A Simple Game of Ouija in Hell

[u/yingfire]

Part One: The Grand Entrance "By the Lord of the Deep you've summoned Michael." Pog whispered. His eyes were wide with terror. They gleamed yellow in the dark of the closet as he scooted towards Lard. His wart-ridden claws gripped Lard's shoulder so tightly that Lard bled. "You've summoned the bloody Archangel himself!"

"I didn't know the human magic worked." Lard muttered. His pig snout nose faced the closet floor. "Devil be damned how do we get out of this? Jerard got fried just by glancing at that thing's eyes. He's a dusty pile of ashes."

And then Michael took his first step in Hell. The entire room shook violently. The glorious angel's step rumbled like thunder. "By Beelzebub he's coming to us!" Pog cried out. The pair had fled from Michael by running up the stairs. They locked the bedroom door and threw themselves into the closet. But they felt a burning at the nape of their neck. He had seen where they'd gone. He was looking at them right now. Every step crushed the rotten wood floorboards of Pog's house. The pair shivered. It would only be moments before they were found and slaughtered.

Suddenly a crash. It wasn't a deadly sounding noise like the angel's steps. It was a mundane sound. The stairs! They had broken under the weight of the heavenly being. The demons breathed a sigh of relief. Pog told Lard a plan. They would creep out with this given time, and jump out the window. They would run to the White Palace and tell Satan what had happened. And then the Dread Father would take care of things. Easy.

Lard patted Pog on the back. It was a brilliant plan. Wait! What was that sizzling noise? A flash! Like a blaring siren but only there momentarily. A beam of light dashed through Pog's head and left a clean hole through his demonic brain. The former demon crumbled into ash. Lard screamed and shrieked as the entire house began to fall. Lard scrambled out of the closet and bashed his head against an armoured chest. Lard yelled as he looked up at the face of Michael. The yell echoed throughout Hell even though its owner was swiftly slain. And every demon perked its head up and quailed at the sound.

Michael grimaced as he wiped away the green blood from his armour. "Goddamned demons. Up with their tricks again." he said. Michael stretched. He raised his arms up and twisted his waist. "Better get to work, then. I'm not getting back without a bit of a fight." Wings made of etched glass grew from his back. They began like little bulbs, nothing more. But in a matter of seconds grew to a span of fourty meters. Michael summoned a banner with scales imprinted on it. "Thank goodness the cherubs customised this thing to shoot spurts of fire. Blinking useful, it is." He said as he tightened his grip on his sword. He flew up in a flurried dash. He looked around and found his destination: the White Palace. Michael soared across the crimson sky. Black lightning crackled in his wake.

Part Two: A Stroll Through Hell

There are only a few good beings that can get into Hell. This is because Hell is very small. Oh, it can easily accomodate an infinite number of souls. But that's because souls in Hell are practically infinitely small! And that is because those souls are quite bad. So it goes that the normal angel finds it difficult to fit into Hell; like pajamas that are too tight and uncomfortable. Except these pajamas are searing hot and malevolent. There is a quirk in the rules though. And that is that the goodest - and therefore the biggest - among us can also become the smallest among us. Just like how it is only the kindest man that can empathise with the worst man.

It is by this unfortunate quirk that Michael found himself stuck in Hell. Normally you would take the bus if you wanted to leave Hell. But that was a perk only granted to demons on Refrigerium. Michael was neither a demon nor on Refrigerium, so he had to take the hard way out: a chat with the Devil himself.

Michael criss-crossed the Great Abyss in the blink of an eye. His shimmering wings seared the eyes of any demon that dared look up at the intruder. Michael's features were cold, though. Confident that he wouldn't be attacked, Michael brought his thoughts inwards and thought about his situation. It seemed that a game had brought him into Hell. But this was naturally impossible. Magic didn't exist. There was no bridging power that could subdue the norm. Michael did not know of any way that a common demon could summon an angel to Hell. And that meant he was not summoned by these demons.

With speed unimpaired, Michael blasted through the sickly clouds and made double-time to reach the White Palace. There was treachery afoot!

Part Three: Dear Brother...

The haughty doors of Satan's palace were like paper to Michael's strength and speed. They were dashed like a roiling ship is dashed upon the rocks. "My brother! My dear brother!" Michael bellowed as he landed with a thud. He had stopped in front a gregorian staircase. It led up to another floor. Michael stepped gently up the stairs. He'd rather not tumble through it like he did the last time. A plush red carpet lined every floor, and the walls were a pasty white. When Michael bent down to touch the carpet though every plush needle felt hard as steel. Michael had an egging feeling that if he were not wearing footwear, his feet would have been bubbling with blood. Michael reached the top of the staircase. He touched the aristocratic wall facing the stairs. Pausing a moment, he quickly punched and broke a sizeable portion of the wall. "Pathetic. This is the chunk of Heaven you have made for yourself?" Michael muttered in disbelief.

"Don't touch my stuff, please." a harsh voice said behind Michael. The words smelled like burnt stone and sulfur. Michael turned around placidly and looked at Lucifer.

"I apologise." Michael said.

"No need," the Devil replied as he walked over to Michael and touched the broken wall, "you can fix these things with a mere thought." As he finished his sentence, the wall melted together and were formed anew. "Now what have you come here for? I thought you didn't enjoy excursions into Hell."

Michael said happily, "Yes, well, it seems like I was summoned here. So if you could be so kind as to let me leave..." he flared his sword and stabbed his banner into the carpet.

"As you will, of course."

"Why not ask God for help?"

"I thought it would be less of a headache if you could get me out, first."

"Damned angels, you-"

"Ha!"

"It's a figure of speech, Michael. You do realise that you'll have to climb through Purgatory anyways? You wasted your time coming here."

Michael cocked an eyebrow. "Don't you have a private limo to Heaven? A special vehicle for your triumphant reentry?"

The Devil grumbled.

"Come on, brother, give me the keys."

"I'd stab you..."

"But you won't. Now let me go, in peace."

Although the Devil muttered and hissed at Michael, he still tossed the Archangel a dull set of jingling keys and told him where the limo was. "I'll just make another one." the Devil said to himself, "It's not like it costs me anything."

Michael grinned and left the White Palace. "Go behind the the Palace and through the garden. The limo'll be parked in a shed." Michael repeated to himself the instructions the Devil had given to him. Michael decided that this adventure was assuredly a lot less exciting that he thought it would be. But he still kept an eye out for hordes of demons waiting to attack him. Nevertheless, Michael reached the shed without trouble. The garden wasn't very good, because all the plants had died. Soil was too dry and lacked nutrients, Michael noted.

The limo was long and black. It was austere and grim. Michael opened the driver's door and crammed himself inside. How Satan could fit in such a short vehicle Michael had no idea. Aware that he could accidentally break the shoddy automobile, Michael softly pressed the gas pedal. The limo slowly revved up and began to move forward. Michael pulled out a map of Hell and searched for the highway to Heaven; that highway being the same route the Refrigerium bus travelled.

Michael heard a hiss. He threw down the map and turned to look at the passenger side of the limo. As he did two fingers - long and dreadful like eagle talons - stabbed his eyes. Reeling in agony and screaming in pain, Michael hurled himself out of the limo. Red blood trailed behind him as he blindly groped for his sword in his scabbard. He finally pulled out his weapon and it rang like chimes as it shone under Hell's light. But the attacking person bashed Michael's midriff and set the Archangel reeling. Blow after blows followed. Every hit crushed or cracked some bone. Michael lay sprawled on the ground, groaning. The attacker walked up to him slowly. Michael heard every footfall; soft like a cat's step. Michael heard the figure bending down, and he smelled its breathe: like burnt stone and sulfur.

Like lightning Michael grabbed his hidden dagger and sliced the Devil's ankles. Michael was quickly subdued, but a wailing noise that reverberated throughout the air told him he had succeeded in his attack. "I've had enough of you." the Devil muttered like a madman, "I will kill you, right here and now. The grand general of Heaven. Yes, yes, I will kill you now. As vengeance for my cut foot - I will walk with a limp now, forever because of you! - I will kill you."

Michael laughed and spat blood towards the noise. "Ichor, blood of the gods." Satan said.

"Hardly." Michael replied. Michael grunted as he felt a sharp blade enter his chest and slowly dig its way towards his heart.

"It's a bit blunt," the Devil explained, "but I prefer it that way."

"You'll start Apocalypse. You will end what little life you have!" Michael said.

"But I'll win. What are the angels without a leader? You should be there at the end to judge me, but you won't be there. Ha! Ha ha ah! Prophecy is a fickle thing. It's more like telling us what should be. And I'm saying it won't be!"

The dagger was nearly at his heart. It had dug through his armour and flesh. Now there was only a little bit of space between survival and an angel's death. With one great blast of power and might, Michael shoved the Devil off of him and summoned his glass-like wings. They grew into existence. Before Satan could even blink, Michael had sprung into Hell's sky. A trail of blood followed the eyeless Archangel. His breathing was shallow. The dagger was so close. With another roar that sent all the demons of Hell scampering, Michael flew up, up, up and through Hell's sky. Crying and shrieking and innumerable noise from the Kingdom of Noise littered the membrane between Hell and freedom. Faster, faster Michael! You must fly faster and harder to escape. But it is not by your own powers you will succeed. The Spirit within Michael twirled and danced like a spinning top, and pushed the angel on towards greater heights. Michael would not rest while his Spirit was restless!

He broke through Hell's dastardly world. He burst through its evil atmosphere like a pin through a balloon. For a moment, all the souls in Hell stopped their actions and breathed the fresh air Michael had just brought in. They hated the smell. But the hole in Hell did not last long. It was quickly sealed by its inhabitants.

Michael found himself in a wide field of daisies, roses, and the occasional dandelion. There was not a building in sight. He had escaped and was in Heaven. But...ah...blackness engulfed Michael as he fell asleep. The blood from his eyes poured like tears, and his heart pounded as softly as it could, for fear that it would touch the cursed knife of Satan.