's heat, reminding me that if this cocks up I'm toast, but I've never been happier to have a tailgater. I duck down tight to make as lean a profile as I can; my head tingles with that giddy lightness that seizes you in a moment of do-or-die bravado. My eyes are tearing up from the wind but I don't dare blink; the wanker's almost grinding my tyre but I just need a couple seconds more...

I veer left.

Truck-kun

has

to brake to make the turn, which buys me just enough time to clear the distance. The connecting street is more houses, but one lot down has been demolished and holding supplies for renovations next door. Most relevant to me, someone's stacked wooden boards up against the back fence, making a perfect ramp to the realm beyond. Clipping the intersection, I pitch sharply right into the lot, hitting the ramp at full tilt and launching into the air. But has tunnel vision taken hold, or did I play the bargain-bin Evel Knievel for naught..? I hear a sharp squeal of tyres skidding over pavement... then over dirt...

Then the vindicating

crack

as a two-tonne lorry smashes through the fence.

See, like Ausable's balcony, there's one important detail I withheld. Looking down the hill from whence we descended, the neighbourhood seems to follow a standard pattern of two-storey brick dwellings. Only, the houses further afield are

three

storeys; the near row conceals another terrace. In an instant, my clearance has grown from about three metres to

seven

. And Truck-kun?

Ooh,

my poor sweet Truck-kun! The fence blocks off a sheer drop where they dug up the slope in preparation for a development project that fell through when the contractor turned out to be sourcing cheap steel from China instead of a preferred trade partner--never mind bribing city councillors, or that the foreman turned out to be a middling mug in organized crime: no, it's keeping costs

down

that Ol' Blighty can't abide! --Right, this ledge. With enough forward momentum, you might break your axles but will keep all four to the ground; brake early enough and you'll scrape your undercarriage, but at least you can be towed back. But brake

juuust

late enough to tip over..?

The crack is quickly followed by the crunch of metal and shattering of... whatever modern windscreens are actually made of as the vengeful vehicle takes the plunge cab-first. I feel weightless, and not just from the g-force: after

all

these years, all the panic attacks induced watching mysteries involving warehouses, all the girlfriends forfeited because "homicidal lorry" isn't a valid reason to cancel a date--I'm finally,

finally

free! A follow-up crunch suggests a complete, body-totalling flip. My throat feels like sandpaper but I can still shout in my head:

FUCK YOU, TRUCK-KUUUN--!

My face drops faster than the price of Bitcoin as my focus returns forward. The leap was a gamble, but I thought I'd mapped a workable landing: immediately past this derelict lot, a back alley bends into the main street, which runs beside a public park. I'd touch down hard and fast, but with enough runway to manage a controlled stop. The layout I'd remembered correctly; but the night's lulled me into complacency on traffic. A car emerges from the left, timing just right that the driver rubbernecks to the unfolding crash,

fortuitously

stopping right in my vector. I don't even have time to brake before my front wheel connects and I'm catapulted arse over tit.

But at least I cleared the road, right? I said there's a park, and better to land on grass than surrender a pound of flesh to Shylock Street, right? Well, I must've made that jump at twice the speed limit because I pass over the nice flat lawn and into the drop-off with all the trees and rocks and poky bits they pull out of you in emergency. (As you may be gathering, this city likes its terraces.) With the little air time I have left, I do my best to brace, praying if I don't snap my neck the helmet will take the worst of a head-on. (If you take nothing else from my story, at least remember to wear yours!) Eyes screwed shut, I'm jolted, bumped and jostled as I roll down the hill, twigs snapping and scratching and pummelling all over, flying off

another

ledge and...

...stop.

I'm still in the air, or at least I can't feel the ground, but there's a strange weightlessness, and no brush of wind to tell which way I'm moving. Right as I'm opening my eyes a

pressure

envelops me, indescribable, like being squeezed and stretched at the same time. I think I cry out--I can't hear anything, can't even

breathe

--and then my whole body

erupts

in sensitivity, like those toy pinboards that make impressions of your hand, but in reverse,

all

across my skin. The pressure eases, only to concentrate in my extremities: my face feels both numb and tingly, as though a dentist is freezing my mouth but it's wearing off instantly, plus a dull ache, like someone's grabbed it and pulling forward. Something's jamming hard on my toes, and there's a

really

weird feeling against my ears, as if the helmet's melting down the sides of my skull. At the same time, there's a

shifting

in my pants, like a hand dragging up my gut, leaving a startling tickle right between my legs. Just as I think whatever's squashing my feet will break the bones, the pressure ceases and I sigh in relief as my toes relax, only to feel the most bizarre sensation of all, like a narrow, third arm sliding down my right trouser leg.

What the hell happened? I've had some scrapes as a kid, taken tumbles hard enough to wind, but

nothing

felt like this. Is it a near-death experience? Shit, am I

actually

dead?! If this is what it feels like to shuffle off the mortal coil, no-one has a chuffing

clue

...

And then, as abruptly and unceremoniously as it came on, this weightless limbo disperses and I feel myself sprawled on solid ground. So, the good news is I'm still alive; but I'm lying face-down in what feels like the same clothes, so nobody's taken me to hospital. All the aches and pains from my Tour de France audition combine with the weird feelings from whatever I just went through, leaving me right discombobulated. Everything feels

off

: shirt's too tight, toes feel bare yet my shoes are still on, and my breath is flowing completely wrong, straight forward and back--oh God, did I break my nose? I don't

feel

any blood...

"Owww! Fucking hell!" I groan, struggling to pick myself up with arms that want to do anything

but

work. My tongue feels too long and slaps against my teeth oddly, in some aftereffect of that liminal experience. That third arm is still pressing snug against my leg, and my head is starting to swim as I'm

bombarded

by smells, like I'm in a florist shop except for landscapers, dirt and leaves and grass filling my nose with the strength of a perfume squirt straight in the face. I'm dimly aware of a gasp nearby, so I must've only just landed. That's... good? Any major damage will still have time to treat. I finally open my eyes; it's brighter than I thought it would be, so I must be near a lamp--also good, it'll make surface injuries easier to spot. Though there's a big red

thing

in the middle of my vision so either my nose is swollen something nasty or I may be concussed and hallucinating.

And then I register who gasped. It's... honestly I'm stupefied. My first thought is a fursuiter from the renfair, but fursuits are big and cartoony: this face is human-sized, and naturally expressive unlike any mascot I've seen. A lynx, light brown fur, darker stripes on the forehead, white down the throat, with fluffy cheeks and wide, brassy eyes, hands held close to their mouth. They're dressed in a formless brown smock, kneeling towards me, candles and trinkets scattered around them as if in the midst of prayer or meditation.

"What--" I start, looking down to get my immediate bearings. And then I notice the chalk drawing arcing around my landing zone. The lines tracing in from the edge of the circle. My heart skips a beat; I don't know what sound I make but I'm skittering backwards and out of the pentagram in an instant.

Which brings my gaze to my feet. My very long, black feet, that have burst through my shoes and are now sporting dog-toes. A wave of vertigo washes over me as terrible understanding takes hold. The heightened sensitivity all across my skin. The arm against my leg. The scented candle crammed up my nostrils. The blob between my eyes, which I now see is tipped in black. A trembling hand reaches up perpendicular to my face; I

feel

it grab my nose, now stretching out long and wide above a mouth that shouldn't feel perfectly balanced given it's the same length as this

muzzle

.