Page 48 of Metatron
The ship only shuddered a little as we landed. A hissing preceded a door opening to my left. For a second, I thought about running.
To where?
This wasn’t a place I could simply get lost or escape from. What would I do if I did bolt? Where would I hide? How would I survive?
The cruel fact? I wouldn’t.
Astaroth led the way, and I followed, my nose wrinkling as we exited, the odors wafting rather pungent and even eye-watering. It didn’t seem to bother the workers, but I noticed Astaroth set a rapid pace, not turning when I lagged, but he did snap, “Follow me or suffer the consequences.”
He strode across the landing bay, head high, shoulders back, looking utterly confident, and yet I sensed trepidation in him. If a prince dreaded this place, what hope did I have?
Fuck, I hated the fact I couldn’t even pretend to be hopeful. I was in goddamned Hell with no hope of rescue, and a ton of eyes suddenly focused on me. Workers had paused and stared, even the alien with the stalks ending in big-pupiled orbs.
I hurried to catch up with Astaroth, choosing him as the lesser of evils in that moment. Maybe I unfairly judged those watching, basing my gut instinct on their appearance. But let’s be honest, I couldn’t see the cockroach dude with the mandibles he clacked as I passed wanting to become my friend.
Once I caught up to Astaroth, I kept to the demon prince’s heels even as I tried to take everything in. Hell appeared to be more terrifying—and fascinating—than expected. For one, it didn’t turn out to be a place of flames and brimstone, but it did stink from all the stuff going on. The bay had a mishmash of exhaust, oil, and other chemically strong odors that I was glad to escape. We went through a large set of swinging doors and entered a machine shop, where metal got hammered by very muscled aliens—because no way did that minotaur-looking dude come from Earth, not with his neon-orange color. Silver-skinned creatures with head-to-toe scales, which shifted kaleidoscope style, tended opposing types of stoves, piping red and yellow hot on one side, blue and radiating cold on the other. To finish off this forge and fabrication shop, dusty goggle-wearing beings sanded and buffed parts using two types of lizards.
Yes, lizards. One bumpy skinned enough to shave the surface of the metal being rubbed against its back. It seemed to enjoy it given how it rolled into the strokes and seemingly purred. Another lizard lay on its back as a sanded piece got buffed to a shine.
I might not be a scientist but still found it interesting as shit. The mix of technology and machines with nature blew my mind.
We exited the fabrication forge into a narrow street with a few closed doors set in a mishmash of walls—mostly old, the exteriors crumbling, the paint once covering the surface peeling. More smells hit me; some familiar like exhaust from burning gas and oil, piss, the universal scent, then the stranger ones, spicy and yummy like food, also rancid and eye-watering. That particular stench wafted from a stall we passed with a guy stirring a vat, his eyes covered in goggles, his cheeks pitted as if by acid drops.
I couldn’t help but crane my head in all angles trying to see everything, the jamming and stacking of structures, the strange beings that inhabited this place. The machines more complex than I’d have imagined. But for all its supposed technological advances, Hell appeared primitive as well. With the streets dirty and litter lining the gutters, a general air of unkemptness permeated everything.
As we strode, I drew some attention and murmurs, mostly words I couldn’t understand, although the few I caught, like the grunted murmur of “Fresh meat,” did disturb.
“What language are they speaking?” I asked.
“Several. There is an implant for those who can afford it to understand and speak them all.”
“Meaning some people will know English?”
“Yes. The first thing Hell does once it's selected its next source is absorb everything it can. Language, innovation, literature and art if it exists. Then it goes for the tangible.”
A chilling description that had me hugging my upper body. I didn’t need further evidence of the evil in this place. The inhabitants oozed rough. Violence didn’t seem to bother given the many scuffles I observed before we left that busy street to enter a tunnel angling downwards, taking us deeper. We weren’t the only ones. Those descending with us appeared slightly more kept together than those in the previous areas. These wore actual clothes and almost all appeared somewhat humanoid.
A stiff-legged Astaroth appeared miffed, glaring at the folks not paying him any mind. It took me a moment to figure out what bothered him: the crowd ignored the returning prince. No one knew him, or if they did, they didn’t care. And boy did that steam Astaroth’s sense of self-worth.
We made it to the bottom of the ramp where it split left and right, with the straight option blocked by a massive rusting gate guarded by thick and tall cyclops.
Not exaggerating. One eye. No hair. Kind of gray skin. The pair held a mace in one meaty fist, spear in the other, which they rattled as Astaroth neared.
The one on the left barked something harsh, making no sense to me.
Astaroth waved his hand and replied in English, most likely for my sake.
“Of course, I’m allowed entry. I am Prince Astaroth.” He posed and waited.
The cyclopes eyed each other then shrugged before saying a distinct, “No.”
Predictably, that didn’t go over well with Astaroth. What I didn’t expect? He aimed his hand at the one denying him, and splat. A cyclops exploded into meat chunks. Somehow, I didn’t get sprayed, and neither did Astaroth. The chunks and gore dripped down an invisible shield. Unfortunately for the guard’s companion, he got spattered head to toe. His one eye blinked.
Astaroth arched a brow. “Still going to deny me entrance?”
With a mumble that most likely meant “asshole,” the cyclops stepped aside, and the gate swung open.
Head held high, with a hint of a smirk on his lips, Astaroth strode through—and was tackled.