#mumbospirits au

[frozenjokes]

grian does pining the worst that anyone's ever done it

ao3 link - Next

Now, now, what sucker was going to come around to the antique store today, comb meticulously through the keeper’s wares, and land on the beautiful mirror in the dusty shop corner, displayed grandly for all to see.

Perhaps this was an optimistic view; most customers passed Grian’s prison by without a second glance, some admired the intricacy and moved on, and no one had bought him in quite some time, but hey, nothing wrong with being an optimist!

As with most customers, Grian did not recognize the man that walked in during the late afternoon; lots of people only shopped once and never again so it didn’t make a habit of memorizing faces, but.. This one stood out. He was a nicely manicured kind of guy, tall, lanky, and well-dressed to the point that he looked out of place; what a silly thing to be.

Grian liked silly people. She liked silly men. One might go as far as to say she Just Liked Men, but Grian would not be this ‘One’ fellow, because her standards were very high indeed, and she was not fickle enough to be charmed by a pretty face. A clumsy disposition however…

This idiot must have tripped over his untied dress shoes like five times since entering the shop; they were really too big for him it seemed, and why wear dress shoes at all in the first place? Grian was sure he was going to break something, but when the man took an interest in one of the wares, his touch was feather-light, turning the antique in his large, knobby hands with the kind of care someone might afford to a baby bird.

It was meant to be.

Disregard all other times it was meant to be, because this time Grian felt it, the electricity when their eyes met, the tension as the stranger stepped delicately forward toward Grian’s mirror. Maybe he would trip and fall through it, and Grian would catch him, her own curse keeping her from the physical world broken, and this stranger, a little cut up from the glass, would probably say something silly and posh like ‘goodness me!’ and Grian would let the moment draw itself out before easing him to his feet, a clawed hand slipped past his waist before breaking the connection entirely. Would the stranger chase Grian’s touch? Most certainly. Anyone would.

“Isn’t this something,” the man mumbled, and Grian closed its eyes, preening under the stranger’s gaze. It didn’t keep its eyes closed for long, however, not when there was so much to see. The man drew his hand along the intricate edge of the mirror and Grian almost felt it, she did feel it, she could imagine his touch as clearly as if his hand had graced her side, slipping smoothly down her waist. ‘Aren’t you something,’ he’d said. He was going to save her. Free her. Grian would repay him kindly. For now, the passion of his reflection staring back at him would have to do.

The man’s interest was thick enough to taste, and when he scampered off, Grian knew he would return. It was not so thrilled to see a guardian angel— presumably the stranger’s— take his place.

“There are about a hundred not-haunted knickknacks in these places, and every damn time he goes for the one thing that could kill him.” The angel threw back his head, exasperated. “Alright, alright, who’s in there. Open up, let’s see you.”

Grian huffed. He did not have to show himself for the sake of an angel, especially one that looked like it wanted to get in the way. Though, maybe Grian should make clear now that interfering would be unwise. As a part of his curse, he was unable to interact with the physical world; he hardly had any power at all, but this angel didn’t have to know that.

It stepped out of its mirror, wings splayed and tail lashing. The angel did not look impressed.

“A demon, then. Of course.”

Grian bared its teeth in a smile most unkind. “If we’re going to be acquainted, how about an exchange of names?”

“Skizz, guardian angel of the human, Mumbo Jumbo. But we will not be acquainted.”

Grian scoffed. “Are you going to exorcise me? Sure. But first you have to let me out.”

“No.” Skizz snatched Grian up by the scruff of his sweater, then slammed him back through the mirror as Mumbo rounded the corner. “You’re just going to stay put.” Something shimmered over the surface of the glass, then fell like waves over Grian’s entire realm, blinding white-yellow light scorching the walls of his prison, then fading, leaving him in darkness. The first thing she noticed was her view from the glass was limited strictly to the window of the mirror. When she tried to push through the glass, give that angel a piece of her mind, she bounced right off. What!?

“Do you like it?” Mumbo asked, and Grian was so stunned by his own predicament he didn’t even process that Mumbo seemed to be speaking directly to his angel. “Or is it haunted again.”

“I like it,” Skizz said simply. Then he left Mumbo alone, Grian pressing its face to the barrier as Skizz floated out of reach.

…

Being a normal mirror was stupid and annoying, but if Grian had to be a mirror anywhere, he’d want to be one within the walls of Mumbo’s home. Now, Mumbo’s apartment wasn’t anything spectacular, and it was far less interesting than living in the antique store, but this place had Mumbo, and Mumbo was the best human in the whole wide world; heaven, hell, and all other realms included.

Mumbo spent a lot of time staring into the mirror. Grian spent a lot of time staring back. He was really quite handsome with that pointed, angular face, almost gaunt but not alarmingly so. As much as Grian loved having Mumbo here, she was of the opinion he really needed some sun. Sure, being pale is one thing, but looking sickly is quite another. If Grian had some sort of silly fear of ghosts, she might have screamed when she first saw him! Mumbo was just beginning to go grey as well, a look that quite suited him. Grian wished it could tell him. Tell him not to dye his hair. 

It was a little alarming at first when Mumbo started speaking into the mirror.

When Mumbo looked Grian dead in the eyes and said “This is stupid,” Grian all but expected him to smash the mirror right then and there, but then he’d stalked off, looking frustrated. Grian wanted to help him. Run its hands through his hair, just break the mirror, break the mirror, Mumbo, and I can finally know what your hair feels like. It looked soft. Grian wanted to pluck his gray hairs. She liked them, she didn’t want them to go, but at the same time, it just seemed like good fun. Mumbo would not be so frustrated with Grian at his back, preening his scalp.

Mumbo started speaking to Grian more often after that. Little things, every few days.

“This is stupid, but if you pretend it’s not stupid, you might feel better.” Pause. “No, nevermind, this is stupid.”

“I’m going to try this again because it works for other people and I think it can work for me, but— Actually, not today.”

One time, Mumbo sidled up with a blindfold. He looked so happy, so pleased with himself before speaking, “Aha! I’ve bested you, my reflection. My problem was that I could not look you in the eyes, but I— Oh, wait a minute, that’s the whole point of the exercise.. isn’t it.. whatever.” And then he walked away.

“Fuck you!”

“I’m sorry about yesterday.”

“This is still stupid. I should stop saying that. Correction, this is not stupid.”

“I know you won’t believe me, but I love you.” Mumbo scampered away before Grian could say it back.

She wasn’t.. entirely sure what was going on, but she welcomed the conversation! It hoped Mumbo would talk to it more, for longer.

He did.

“Listen, things are just.. complicated. I think you’re a good person. I think you do good things. I just wish you didn’t also make things so— so difficult for me! And everyone else! It doesn’t feel good to be a burden, and that’s what having a panic disorder does, so— so stop!”

“I’m not supposed to be unkind to you. It’s just hard. I don’t like anything about you.”

“My therapist made me come up with a couple things to say to you in session, since I couldn’t do it on my own. I cried. A lot. And I don’t think you deserve to hear them yet.”

“Maybe it’s— I know this is stupid, but you have a nice mustache. People compliment it all the time, so it must be true. You haven’t gotten fired yet, so you’re alright at your job. You.. you’re alright, mate.”

“I’m not supposed to say the things I like about you with conditions, but I don’t want to. Actually, if you’re so insistent on unconditional compliments, then you won’t get any at all!”

“You’re alright. You might even be better than that.”

“I know you’re trying. That means something. I’m trying too.”

Grian had no fucking idea what was going on with this guy, but he was enchanted. Whatever Mumbo wanted to say to him, he would listen. No strings attached. Partially because Grian had no choice, but hey, if he did have a choice he’d be trailing Mumbo all day just to hear him speak.

“You’re alright.”

“You know, you were kind of funny today. You’re not usually funny. It was kind of awesome.”

“Your hair looks nice today.”

“Dude, today fucking sucked, pull it together, seriously, nothing happened and you’re still so—“ Mumbo stormed out, and Grian was disheartened to see him go. But then he came back. “Quick amendment. That wasn’t fair. You have an anxiety disorder. Seriously though, today was awful.”

“I still feel like shit, but I guess that’s not your fault.”

“Whoa, eyes are like.. crazy..” Mumbo was so close to the mirror that Grian had to back away— Listen, it wanted nothing more than to see Mumbo up close and personal, but this was too close and too weird, no thanks. He continued to look at his eyes for a long time.

“Gem said you make a good lesbian from the back, which is funny and must be true since.. well, I don’t want to talk about that. Worst morning of my life. You know. But if I make a good lesbian from the back, I’d say I should take this as a compliment! And hey, we’re still friends!” Mumbo’s face fell suddenly into something deeply grave, “This is a reminder and a threat to never black out again.”

“I do love you. I do. I love you at least as much as I hate you, which probably doesn’t feel very good since you are aware how much I— It doesn’t matter. I can just say it, and leave it out there. No need to add anything. Just say it. I love you.”

Grian let a hand rest against the other side of the mirror. “I love you too.”

Mumbo stared into the mirror for a long time that day. For a minute, Grian thought he’d heard it’s, but no, there was no recognition there, no fear or excitement. Unless..

Grian was quite happy with ‘unless.’

…

“A demon. A literal demon this time, I swear, this guy can see spirits in order to actively avoid them and he’s the worst human I’ve ever had guardianship over in terms of plain bad luck. And it’s— it’s not that I want to discourage him from buying the things he likes to buy, this is Mumbo’s life and he should get to live it without interference just like any other human, but he’s a spirit magnet! Now if you’d told me that before, I wouldn’t have believed it was a thing, but you could convince me now if you’d told me you’d seen another case like this!”

“A demon, huh? Must be a pretty nasty guy.” Impulse didn’t look back from where he was shoveling coal into a massive furnace; hell had frozen over again, and he was part of the crew that got things back into shape. Impulse did, however, spare Skizz a glance when he scoffed, wiping soot from his face as he spoke, “What, am I not supposed to be offended?”

“You’re not offended.”

Impulse shrugged. “I might be,” he said coyly, turning back to his work.

Skizz rolled his eyes. “Any extra shovels down here?”

“No. Can’t have you lingering, you know that. Move along, now.”

“Naahhh, that’s nonsense, no one is here. I’ll use my hands if you don’t point me in the direction of a spade.”

“No can do.” Impulse’s bulky tail swished impatiently, but Skizz did not cave so easily. He sidled up beside Impulse, leaning over to grab a handful of black-red coals before Impulse could yelp, “Skizz! Those are hot!”

Skizz’s scream confirmed that yes, the coals were indeed hot. You win this time, hell.

[frozenjokes]

Cleo meets the others for the first time like "a ghost. annoying but manageable. ugh. a demon too? this job is gonna su - wait-wait what is that. what. what the hell is that?!" and Scar says :3 I'm Mumbo's imaginary friend! and Cleo says "WHY CAN I SEE YOU" and they call Skizz who says "yeah we don't actually know What kind of being 'Scar' is but!!! it'll be ok!!! you just have to manage him and maybe y'know take care of it if he gets too destructive." and Cleo who was hoping to just send this new human a few $20 scratch off wins and Maybe prevent him from getting a twisted ankle or smthn is just glaring Daggers at scar. who is, again!! :3. Grian decides it's easier to try and tempt Cleo into breaking the mirror (so that he can take care of Scar for them) then it would be to convince Mumbo (the man Really likes his mirror) and y'know what! they consider it! but they Do need the job so. Whatever.

- Spirits anon

for you, a snippet of the thing I’m working on (mumbo’s horrible no good day) and also a doodle from class today I probably would have forgotten to post otherwise. You’re right also Mumbo really likes that mirror and cleo really would love to not have another spirit on her plate…. Not that Grian would ACTUALLY leave he’s probably like waaayyyy too attached to Mumbo at this point. Mumbo has been talking to himself in that mirror for like ten years before he knew anyone lived it in with like affirmations and stuff and Grian got very used to being told ‘everything’s going to be fine’ and ‘you are very handsome and people like you’

also the first time cleo sees scar they literally do say ‘what the fuck is that’ (> normal ass guy in a wheelchair going :3)

[frozenjokes]

cub dies

cw: not really that graphic but a little bit dead guy

ao3 link - Prev/Next

Cub was.. dead. Hm.

He laid there for a while in the river basin, mostly because he wasn’t certain he could move. He’d just been killed afterall, it was a fair assumption that dead bodies could not move, and any good dying man would stay put and wait for darkness to take him, but..

It never did. He never closed his eyes. At some point, he realized the phantom agony was just that; in reality, he could not feel anything at all.

Hm.

He sat up. That was an odd experience. It was easy. Cub hadn’t been able to move in any way that easily for the past thirty years; he felt light, floaty. He felt good. He felt afraid.

He drew his knees to his stomach. He saw through them.

“What..” Breathless, blinking hard. He was dead. 

He looked down. Blood colored the water. Too much blood. He’d been murdered. Someone had wanted him to hurt. Cub would have laid back down inside himself if not for the fear of seeing the inside of his skull. Although it was obscured by murky water, he got the sense it wasn’t.. entirely together.

It wasn’t hard to tell. Something was wrong with his own face. Something was wrong with.. a lot of him. He wasn’t wearing clothes. Missing fingers, skin. Not an inch of him had been spared from being flayed open. Cut. Shallow, deep, shallow again. He moaned a hoarse, deep loss. The pain was not physical, but how else could he understand it? He felt violated. He did not want to be this way at all.

And then he wasn’t.

Cub opened his eyes to clothes, a blue button up shirt and trousers, underneath which lived smooth skin. His head was together. He had his glasses, he could see. In a moment of discomfort, he wanted the familiar, he wanted his coat, and then he had it. He wanted more, more layers, more protection over his paper skin, but he was not given any more. He didn’t typically wear much more than this in life. That was that, then.

He breathed. He did not need to. He did it again, anyway. Maybe if he kept at it, his body would get the hint.

Getting out of the ditch was a small struggle. Cub wanted to climb out, he wanted to dig his hands into the soil and feel the mud beneath his fingers, but his hands would only go through the steep walls. It was so stupid— if he could stand in the water, why couldn’t he climb the bank? The second he had the thought, he started sinking into the earth. When he panicked, he popped right back out, somersaulting into an air-suspended circle, panicked again, then fell face first back into the water. And started to sink. This time, panicking only pushed him gently to the surface. Gingerly, tiptoeing, Cub got to his feet. 

He could fly. Probably. The thought made gooseflesh ripple through his arms, an unwelcome sensation after being torn to pieces. He wasn’t.. He just wanted to stay grounded for now.

So he walked along the river.

It was quiet. The water paid him no mind, not swerving around his ankles but going directly through. When it grew deeper, above his thighs, stomach, shoulders, neck, it was like Cub wasn’t even there. It saddened him, almost frustrated him. Was this how it was going to be forever now? Ignored by the world? He grimaced. Before the water lapped completely over his nose, he held his breath.

The sun rose and fell again. Cub was still walking. Waiting to get tired. Waiting for anything to happen. He came across another bank around midnight, exiting the water under the stars. This place had more of a beach, a shallower incline, and despite the dark, Cub was able to shuffle up it. Not like he could trip anymore. Luckily, the moon was full or nearly there, and there was a streetlight somewhere above him, so he was able to find his way up and not walk a straight angle into the ground.

He found a road. He walked down it until he found a street sign he didn’t recognize, but it looked like he was in some kind of inlet, a whole neighborhood tucked away from the busy roads, and once he found his way out, he could figure out his way home.

Two more days passed. He knew this town well, he’d lived here almost all his life, but disorientation made everything harder, and when he came out on a main road not knowing exactly where he was, he got a tad lost.

He wanted to be exhausted by the time he’d made it home. He wasn’t.

Cub did not know how he’d left things, but everything seemed the same. Untouched. Good. That felt good.

He laid in bed. Closed his eyes.

He had no living family. No friends that would think to check up on him. No job. It could be months before anyone figured out he was missing. Cub smiled.

It was not a perfect four months, but it was peaceful. Being dead was not all that fun, it turns out, but Cub hadn’t thought any differently. It was just Nothing most of the time. He didn’t exactly have a problem with that. He’d be antsy if he was alive, but time did not seem to pass in the same ways, flowing right through him, chunks of days and night just.. disappearing. The only reason he knew the date was the digital clock on his bedside; sometimes days passed without his knowing, and he would not have been able to keep track on his own.

He felt no pull to leave this place. It was home. It had everything he needed.

Every night he had clean sheets. A window to look out of. A roof to sit on without fear of falling. In his room he had posters and prints of all kinds of space-things, starscapes and planets and vast unknowns. It was an organized clutter in here, knickknacks and sticky notes and little figurines he collected all piled loosely on every surface. He only wished he could read the untouched books on his bookshelf. He had so much time.

He did not know how the police got into his house. Unless Cub had really been spaced out, they had not broken down the door. Cub watched them comb the area with scrunched noses, a little relieved at having something to do, and more than a little nervous for what this meant for his future. Each officer had an angel. They paid Cub little mind.

So the living world knew Cub was missing. What now?

Somehow, the answer Cub had not been expecting was the complete pillaging of his house. The angels of this ‘clean-up crew’ had afforded him a similar lack of attention, which was distressing in itself, but worse when they suddenly Cared.

“What are you doing?” he’d said to one of the workers, he hadn’t even been hostile, and yet the corresponding angel’s head snapped his way. Cub tried to ignore it. The worker was throwing away his old magazines— it wasn’t like Cub hadn’t been meaning to do that for years, but he’d been the one who was supposed to take that step. “Stop. Those are mine. You can’t— Those are some good magazines, you can’t just throw them away.”

Both angels were watching Cub now. He tried not to let his discomfort show.

“I understand the kitchen.. most everything in the fridge is rotten, and I probably wouldn’t have left that orange on the counter if I knew I was going to be dead.. I don’t like the ants either. At least the maggots are gone. Mostly. But this.. this is my stuff.”

The worker didn’t hear him. Of course not, it was obvious maybe, but Cub didn’t— he didn’t know what else to do.

“Do old people throw fucking anything away?” The man Cub had been trailing groaned upon opening the drawer of his TV cabinet, CDs and wires and various other bits of junk falling out of it. “I swear, every single one of these people are hoarders.”

“Do you ever stop asking the same questions?”

The other worker mumbled from the kitchen. “Same answer to both. No.” 

Cub bristled. He struggled to calm himself when he felt the angels’ eyes on his back. This wasn’t— couldn’t they see that this wasn’t fair!?

The process of systematically erasing all evidence of Cub’s existence took days, and that was only the first floor. The living would not see reason. They would not stop. Could not see why what they were doing was so wrong. Desperation brought him to the angels.

“Tell them to stop. You have to know this isn’t— This is my life. This is my house! My— Don’t let them touch my room. Please let me keep my room.”

Both the angels were taller than him, looming impossibly large. Their faces were cold, ruthless, like they’d manually removed the parts of themselves that could feel. Cub’s breath left him shakily. He hoped they saw. Hoped they understood he was still breathing.

“Do you think he’ll be dangerous?” one mumbled, sounding bored.

“He’s marked,” said the other. “But no signs of violence.”

“Yet.”

Cub fled. He fled to his room, sunk low enough into his mattress that if he closed his eyes, he might feel the weight of his blankets, the pressure of his pillows over his eyes. This couldn’t be happening. He just— he just wanted his room.

The rest of the day, Cub sat in his bed and tried to memorize it. You’d think it wouldn’t be hard, not after forty years of life in this place, but it was the little things, the chips in the paint, the exact curve of the ceiling fan blades, the order in which he stacked the extra books on his shelf. If he could remember it all, he could put everything back. Somehow, he would get everything back. If they managed to take it down at all.

It was the next morning when Cub heard footsteps up the spiral staircase, he heard them and he was ready, standing in the doorway of his bedroom, conviction wisping off his form.

This was not their place to take. This was not their home. 

“Go back,” he called, he made sure he did not mumble, he made sure that he was loud, that he could not be misunderstood. “Go back.” The living would not hear him, but they would know when goosebumps rippled across their arms, when that fickle unease settled in their stomachs. Cub knew they would know, just like he knew that he could hurt them. “Go back.”

He saw the first worker hesitate when he made it up the stairs, long enough for the second to catch up, and the angels to follow them.

The angels were grave. Cub didn’t care. He’d hurt them too. He was already going to hell.

The living did not turn back. Cub lunged, but he did not make it halfway across the hall before an angel had him by the throat, squeezing, and then he was gone.

Well.

Cub was still.. in existence. But the rest of the world seemed to have been vacuumed away, replaced by void, a walled void, one he slammed into as he fell forward. It did not hurt. He was dead. But it felt like it should have. He was too stunned to scream.

The ability to touch something, to feel it wholly, was a sensation Cub dearly missed, but now it filled him with dread. His hands felt too heavy on the cool floor. When he reached out, his arms could not even fully extend before his fingers touched the opposite walls. When he tried to stand, he hit his head.

Whatever sound left his throat was gurgled and broken. Inhuman, but human once.

This couldn’t be. Things like this— these things weren’t supposed to happen to him anymore.

…

He didn’t know what that meant. The thought. But he felt it so strongly, it must be true.

…

When the world rematerialized around Cub, everything was gone. He was hunched next to the banister over the first floor of his home, but he did not need to see the rest to know. No more pictures on the wall. No more accent rugs over the cold hardwood floors. 

It was a small relief that his bed was still there. New sheets, new blankets, but his bed. His bedside table. His dresser. His desk. The rest was gutted. Not even a hanger in the closet. Not even a smudge on the branching bathroom’s mirror. Cub had no idea how much time had passed. His clock was gone.

At least for a while it was quiet. Not for long enough.

Suddenly, the house was full of noise. Dozens of realtors hosting showings for moms, young couples, single men, entire families; there were so many people in Cub’s house all day. He tried to hide, but every inch of his place was being combed for imperfections, undesirables that customers would speak loudly and brashly of, things that didn’t matter, they were being— They had no right to be so mean! This wasn’t even their house, and it never would be!

Cub feared the angels. He just wanted to be out of the way. Every night he prayed to a god he hadn’t previously believed in that it would just end.

He was hiding in his room at the start of the next day when the first showing began. Just one man by the sound of it, someone Cub could easily avoid if he listened carefully, phasing through the floor at the right time. 

And then the angel was in his doorway.

Cub stared for a moment, but he did not get the chance to process before the angel groaned, hands sliding across his face in a show of emotion so novel, Cub almost didn’t question why he was so far away from his paired human. 

“Do you know how many houses this man has looked at. And how many of them are haunted!? Too many!” The angel whisper-shouted, which was shocking enough in itself; Cub had never been addressed this directly before.

The angel looked ready to continue ranting, but he stopped suddenly, staring as if he was seeing Cub for the first time, his brow pinching in concern.

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

Cub felt his own expression grow strained, red anxiety swelling under his skin. He didn’t know what or why, but he didn’t want to be here, he didn’t want this angel to look at him like that any longer.

“Leave,” Cub tried, but his voice left him weakly, “Take your human and just— just get out of here.”

“We’ll be out of your hair soon,” the angel spoke softly, sympathetically, but Cub only saw threat in his step forward.

“Don’t. Stop. Don’t come any closer.”

The angel frowned. He stepped more cautiously. 

“I’ll hurt him!” Cub didn’t even know what he was saying, just that he needed his room, his space, or maybe he needed to run, get out of here, he just needed— “I’m dangerous! I’ll—“ 

The angel lunged, and Cub was not fast enough.

Back in the void, he screamed.

Not as much time passed before he was out, all humans and angels absent. The sun was going down. Had it even been more than a day? Cub held his own arms in a loose hug, and cried.

He was not ready when a week or so later, the angel returned.

“I’m sorry.”

And then, before Cub could even react, he was gone once more. Released with the setting sun. Cub didn’t know what to do. What could he do against an angel— was his human interested in buying the house? What happened to Cub then!?

Another week passed. Then another. Things seemed to be calming down. Maybe the house had been sold.

When Cub heard a key slide into the lock some days later, the hair on the back of his neck rose. He hid. Just in case. Surely he would not be so unlucky to share a space with an angel that was going to  hunt him.

Cub pushed himself against the wall of his bedroom closet. It would not hold him if he exerted too much pressure, but he tried to pretend. He just needed to know. He was struggling to remember what human the angel had been paired with; Cub had never seen them. A man? A woman? A couple? He did not know. Right now, it seemed like only one man was in the house.

“Shit..” 

Cub froze. 

That was him. His voice. Clearly the angel knew where to look, too, and even if it wasn’t true that the angel’s human was moving in permanently, Cub wasn’t sure if he could take the chance to do nothing. He could leave. Give up his house and go somewhere new. But that— no. The world had already taken so much from him. This was his place. His safety. Cub would not allow it to be taken from him, too.

He had to act now. The angel moved silently; this would be the only time Cub could ambush him knowing for certain he was here.

Cub allowed himself only a moment to poke his head through the closet door, teeth itching. By some miracle, the angel was facing the other way. It felt natural to stalk someone this way. 

The angel screamed when Cub’s teeth found the back of his neck, when his claws, once fingers, found his wings. Cub tasted blood and wanted more, he dug in, held on despite the battering of the angel’s wings against Cub’s ears. 

Someone called up from downstairs. Another angel? Cub hoped so.

He did not feel the hand on his ankle before the world was black, and all he was left with was the coppery tang of blood.

…

“I just feel terrible. I don’t— I don’t think I can let him out, Impulse. What if he attacks again? What if he goes after Mumbo?”

“I would advise against it. If it helps, there’s about a 95% chance that’s not a good guy.” Impulse laid back on the warm rocks with his arms folded behind his head; warm, which is to say, fucking hot— Skizz chose to scald only his feet instead, dancing slightly to ease the pain. “You know you don’t have to stay.”

Skizz ignored him. “That’s not even true. It’s more likely he was taken advantage of.”

“Vex don’t go after ‘good’ people.”

“He’s old.”

Impulse snorted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know! Old people can be a little all over the place, they can be vulnerable, you’ve never watched someone grow old, they change, they can get— It’s just not easy, alright? It doesn’t make them bad people. And obviously, if he was disowned, that’s a sign there’s more going on.”

“I won’t argue with you.” Impulse closed his eyes, head back dismissively.

“What’s wrong with you? Why are you being so short with me?”

Impulse opened an eye. The cat-eyed pupil narrowed to a slit, after which he closed it again. “Don’t you have a job to do?”

It was difficult to tell if he was teasing or not, but either way, Skizz was still irked. “Everything’s just fine upstairs. You’re the only problem.”

“Hell’s not a good place for people with holes in their necks, that’s all.”

Skizz crossed his arms, but in tandem with the little flutter in his chest, his smile returned. “Now Dipple-Dop, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were worried about me. Are you concerned you’ve grown a soul? They don’t torture you if you get your soul back, do they?”

“I don’t want to find out,” Impulse relented, shoulders relaxing. “But seriously, your injuries will get infected if you stay down here. Don’t act like you don’t know it, being reckless isn’t cute. So beat it.”

Skizz huffed, but spread his wings regardless, giving a small precursory flap. 

“Just say so, next time. That you’re worried.”

“Too risky. Might grow a soul. Now get—“ “Alright, alright, I’m going!”

[frozenjokes]

Cub does not remember how he died. He thinks he remembers, he’s sure he was murdered, and he is correct, but he does not really know. Mumbo is startled that he’s moved into a neighborhood with an active serial killer, or at the very least, someone who was recently caught. How could he have overlooked this? Well, when he seeks answers he finds nothing, nothing but a smattering of disappearances that stopped a little more than ten years ago.

[frozenjokes]

mumbo's imaginary friend definitely isn't sentient and stuck in an eternal plight of trying not to be forgotten. scar is fine.

CW: as a disclaimer, there is referenced child death in this chapter, but if you've read the prequel to this fic.. he ain't dead. there is zero violence against children depicted directly here.

ao3 link - Prev/Next

Imaginary friends were a normal, natural part of growing up. Plenty of children had them, manifestations ranging from hardly visible to quite convincing apparitions. Skizz had lived many lifetimes alongside human companions, and at least half of them had an imaginary friend of some kind, one only they could see across planes. Truly, as beings, imaginary friends were some of the most fascinating apparitions on the entire plane. 

Humans were not typically a supernaturally sensitive species, even the most superstitious ones. They simply did not have that sixth sense, not consciously, but it was clear they still harnessed potential for major other-planely connections. Any creature could create an imaginary friend, it was not an rare phenomenon, but it was far more common among humans, with human-created apparitions being some of the most vivid Skizz had ever seen. 

But they were just that. Apparitions. Literal figments of a person’s imagination; imaginary friends were not alive. Cool, of course they were very cool, especially that living minds were powerful enough to bring other beings into existence, but they weren’t— They weren’t alive. It was essentially a five year old talking to himself, just manifested spiritually. Humans could not and did not will new life into existence.

Skizz knew Mumbo would be a challenge. He was assigned to him by chance, of course, but it’s hard not to notice when the baby across the room keeps staring at you, when the toddler is always crawling in your direction, pointing at you— the pointing was what really tipped Skizz off that he needed to start staying out of sight. Mumbo’s poor parents were frightened enough as it was.

Humans who were this in tune with other planes weren’t unheard of, but it was rare enough that Skizz had only heard the phenomenon discussed as myth and rumor. There weren’t any classes on this, no guidebooks he could reference. The angels assigned to Mumbo’s parents were equally stumped, but none of the three of them had really considered caring for Mumbo would be that different. Inconvenient, certainly, but Skizz was not the kind of man that shied away from a challenge! 

His mission had not changed. Guard his assigned human from supernatural influence. Keep the other planes out of his business, so that he could live a normal, human life. If Mumbo could see ghosts, this would require a lot more micromanaging, and gods, Skizz didn’t know what the fuck he was going to do when Mumbo went to school and there were angels everywhere, but—

It was fine. He would figure it out.

Mumbo was a cute kid, an only child and naturally curious. Skizz kept his distance as much as he could manage, but at a certain point it was inevitable that Mumbo would recognize and know him, start asking questions. Questions that would probably alarm his parents if Skizz didn’t intervene. Around two and three years old, Skizz made his presence more known, and was grateful that Mumbo wasn’t frightened during the short periods he saw Skizz around. Skizz spoke to him rarely, but when he did, referred to himself as a friend. When Mumbo really started talking, this seemed to ease his parents’ concerns, if only slightly. My friend with the big wings! Just an imaginative kid. Normal.

But Skizz would not be Mumbo’s only ‘friend.’ Children without siblings were more likely to create their own playmates. Mumbo was no exception.

Besides being one of the more vivid human-made apparitions Skizz had ever seen, there wasn’t anything wrong with Scar. It was cute that Mumbo, a shy kid, had manifested someone a little older, someone bold and loud to help him through early life. 

Scar was good for Mumbo. He helped Mumbo express his curiosity, bolstered Mumbo’s confidence, gave Mumbo someone to lean on until he could find his footing with other kids his age. It was a little incredible how Mumbo had managed to create something so opposite in personality to himself, but at the same time, exactly what he needed. 

Though, Scar did have a couple odd quirks. 

Skizz had never been acknowledged by an imaginary friend before; they were here solely for their corresponding human, not anyone else, so Skizz was bewildered when Scar jumped up the first time he spotted him, scampering over and throwing little punches to Skizz’s stomach.

“Intruder!”

Skizz had curled his wings around himself in surprise, not that any of this had really hurt. He remembered thinking this was a strange reaction; surely Scar had all the same world knowledge as Mumbo did.

“Scar, that’s my friend,” Mumbo had said, not all too concerned with the vicious beating Scar was laying down.

“Yes! I’m a friend!” Skizz tried, raising his arms in surrender, but while Scar paused his assault, he did not look convinced.

“Since when do you get two?”

Mumbo blinked. “Is that allowed?”

“I—“ Skizz couldn’t help but stutter, a little concerned at just how much he was interfering here, “Yes, Mumbo, you can have more than one friend. When you go to preschool next year, you’ll have lots of friends.”

“Of course the intruder would say you can have more than one friend.” Oh dear. (Where did Mumbo learn that word—? Surely he had to know it if Scar did?)

Mumbo shrugged, ignoring Scar. “I don’t want to go to school. I like home.”

“Why don’t you ask your mom,” Skizz suggested, slowly backing away. “She’ll tell you that you can have as many friends as you want.”

“Okay,” Mumbo said.

“Ask your dad,” Scar whispered. Skizz retreated.

Scar was also strange in other ways, acting in a way Skizz might consider to be normal on a surface level, but intuition gave him second thoughts.

Imaginary friends were an extension of their source. They could not extend beyond the walls of the thing that created them; which is to say, personalities, interests, and world knowledge typically aligned.

Skizz had not thought anything of Scar’s opposite personality at first; Mumbo had wanted someone confident, someone to lean on, so that’s what was created. But the longer Skizz watched the two of them, the more he noticed they were nothing alike. Scar was never shy, never quiet, always fidgeting and full of energy in ways that surpassed Mumbo by miles. Scar was confrontational, he was 100% self-assured, righteous, and he was all of these things in such a way Mumbo never had been.

Scar knew things, too, he used big words for someone Mumbo’s age, he was frighteningly insightful from time to time, and there were random tidbits about the world Scar just inexplicably understood that Mumbo wouldn’t have even considered.

At first Skizz had wondered if Scar was listening to Mumbo’s parents talk and picking things up from them, but imaginary friends weren’t supposed to care about anything beyond the scope of their person. It was possible, maybe, but Skizz had never seen or heard of an imaginary friend that was actively learning ahead of their host.

After a while though, Skizz got used to it. Scar was just another figure in Mumbo’s life, someone who faded in and out at first, but began to be more consistent as time went on. Even Mumbo’s parents knew about Scar, mostly because Scar was always demanding Mumbo’s attention, whether that be during trips to the grocery store, movies, school— Around age six, Scar was actually becoming a bit of problem in school, mostly because of how large a distraction he was, but when Skizz called him aside to talk, Scar had listened, their relationship similar to the distant guardianship that Skizz shared with Mumbo.

“What is it..?” Scar had been wary at first, but mostly he was anxious as he glanced back at Mumbo from outside of the classroom, who had just been scolded for mildly rambunctious behavior during story time.

Skizz had sat at Scar’s level, voice low. “Listen, bud, I know it can be hard when Mumbo’s at school, especially since he only stayed for half-days in Pre-K, but he’s a big kid now, and people in the living world have different expectations for big kids. When you’re talking to him during class activities, he has trouble focusing on what the teachers are saying, and that’s really hard for him. He doesn’t want to ignore you, but he hates getting in trouble, too.”

Scar flared in defiance, “It’s not his fault! Why are the teachers so strict? Kindergarten isn’t any fun at all, we can hardly play anymore, and Mumbo has to be quiet all the time.”

“I know, Kindergarten is a pretty big change from last year’s school, but that doesn’t mean it’s all bad. Learning is a huge part of growing up, and if Mumbo doesn’t get the space he needs in class, he might fall behind, and we don’t want that.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Scar..”

“It’s not fair! Why do all these other people mean more than me all of a sudden! I’m Mumbo’s best friend, I should be most important! You and all the other grown ups just want to take him away.”

Skizz pushed away discomfort. This was.. a strange and concerning line of thought, but at the same time, Scar was just upset, he was a kid, and it didn’t matter if he was real or alive or anything, clearly he was struggling now.

“Mumbo going to school doesn’t make you any less important to him, Scar. It only means he’ll have a little less time to spend with you directly, and I know that’s still difficult, but it doesn’t mean Mumbo isn’t going to love you anymore. We just have to balance when are appropriate times to play and when we need to listen to the teacher’s instructions. I promise you that Mumbo will really appreciate it if you sit with him quietly while learning is taking place; I’d bet anything he’d enjoy school so much more if he got to learn with you instead of struggling to listen despite you. You’d have even more to talk about if you listened to what the teacher is saying, and the stories she’s telling. You two can still be just as close as you always have been, and when it’s time to play, you and Mumbo can do whatever you like.”

The look on Scar’s little face nearly broke Skizz’s heart, the anger melting away into something sad and fearful. 

“You don’t think he’ll replace me? There’s so many other kids in Kindergarten. What if he doesn’t want to talk to me anymore?”

A thread of unease twisted in Skizz’s gut, but desperately, he fought it down. He’s not real. He’s not sentient. He’s not alive.

“No. He won’t. Humans need lots of friends to be happy, Scar, and it’s totally normal for Mumbo to want to talk to other kids too. He won’t replace you for anyone else. And if you makes you feel better, none of these other kids are going to be coming home with him every day like you are. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

Scar hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay..” Scar gave a tentative glance back into the classroom, where all the students were sitting at their desks, listening to the teacher speak. “Can I go..?”

Skizz gave him a small pat on the back. “Course, buddy. How about you sit with the rest of the class, doesn’t have to be close to Mumbo, but it can. Why don’t you try listening to what the teacher has to say?”

Scar showed his distaste with a grimace, but nodded, wandering back into the classroom to (hopefully) find a seat. Skizz saw Scar catch Mumbo’s eye. They looked at each other for a moment before Mumbo gently turned away. Skizz felt the pain of that in Scar’s heart. 

Poor thing. Scar didn’t get a choice to make other friends. He didn’t get a choice to exist for anyone else.

Scar wasn’t sentient. That wasn’t possible. Humans, even humans like Mumbo, could not will new spirits into existence. 

Skizz still found himself hoping that when Scar inevitably faded away, it would be quick, and he would not have to feel the pain of no longer being needed.

At seven years old, Skizz waited for Scar to phase out of Mumbo’s life. He didn’t, but the two of them were still thick as thieves, and this wasn’t anything unusual. Eight was really when Skizz started expecting things to change, but even as Mumbo forged close relationships with the other kids in his grade, Scar did not fade. He did not even become translucent; it was a very rare thing for any spirit to be fully opaque, but Scar had been this way for as long as Skizz could remember, and he wasn’t showing any signs of blinking out.

Skizz was worried when Mumbo’s ninth birthday came and went, and nothing changed. Well. Things were changing, certainly, because Mumbo was changing. He was less interested in entertaining Scar all day, Skizz could see him trying to pull away, while Scar stuck stubbornly to his side. Mumbo grew frustrated with Scar’s constant demands for his attention, especially when he was with human friends, where Scar, sensing Mumbo’s irritation with him, only clung harder, desperately, too aware that in contrast to Mumbo, who had the entire world at his fingertips, Scar had nothing. Scar had Mumbo. Scar was put into existence to be Mumbo’s. And for some reason, Scar wasn’t fading away.

As much as it terrified Skizz, it broke his fucking heart. What could he even do? 

It put him at ease to hear the two of them laughing from Mumbo’s bedroom. Their relationship was more strained lately, yes, but they were still friends, they still hung out all the time (because Scar wouldn’t leave Mumbo alone), and they still played like kids.

Sometimes Skizz just sat outside Mumbo’s door and listened to them. Sometimes he watched, but Mumbo caught him near instantly every time; the boy had an uncanny ability to tell when he was being watched.

But when Skizz poked his head through the door today, his heart stopped.

“Mumbo, that tickles!”

“You said I could draw anything I want! You just need to hold still.” 

Skizz was already gaping, but when Mumbo locked his arm around Scar’s head to hold him still, marker to Scar’s cheek, Skizz audibly gasped. Both of them stopped.

A moment later, Mumbo shrunk back like he was worried he’d be in trouble, while Scar puffed out his chest, pride shining in his green eyes.

“Guess what I did!”

When Skizz only stared, a blank look of shock etched across his face. Scar deflated, but only slightly.

“I’m not as fun anymore because I’m not real. Now I am.” The intensity of Scar’s gaze was glaring, his tone almost a challenge, as if to say, ‘You aren’t happy for me? I don’t care. You don’t matter, and you can’t stop me.’ Mumbo didn’t seem to pick up on the emotional shift, reacting simply to what Scar had said.

“I never said you weren’t fun, I just—“

“It doesn’t matter!” Scar nearly shouted over Mumbo, voice pitching near-hysterically. “I’m real now, just like all your other friends, and unlike them, we can roughhouse and yell and do other stuff grownups don’t like because I can’t get hurt!” Mumbo sensed the animosity and shrunk away, and Scar’s distress doubled in response. “Aren’t you happy!?”

It took an astronomical amount of energy and power to breach planes of existence. Angels could do it in short bursts, and some demons as well, though typically that was a power reserved for spirits of great strength. Ghosts almost never could unless they existed on borrowed power, and again, their reach across planes was only ever in short durations, or extremely erratic. You didn’t just. Suddenly exist in two planes. You could not ‘become real.’

“Can other humans see you?” Skizz managed, breathless.

“No.” Scar mumbled, but he was irritated now, his angst turning on Skizz in full force. “But it’s only a matter of time. I’m gonna go to school too, I’m going to do everything Mumbo gets to do. What? Is that not allowed?” Scar was snide, while Mumbo shuffled back, frightened by the sudden change. Skizz didn’t blame him. When Scar spoke, it sounded like a threat.

“I— Of course you can.. I’m just shocked, is all, Scar, I’m not upset with you. I’ve never.. seen this before. How.. Are you always solid? Can you choose whether or not you want to interact with the physical world?”

Scar eyes Skizz skeptically, but relaxed a little at the explanation. This was a sensitive subject, clearly, Skizz would have to handle this with more grace in the future. 

“I can do whatever I want.” Scar said simply, plucking a marker off the floor and twirling it in his fingers. In the next instant, it fell through, and he caught it with his other hand.

“Oh.. Good. That’s good.” Skizz was pretty sure that was good. Good at least that Scar wouldn’t accidentally run into people who couldn’t see him. For now. “How.. Do you know how you did this? I’m just trying to understand.”

Scar narrowed his eyes. “I wanted it.”

Skizz pursed his lips, trying not to grimace. “You.. wanted it?”

“Anything I want, I’ll have.”

Oh dear. That was. Yeah, that was not good. This was not good. Given the look of terror on Mumbo’s face, Skizz was pretty sure they were thinking similar things here. He didn’t know what to do, or if he even wanted to leave Mumbo alone with Scar at all, but.. He had to consult the other angels. And even if Skizz wanted to act now, what could he do? Scar wasn’t going to listen to him, not now. Scar could probably evaporate Skizz with the level of power he was using to live in two planes of existence.

But this.. Scar wasn’t going to hurt Mumbo. If Skizz knew anything, he knew this was true, and in the meantime, Skizz could monitor the situation before jumping to any extreme conclusions.

Scar was just a kid. A kid in a considerable amount of building distress for quite some time.. they just needed to figure out how to manage this before it got out of hand. Right. 

Skizz forced himself to relax, for Mumbo more than anyone, taking a breath, and letting a smile come on naturally. “Well I think this is quite an incredible thing. I’m sorry if I put you on the defensive, Scar, I will try to explain to you some other time why this is so extraordinary. For now, I feel like I’ve interrupted. Please, continue, have fun.”

Scar did not take his eyes off him as Skizz ducked out of the doorway, walking back down the hall. Scar was on edge, and would be for a good while, Skizz was sure, but that would just have to be okay. Skizz could only hope that this incident didn’t cause too much strain on Mumbo.

…

Scar didn’t get it, he didn’t like this, and he didn’t believe Friend when he said ‘it was okay!’ and ‘he was just surprised!’ because Friend hadn’t looked at Scar like this was a good thing, he looked at Scar like he was scared, like Scar didn’t deserve this. Like Scar didn’t deserve to be Mumbo’s best friend, Scar was a very good friend, much better than anyone else, especially people who call themself ‘Friend,’ like really, how untrustworthy could you be? That’s like calling yourself Tony or Eddie or some other stupid name, those were not trustworthy names, but when Scar brought this up to Mumbo, Mumbo just got mad.. (it wasn’t Scar’s fault all Mumbo’s friends had bad names)

Scar didn’t understand. He didn’t.. he just wanted to be real. Sorrow gripped his heart as deeply as the desperation, so overwhelming, it might have swallowed him if not for Mumbo’s presence, Mumbo who.. looked afraid.

Scar stared in helpless disbelief. When had Mumbo backed so far away? Mumbo stared back.

“What did I do?” Scar whispered, voice shaking with the effort. What had he done! He was just defending himself, did Mumbo not see how Friend was attacking him?

Mumbo took a long time to answer, too long, until Scar was certain his insides were going to claw their way out of his stomach just to writhe and suffocate on the carpet like beached, bloody fish. 

“I’m.. I don’t like.. I’m just. I don’t want to be your friend anymore.” Mumbo shrunk away, bracing.

That was all it took. Scar sobbed, his tears thick and hot and real. When they fell off his chin, they hit the carpet, absorbed into it, left a mark, Scar’s mark, he was real, and it still wasn’t enough.

“Scar.. it’s not..” Mumbo reached for him, and Scar brushed his hand away, to which Mumbo lunged over him, squeezing him in a tight hug. So this was how that felt. “I want to be your friend, Scar! I just— I can’t— Sometimes it’s too much. Sometimes you say things, and I don’t like being afraid of you. Of what you’ll think.”

“Is this not good? Why doesn’t— Why can’t anyone just be happy for me!?”

“I am happy!” Mumbo insisted, but Scar didn’t think he meant it. Mumbo saw Friend, and he agreed Scar was a problem. He’d thought so for a while, he’d always preferred playing with the boys at school. “I’m really happy. I like holding your hand and drawing on your face, I like being your friend, I just wish you could like other people too, I wish you had all sorts of ghost friends to play with so you wouldn’t be so sad.”

“I don’t know how. I don’t know how to like anyone else. You’re all I have.”

“No, it’ll be different. When other people can see you, when you’re real, you can meet my friends and you can make your own, everyone will love you, Scar, I just— I don’t want it to be only me.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know. I know, and I don’t care what Friend thinks either, I don’t know why he was being so weird.”

Scar felt his distress boil over, “But you agreed! You think it’s bad, you don’t want to be my friend anymore!”

“That’s not true!” When Scar looked away, Mumbo shook him. “It’s not true, look at me! I want to be your friend. I just— I need you to promise you’re going to make other friends too. We can be friends forever, but you also need other friends, even if they’re less good friends, even if it’s hard at first. Promise me you’ll try.”

Scar sniffled, wiping his nose with his arm. The tears didn’t stop. “No one will want me.”

“Of course they will! You’re awesome, they can draw on your face without getting in trouble and roughhouse all they want without worrying about getting hurt! Plus all kinds of other stuff we haven’t worked out yet, I’m sure. Please, Scar.”

“You think so?” 

“I know so.”

“Can we still be best friends?”

“We’ll always be best friends.”

Scar didn’t know why he cried harder. Mumbo held on. Scar turned to hold him back, to be held, how had he ever lived without touch like this, without hugs from his best friend. He would never give this up. 

…

“That’s not possible,” One said, predictably.

“I’ve never heard of a thing like that, but I wouldn’t say it’s not possible if it.. just happened,” said The Other.

They had never exchanged names, the three of them. It was not necessary to do so, they rarely spoke as their jobs were to watch, not chat, and true names were not something to be given willy nilly anyway. That’s what they were taught, anyway. Skizz was old enough to guess that was intentional, an arbitrary rule to keep angels from making connections on the job, but he did not have the time to concern himself with ethics.

“I’d like to see it for myself,” One grunted, glancing at their human. They left without another word, not responding when Skizz told them to be careful and quiet. 

The Other pursed their lips, pushing a fist into their chin as they thought. “It is strange that Scar has not disappeared yet, or even shown signs. Mumbo has been trying to draw away, correct?”

“For a while,” Skizz sighed, defeated. It felt good to have someone else consider this, think about the problem, when he’d had to do it alone for so long.

“I had a stubborn imaginary friend, once,” The Other said, “Less to do with the apparition and more with the child’s attachments. They don’t choose to stick around, they’re not.. well, sentient. I waited until eleven to dispel it, but if this one has potential to be dangerous, maybe now is the time.”

“What if Scar is sentient?”

The Other’s face hardened. “It’s not. Is this your first position?” The question was not pointed, but Skizz still bristled.

“Of course not! I don’t suggest something like that for no reason.” 

“Imaginary friends can be just as emotional and reactive as their human counterparts. It’s not a sign of sentience, they are only borrowing from their host’s consciousness.”

“Scar is more than Mumbo. They are entirely different kids, and Scar is— I’ve never seen an imaginary friend as stubborn and volatile as this. Scar does not just ‘want’ to be a playmate by some kind of instinctual drive, he wants it like— like a human wants. He told me just now he wanted to interact with the physical world so badly that he just can now. That is not normal.”

“I’m not saying it’s normal. Clearly something has corrupted this spirit, causing it to mutate. I’ve never heard of such a thing happening to an imaginary friend, but I’ve never heard of them manifesting in this way either. It can happen to humans, angels, and the like, so why not? If sentience lives in that apparition, it is surely evil. It must be killed.”

“Scar isn’t evil.”

The Other’s expression cooled. “You’re attached. I fear you’ve been tricked.”

“How is this the only conclusion you’re able to come to? What if this has something to do with Mumbo’s—“

“That thing must be killed, immediately.” One phased through the ceiling, expression grave. 

“So it’s true,” said The Other, too calm, how could they be so calm!?

“You said you believed me!” Skizz bristled, unable to do much else but whip accusations around.

“I do.” Their attention shifted ruthlessly away, entirely to One, “We think it’s possessed. That’s how it’s persisted after Mumbo lost interest, and how it has started to enter the physical world.”

“It’s not just starting,” One growled, but their feathers were stiff with alarm. “It’s here. If that’s a demon, it’s the strongest I’ve ever seen. You don’t just cross planes the way it has done, there is something wrong with that spirit.”

“Maybe that’s why we can’t detect its true nature; it’s disguised itself too well,” The Other suggested, thoughtful, “You know, it’s always been a peculiar thing. Too bright, too much of the time. Maybe it’s been a demon all along. Perhaps it intends on raising a host for its own purposes, and has chosen to hide in plain sight. No wonder it got upset when you caught it in the act.”

“In the act of what!?” Skizz strained to stay quiet lest the two children hear the three of them from upstairs, “Mumbo was drawing on his face, they were laughing, having fun, it was perfectly innocent!”

One raised an eyebrow. “I thought the both of you agreed.”

“He’s in denial. Attached. It’s been nearly ten years, be kind.”

“I’m not— You two are jumping to conclusions.”

The Other shook their head, uncaring, “Our theories are no more ridiculous than suggesting an imaginary friend naturally developed sentience. Honestly, it doesn’t matter what reality is, that spirit has to go.”

“How could you say that!? Of course it matters!” Skizz could not believe what he was hearing, this was— did they not realize what they were suggesting!? “If Scar is sentient, which I am most qualified to determine, then you’re suggesting I murder a child.”

One whirled on Skizz, eyes blazing. “If you refuse, then I will. I won’t let your poor judgment endanger the entire household.”

“You’ve spent the most time with Scar, yes, but your determination is clearly clouded by attachment. You can’t be trusted to make this call.” The Other shrugged, almost apologetic. Not convincing enough. “I think we should all take part. We can use the moon as a conduit for a smiting; it’s almost full. We want to make sure that whatever this is, it dies.”

“Fine. Let’s go then, now. I don’t want to wait until it deduces we’ve found it out.”

Skizz choked on the realization that this was going to happen. That he could not stop it. Maybe he could reach Scar before them, warn him, but what then? Scar couldn’t be any older than eleven, and mentally he was no more mature than Mumbo, not to mention, entirely dependent on him. Whatever Scar was— he could not exist on his own. Physically, maybe, but..

“No. Leave them.” Skizz could barely force the words out. “If we make a scene, we’ll traumatize Mumbo. And Scar will know something is up if you two show up to address him, don’t be stupid.” Skizz bit his lip. What was he supposed to do. What could he do?

One stopped, at least. “Fine. You’ll lure him out tonight, then. After Mumbo is asleep.”

“You will.” The Other spoke firmly, knowingly. Skizz couldn’t imagine how miserable he looked, and it couldn’t be more clear how little either of them cared, One stomping off to be closer to their human, and The Other turning away. “Let us make this decision for you. None of us want anything bad to happen to our assignments. If Mumbo has been trying to pull away for a while, then dispelling this imaginary friend will be best for everyone.”

What could he do?

Skizz stood, staring, until The Other went to their human, abandoning him in the hall. Neither of them said anything when Skizz trudged to the stairs, head hung and wings dragging behind him. Apparently they weren’t worried about him conspiring with demons. 

Skizz spent the rest of Scar’s life sitting outside Mumbo’s closed door.

He did nothing.

…

Skizz had never been to hell before. It was.. about what he expected. Fire and brimstone, the screams of the damned, rot smell and sulfur and smog clouds too thick to see through, much less breathe in. It was heavily discouraged to visit hell for a variety of reasons, all of which Skizz understood, but this was exactly why he was here.

Despite the distant noise, it was.. far quieter than Skizz expected. Not peaceful, no, the stank was thick enough to gag on, but not very populated either; maybe this was a particularly uninhabitable section of land, outskirts of some sort. Maybe that was a good thing. Skizz didn’t want to attract too much attention.

He just.. Well, he didn’t quite know. Hopefully he wasn’t ambushed by hell rats before he found out.

He walked. He was stuck between urgency and grief, one of which drove him forward in a hurry, and the other kept his feet dragging across the jagged red rock. He had a home to return to. A home that deserved better than he. 

Skizz stopped when he came across railroad tracks. Did they.. have trains in hell? Perhaps they used them to run over damned souls; would a body feel the pain of their destruction over and over again? Skizz did not honestly know the mechanisms of hell’s cruelty.

He followed the tracks.

Maybe he’d gotten lucky to find their baron so soon. The silhouette of the train loomed dismally though the red haze, magnificent as it was terrifying. Closer inspection revealed a shining black matte steam train that looked like it could have been ripped right out of the 1920s, sleek and impractically large, at least four times Skizz’s height.

In comparison, the demon dozing at the wheels looked like it could fit in the palm of Skizz’s hand. He turned out to be person sized and reasonably more intimidating when Skizz got close enough to stand over him. Sure, not very threatening asleep, but this was his domain, not Skizz’s, and Skizz was about to do something very stupid.

The demon screamed when Skizz prodded him, granted, a little harder than necessary, and also granted, Skizz was 6ft with wings that made his silhouette giant. It did humanize the demon enough to make him less scary. Skizz probably seemed less scary in return after the demon whipped a wrench at his head, sending him flailing with a loud yelp.

But the demon did not give chase, did not attack, and Skizz did not retaliate, leaving the both of them at a brief loss for words as they stared each other down.

“You’re not dead. Or cast out.”

“No,” Skizz said, “I’m not.”

“Your heaven can not reclaim your soul if you die here. You should leave before you’re eaten alive.”

Skizz pursed his lips. Took a breath. “I’ve done something. Horrible. I don’t think heaven should claim me.”

“Oh,” the demon sighed, more relieved than he ought to be. “You want to die. Great. Good, I— Well, when angels visit, they typically have a pension for ‘cleansing.’ If you change your mind, I’m just trying to fix this train. Totally out of the way of the bad stuff, pinky promise.”

“I don’t want to kill you. Or myself.”

“Oh. What do you want, then?” Suspicion clouded the demon’s yellow eyes, which Skizz figured was reasonable.

“Do you have a name?”

The demon narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“I’d rather not confess my crimes to a stranger.” Skizz wrung his hands. The way the demon watched him was so much like Scar that Skizz could have puked. Maybe the demon saw Skizz’s hurt.

“You first.”

“Skizz.”

“You can call me Impulse.” He spoke deliberately, intentionally, and Skizz did not have the energy to be offended. 

“I just want to know what’s going to happen to me.” As much as Skizz tried to keep it together, his voice broke. “I killed someone. A kid.”

Impulse stared for a moment. “Ooh, yeah, that’s pretty bad.”

“I know!” Skizz snapped, unable to help himself. “So what am I in for?”

“Ohh, I don’t know,” Impulse put a fist to his mouth, eyes squinting in thought. “Are you a Christian angel? Those are some of the more human-like ones, depending on who you ask. What denomination?”

“I— My ancestry is Judeo-Christian, yes. This is hell, a Judeo-Christian afterlife, is it not?”

“Oh, man, I mean, yeah, partially, but hell isn’t exactly an original Christian concept, all sorts of spiritualities have a ‘hell,’ and we kind of share the real estate. Is the ‘good’ afterlife not a mishmash of everything?”

“I— No! What the hell?”

Impulse nodded sagely, “Ah, that makes sense why you all are so war driven and preachy. We don’t really do that. Well. That’s a lie. Haven’t in a while, though, there’s enough endless environment for everyone. Demons don’t really come back to life in the way you guys can, so like.. we aren’t trying to get into it with turf wars.”

“Angels aren’t ‘war driven,’ you’re being exaggeratory. We have warriors, obviously, when you’re defending your position of the True God, other deities get upset—“

“Yeah, that doesn’t exist down here. We don’t care.”

Skizz crossed his arms. “Extremely strange, but I suppose that’s on brand. Somewhat. You have no reason to fight over gods in a godless land.”

“Sure.” Impulse shrugged Skizz off, but before Skizz could butt in, he continued. “Well, I’m not really in the business of the torture district, but if you wanted to die in hell for whatever reason, you’d probably be in for.. I dunno fifty or so years of creative suffering? More or less depending on denomination and circumstance; some districts are more strict.”

Skizz stared. He stared for a long time, and Impulse didn’t seem to care, picking up his wrench to fiddle with it.

“Fifty years. That’s— what?”

“Oh, you being an angel might change things. Similar timeframe maybe, but a lot of people down here really don’t like you guys since, you know, all the random massacres. I don’t believe torture methods usually involve renouncing your faith anymore, but you might be forced to do some particularly humiliating things. Sorry. I would not recommend killing yourself in hell.”

“What happened to being tortured for eternity!?” Skizz threw up his arms, to no reaction from Impulse but silence.

Silence. More silence.

“I think your hell textbook might be outdated by about two thousand years, bud. We stopped doing that ages ago. A lot of the violent stuff was phased out as well, though there are absolutely cases where if it fits the crime..”

“What do you mean you stopped torturing people for all eternity!? That’s— That’s like your thing!!”

“Well, people don’t really like being tortured forever, and we don’t have infinite demons on the job.. Demons don’t really want to torture people forever either, like, at some point you want to retire, right? It’s not sustainable. Some demons are really into rehabilitation programs after the initial punishment period is up, so some of the damned choose to try that, while others choose to be dismissed from existence. Can’t be too different from heaven.”

“But— there’s literally— I can hear screaming, a lot of screaming from far away, you can’t just say you aren’t whipping people anymore!”

Impulse blinked, then laughed. “You thought the screaming was the damned? Well, I guess some of them are! That’s just hell’s choir, we do have an aesthetic to keep up with you know.”

“My God.”

“We do still whip people though.”

Skizz put his head in his hands. “Of course you do.”

*

What an odd thing, it was, hell. Impulse kept talking, and Skizz in turn, the both of them sitting in the dirt at the base of the old train, dwarfed by its majesty. How strange, the feeling. Guardianship was a nobel path, but an equally lonely one, and this was not a facet of his chosen occupation that Skizz had ever considered bothered him, but..

Skizz told Impulse everything. Everything, from his first assignment to the distinct way stars twinkled in the darkest parts of the night sky. Apparently there was a lake in hell that had stars. Skizz had never considered there could be water here. When he said so, Impulse laughed.

“I wish. The biomes in hell are more at war with each other than the people, and when the water moves in, it destroys everything.”

What a wonder it was, that demons could be friendly. Impulse must have thought the same about Skizz.

Well.

About time Skizz got back to work, then. It was with an odd pang that he realized he did not really want to go. Did Impulse want him to stay?

He did not have the courage to ask. One short goodbye later, Skizz was gone on sulfur smelling wings.

…

Scar wanted to live.

So he did.