Ah My Goddess Fan Fiction / Ranma 1/2 Fan Fiction ❯ The Raven 03: Apocalypse ❯ Odd Companions ( Chapter 10 )

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership rights to any of the works of Rumiko Takahashi or Kosuke Fujishima, and certainly not anything owned by Warner Bros.

/oOo\

The large, burly black humanlike shape that Trethgar preferred moved surprisingly quietly through the section of Nifflheim given over to the most powerful of the demons. Not Demon Lords, there was no such thing — there was the Daimakaicho, and there was everyone else serving at her pleasure. Except perhaps for her daughter, who she apparently doted on, and once Urd had proven that her ascension to head of the Furies wasn't just nepotism Hild's position had become stronger than ever. Now anyone that wanted to overthrow the Daimakaicho had to go through Urd first if they didn't want to have to deal with her after, and so far Urd had shown no interest in the position herself. Though it was very early days yet, only four years.

But even if there were no Demon Lords that didn't mean that all pigs were equal, though that inequality could come out in surprising ways. True, some demons were simply more powerful than others, but raw power did not necessarily translate into respect. After all, Mara had been a Demon 1st Class before her defection, but had gotten almost no respect at all — most demons had assumed that Hild kept her around for her entertainment value as a court jester. No, even more than power what demons respected was ruthlessness.

Of course, every so often a rumor would sweep through Nifflheim that it was Hild that had gone soft, and there would be another revolt. Trethgar found it rather ironic, because it had been millennia since he had figured out the truth that Hild had never gone soft, because she had never been hard — not the way the rebels meant, what the mortals meant by `evil'. But what the rebels always missed was that just because Hild wasn't `hard' didn't mean she wasn't ruthless, and so they inevitably thought she had lost her edge and become easy pickings. Trethgar himself had never been tempted to revolt precisely because he did understand the difference. Well, that and because whenever there was a revolt he got to really indulge in his favorite activity, hurting people, long and lovingly. Not that he didn't have plenty of opportunities to indulge himself outside of revolts — like now.

Trethgar quietly slipped through a massive hole that had been blown in the massive gold-threaded black marble of an estate wall. He kept one eye on the sky for any of the invaders that had created that hole, but when he didn't see any sign that the green-black things were returning for another strafing run he looked over the estate for the hellhounds (and hell-whatever) that normally guarded the grounds. He smiled grimly at the lack of guardians and the still-smoking craters scattered throughout the landscape. There was even an occasional bit of green or red mist here and there, where the `corpses' of those guardians were fading away, their energies returning to the massive reservoir from which they came, ready to be reconstituted into new forms — Rothgan preferred the less durable but more easily controlled constructs to actual creatures with minds of their own, and Hild had called it once again. There would be additional defenders inside the mansion, but not many and not as strong as those the invaders had cleared away for him. And while Trethgar would have to dig Rothgan out of his own personal bunker, that would be no trouble with the toys Hild had loaned him. Rothgan himself wouldn't be any challenge at all because the ruthless weren't the only ones to gain power and prestige, there were also the bottomfeeders — those that gained their influence through offering a service. And Rothgan was definitely a bottomfeeder, his influence in the unofficial hierarchy the result of the women he hung up in their niches until they accepted their guilt and moved on, that until then he could loan out like so many party favors when he wasn't raping them himself.

No, this was going to be no challenge at all. But it was going to be fun.

/\

He'd been right, it had been no challenge at all. The mystical defenses that locked and guarded the entrance to Rothgan's personal bunker in the depths of his mansion would have been strong enough to give even Hild pause — if the lockbreaker she'd given him hadn't been specifically attuned to those defenses. As it was, they'd been as effective as wet tissue paper. Now Trethgar had shifted into his combat form, even larger and more hulking than before with the addition of horns, fangs and claws — long, sharp claws. Those claws were the reason he'd made the shift (it certainly hadn't been because of the pitiful resistance Trethgar had put up) and one hand was buried in the greasy gut of his shrieking prey as he hauled him through the mansion's corridors, the crimson flaky-skinned demon leaving a trail of slime, blood and fluids as the masses of tentacles he used for arms writhed in pain. (In the beginning of the trip Rothgan had used those tentacles to grab onto columns and statuary to try and slow his progress, but that had only resulted in those claws being ripped out of his body, as excruciatingly painful as when they'd stabbed in — and then just having those claws used to cut off a tentacle and stabbed in again to even more pain before resuming the journey.)

Of course Trethgar could have indulged himself in the bunker he had yanked Rothgan out of. But the walk through the mansion to the bunker had taken him naturally through the `viewing hall' lined with niches holding the `trophies' Rothgan liked to show off to visitors — one broken, fluid-encrusted, naked woman with haunted eyes after another — and it had given him an idea. This time he was going to perform for an audience.

He reached the `viewing hall' again and dragged his prize down to the middle to a sudden chorus of gasps. He unclenched his claws and let Rothgan drop to the marble floor before turning to take in the women of all skin tones and hair color in the niches. “Good morning, ladies,” he rumbled in the closest approximation he could manage in his combat form to a conversational tone. “Your master made the mistake of offending some very important demons, and I thought you might like to watch the results of that little mistake.”

Vicious grins slowly began to blossom on the faces around him as his words sank in. One African woman (almost certainly a new arrival that hadn't been quite broken yet) found the courage to stammer out, “D-D-D-Does this mean w-w-we're free?” Faces brightened all around at the thought, only to fall (into tears in some cases) when Trethgar shook his head, the horns on each side barely clearing the walls (he'd had to go through doorways sideways a few times, and duck through constantly).

“No, ladies,” he replied cheerfully, “you are here for punishment, and punishment you will receive. You'll be assigned to a new master.” Until they learned their lesson and moved on, but he didn't mention that. It would actually interfere with their progress, and Hild would be angry with him — and his current assignment was a fine example of what could happen to people that got on Hild's bad side. “But that doesn't mean you can't enjoy the moment.” He bared his fangs at a whimpering Rothgan as he reached out one long black claw. With Trethgar's millennia of practice and Rothgan's massive bulk, the raping pimpmaster was going to last a long time. As the first long, shallow slice gaped red to an accompanying shriek of pain like music to his ears, Trethgar idly wondered if Rothgan would end his first mortal life hanging on his successor's wall — considering the predilections he'd exhibited as a demon, it seemed likely. And that would probably make Urd very happy, if she ever found out. It certainly would Hild.

/oOo\

Holding the handle of his swingline, Robin landed crouching at the bottom of what had been the circular stairwell carved out of stone, now shaken by Trigon's explosive rise with great chunks broken away and the floor at the bottom covered in debris. The same stairwell that he and the other Titans had found below the abandoned library weeks before on Raven's birthday, guided by a resurrected Slade.

Robin had been back once since, to search the catacombs. He'd been alone; Raven was the only one likely to be able to find things he couldn't and he'd had no intention of bringing her back ever again. But without her he hadn't found anything but empty rooms, strange carvings, and the undisturbed dust of long abandonment. He'd taken comfort in that dust since it meant that, Slade's appearance during their visit notwithstanding, at least it wasn't being used — wherever their enemies might come from, it wouldn't be from there. He hadn't imagined that the resurrected Slade could fly.

Glancing up along the swingline to where it disappeared into the dim shadows above, Robin decided to leave it where it was. There was always the possibility that he'd miss catching the grapple if he released it without retracting the line into its handle, and if he did retract the line as it dropped the handle's tiny engine made a slight but distinct whirring sound — and even with the noise of the aerial battle going on above drifting down it was very quiet at the bottom of the shaft. He would just have to hope that no one came across it.

“Hello, Robin.”

The Boy Wonder whirled at the rough, gravelly voice behind him, the voice that still weirded him out as much now as it had the first time he'd heard it. He dropped into a defensive stance at the sight of the figure in the darkness of one of the entranceways. “Slade,” he ground out.

The villain stepped out of the deeper shadows, and Robin tightened even further. Slade was ... different. He was no longer slightly hunched over, his step was surer, without the lumbering quality it had had during their last few encounters. He was once again the smooth, silent predator the Titans had first encountered.

But all of that just meant that Slade was even more dangerous than before, and with his new powers he'd already been powerful enough to take on the entire team.

Slade noted his minute shift in stance and stepped back. “I'm not here to fight, I'm actually here to help.”

“Yeah, right,” Robin replied, his tone filled with tightly controlled anger. “After what you did, do you really expect me to believe you?”

“I had my reasons, as I do now to offer my help. You are looking for Raven.”

Robin froze for a split-second before he forced himself to relax, but knew that had been a split-second too long. Still ... “Raven's dead, and you helped kill her,” he said flatly.

Slade chuckled. “We both know she's alive. What I know and you don't is where she is. Without my help you'll never reach her.”

Robin stared at the Titan's arch-nemesis as he struggled to come up with some other option, but finally straightened with a sigh (though careful to keep himself ready). “All right, it's your game. But this doesn't mean I trust you, I'll be watching.”

“I would expect nothing less. Follow me.” Slade turned away and strode back into the dark hallway he'd come out of. Robin sighed again as he pulled out his flashlight and followed, tracking the flashlight's beam to all sides to look for any possible traps.

It took less than ten minutes of walking for Robin to realize they were in unfamiliar territory, and that the complex was much larger than his earlier solo reconnaissance had indicated. The dark made it difficult to be sure, but he thought that the last time he'd visited the corridor they were walking down had ended in a T-intersection five minutes back instead of a four-way. But he'd be damned if he would ask Slade where they were. Then he didn't need to ask, as the corridor abruptly widened out, the ceiling rising, to reveal two huge doors. In his flashlight's beam they appeared to be gold-plated (they couldn't be solid gold, could they?) and embossed with Trigon's leering visage.

Slade positioned himself to push against the left-side door. He said, “Both doors need to open at the same time.”

Robin nodded and moved to the right side-door. Moments later the doors slowly swung open, and the two were bathed in soft red light. Robin stepped through the door and gaped at the sight — they were standing on a shelf at the top of a deep, wide crevice, with a pathway leading down along the crevice's cliff-face to a narrow beach and a short dock with a boat. But what shook Robin was where the light was coming from, because except for that narrow beach the bottom of the crevice was filled with lava. There were a number of spires of what appeared to be rock sticking up out the river's surface but couldn't be, not in the middle of a river of lava that shouldn't be running right underneath the city!

Robin shook himself and put away his flashlight before following Slade down the pathway to the beach. If I didn't have Raven for a teammate, I might think Batman has a point about magic.

/\

When the tear-drop darkfire demons that Robin and the other Titans had fought outside Titans' Tower began rising up out of the river of lava, Robin wasn't at all surprised. Things had been going too well — no attack while Robin and Slade made their way along the path down the side of the crevice to the beach, no attack when they launched the boat at the dock there, no attack for the first fifteen minutes as they poled against the current up the river of lava. And all that time, even if Robin hadn't been on guard against an attack at any time (if only because he didn't trust his temporary partner), simply watching as Slade had gotten more and more tense would have had him ready. Slade was expecting trouble.

Oddly, now that the enemy was in the open Robin felt himself relaxing, confidence rising. Or perhaps not so oddly — he'd fought these things before, after all, in larger numbers than now, and done well. Still, perhaps ... Voice dry, he asked, “You wouldn't still be able to command these things, would you?”

“Not any longer. Your teammate took them away from me — just before she walked willingly to her fate.”

Robin tensed again, mouth opening for an angry retort, but swallowed his response as the first wave of demons flashed toward the boat. He spun to put his back to Slade's, the two automatically dividing the attack into two zones of responsibility, and his pole flipped up out of the lava to slam into and through the closest three. He dropped the pole onto the boat to grab throwing disks from his utility belt, disks that he'd already set to be sensitive to heat, and hurled them out. He grinned viciously as the rippling explosions that blew apart another five demons showed he'd gotten the trigger sensitivity right, then snatched up the pole again and wielded it like a quarterstaff to knock aside the last two attackers in the first wave. But the second wave was already on its way, too close for more throwing disks, and a third forming up behind. Now there were as many as he'd fought before, at least, and more bubbling up. He shouted, “We can't stay here!”

“The spires,” Slade replied, and was gone.

Robin used the pole to vault to the top of the nearest spire on his side, gasping as the intense heat of the lava that the magic of the boat had held back slammed into him. He hurled the pole to impale three more of the demons and leaped to the next spire. As he landed he drew his collapsible short staves to bat aside the few fire demons that were within reach to clear the way to the next spire, and the next, using constant movement to keep the enemy off-balance as Slade did the same on the spires on the other side of the river.

Robin had never forgiven Slade for the time years before when he had held the lives of Robin's teammates over his head to force him to become the villain's apprentice, to fight against his friends — to hurt them — in order to protect them. Robin still didn't understand what Slade had thought he was doing, but the villain had actually taken the apprenticeship seriously and so the two had sparred, getting a feel for each other's style, a familiarity that they had only honed during their encounters since. Now that familiarity proved a godsend as they became like two ends of a single whirling quarterstaff, each on his own side of the river — spinning and leaping from spire to spire upstream, keeping the fire demons swarming around them off-balance, wordlessly switching the initiative back and forth, dodging blasts and charges and impossibly lengthened outstretched demonic arms while obliterating demon after demon as more bubbled up from the lava around them. Slade fought with all of his old smooth skill, the odd clumsy lethargy he'd shown since his re-appearance gone like it had never existed.

Then Slade wordlessly pointed to another beach ahead of them on his side of the river, with its own pier and boat. Robin nodded his recognition and stopped on a spire across from the beach to spin in place, short staves and feet knocking away those demons that tried to swarm him and the last of his explosive throwing discs targeting those going after his partner as Slade leaped down to the dock and snatched up one of the long poles in the boat. The villain hurled it toward him and Robin dropped his staves to snatch it out of the air. He whirled it above his head then along both sides to buzzsaw away the demons beginning to focus on him before pole-vaulting across the center of the river of lava to a spire on the opposite side. A leap to the dock and he was alongside Slade again.

As soon as Robin landed Slade spun and ran across the beach toward a shadowed opening in the cliff face, Robin on his heels. The opening proved to be an entrance to a new tunnel, and just outside it Slade spun to face the beach. The demons were right behind Robin and he jinked to one side only for the heat of two impossibly long fiery arms to scorch his shoulder and cheek as they flashed past him to slam into Slade's face, knocking him back and down into the tunnel.

Robin whipped around and knocked the already withdrawing arms aside with a green glove-covered hand as he backed into the new corridor, ready for another attack that didn't come. The fire demons were coming to a stop, floating above the sand, forming ranks as more constantly joined them from the lava river. They couldn't approach closer to the tunnel, the fight was over.

He abruptly realized that he was gasping for air, his body dripping with sweat where it wasn't covered by his costume, the costume soaked with sweat where it was. The running battle he and Slade had just engaged in reminded Robin of the time he and the Batman had fought Two-Face and his thugs in a still-operational foundry, but even then the heat hadn't been as intense or the fight as prolonged. He suspected his lungs hadn't escaped unscathed. From the rasp as he breathed he knew his throat hadn't.

Shivering as his sweat cooled, Robin glanced toward Slade, saying, “Do you think we're —” He froze, eyes widening in shock. The front of the villain's mask had been knocked off by the last attack, and Robin found himself staring at a white, dry, hairless skull with tatters of skin around the edges of his cowl.

Slade finished putting back on his face mask. “I wish you hadn't seen that,” he said. “Eyes on the enemy, your mentor and I trained you better than that.”

Robin jerked around to focus on the still-hovering, motionless endless ranks of fire demons and backed up deeper into the tunnel. (And how did Slade say anything, Robin wondered faintly, without lips — or a tongue, as far as he could tell.) Slade fell in beside him, and the two continued to back up with an occasional glance over their shoulders until the tunnel curved and the demons outside the entrance could no longer be seen, and the walls began to glow with a warm, soft light. Both stopped instantly and silently waited as minute after minute passed by, but none of the demons came around the curve. Finally, Slade turned and strode down the tunnel.

Robin hurried to catch up. “So what happened?” he asked quietly.

“I have the worst luck in apprentices,” Slade replied. (His gravelly voice sent a shiver down Robin's spine, now that he knew why it was that way.) “When Terra turned on me and knocked me into the lava I should have died. I would have, if Trigon hadn't intervened. But while he saved my life, there were ... consequences.” He fell silent, and Robin didn't press him even as his mind insisted on considering what it would be like to live as an undead skeleton thing. Yes, even if he didn't share it he could really understand the Batman's dislike of magic. As a distraction he examined the walls as they walked even as he kept an eye on Slade — just in case. Not that it was much of a distraction, the walls were polished smooth without a hint of the ornate carvings that had covered the walls of the section of the temple he had been able to explore earlier.

Over twenty minutes' walking later the tunnel branched. One branch was well lit, the walls as smooth and polished as before; the other was dark, the reflected light from the other tunnel that illuminated a few yards in showing walls that were blackened and scarred by blast marks of some sort, and bits of rubble scattered across the floor.

Slade paused and motioned toward the dark tunnel. “We part here,” he said. “Raven is down that branch, while what I seek lies down the other.”

Robin eyed him suspiciously. “How do I know this isn't a trap?” he asked.

Slade's chuckle was like grinding stone. “You don't,” he replied. “But Trigon betrayed me, and it is only fair that I return the favor. And you and your friends oppose him.”

After a few seconds' thought Robin reluctantly nodded. “All right, but if it is a trap I'll know where to find you.”

“Of course,” Slade said as if dismissing the obvious, then strode away down the lighted tunnel.

Robin watched him go until he was well out of attack range, then pulled his flashlight out of his utility belt and turned toward his own tunnel.

Unlike the previous tunnel's gentle turns, the new one was straight as an arrow. Not that that meant Robin could see further now, his sight limited by his flashlight's beam and the need to keep an eye on the rubble-strewn floor to avoid tripping. Still, it was only a few minutes before the end of the tunnel came into view, and a new room.

It was a chapel of some sort, that much was clear — rows of broken stone pews and a pulpit (sliced cleanly in two pieces) made that clear. But the chapel was definitely not Christian, or any other religion Robin knew of. The huge, leering face of Trigon carved into the back wall made that clear, still recognizable even with the series of craters that stretched across it. And he didn't want to think of what use the heavily damage altar on the upraised platform behind the pulpit had been put to.

And there was no other way out, no other doorway, and no hidden passages — that was clear from the signs of battle still etched into the walls, some of the craters as deep as his forearm. Whoever had hit the place had done so hard and fast, and he was grimly certain they had taken no prisoners. From the bones scattered among the rubble of the pews, they hadn't bothered to tend to the bodies, either — simply smashed their way in, massacred everyone they found, and walked away. And from the state of those bones, when he knelt to look closely for a moment at several ribs, it had happened a long time ago, maybe a very long time ago. And the site hadn't been disturbed since, not even by scavengers other than insects. Not even rats.

But no entrance meant that either Slade had lied to him or Raven was somewhere in the room, and even limited to his flashlight's beam he didn't see anywhere that someone her size could hide. Still, with the shadows cast by the flashlight he could easily be missing something, and this was his only lead. Best to check before he went storming off after the villain.

/\

He was halfway through his methodical search when he caught a hint of movement — a sound to his right, the faint scuff of something on stone, a clatter of rock on rock. Whipping around, he panned his flashlight toward the sound and caught a flash of white in the edge of the beam, of something darting to one side, the sound of more disturbed rubble. He instantly leaped to interpose himself between whatever it was and the doorway. It had been too small to be Raven and she hadn't been wearing anything white, but it was the first sign of life since he'd left Slade. Maybe he, she or it might know of another entrance?

He cautiously moved away from the doorway in the direction whatever it was had darted, panning his flashlight back and forth to make sure it couldn't get past him — and the beam passed over a white figure. He instantly moved it back, and froze at what the beam revealed.

It was a little girl about age five, her skin a dusky gray, her shoulder-length hair black, a red bindi in the middle of her forehead, wearing a white leotard and belt of gold links and red gems, a white cape. She was clutching a badly-skinned knee with one hand as the other shielded her eyes from his flashlight's beam, shivering in absolute silence as tears coursed down her cheeks.

“Raven?” he whispered.

The child jerked at the sound of his voice. In a weak, trembling voice, she asked, “Wh-wh-who a-are you?”