Part I: Steer clear of That Reality Show (Shiver)
June 2nd, 2030
1:00 A.M.
Inside the Depths of the Marked Lands, Abutting the River Styx
"And who might you be, little snack cake?" mumbles the heart-shaped head in earnest. His loose bangs stab into his eyes as his head bobs back in forth. The rhythm could be misinterpreted as a soothing lullaby, if not for the circumstances.
Typhon barely manages to scuttle over the tiny impish girl at his feet without trampling her. Theresa stirs, just a bit, her glass shard- fingers deftly clinging to her mapped parasol. The disembodied head grins at her slumbering form, then lures Typhon towards the portals. The head grips Typhon's leg with its canine teeth then throws him into an octagonal portal set into the ground. Even as the swirling darkness and aggravating elevator music combine and thicken into a thick and bubbling soup of raucousness, Theresa fails to stir.
They emerge in a mud pit adorned with empty potato chip bags, plastic wrappers, and even discarded children's toys. No buildings or signs of community dot the surrounding lands. Typhon has only ventured to this location a handful of times. The disembodied head managed to toss him into one of the Underworld's most secret and deadly regions: The Marked Lands. It is here where criminals gather in bars and meet with prostitutes.
It is here that mud, filth, and manure from other regions are slopped onto the grassy lands. It is here that frost can touch-and certainly burn- even the most robust Underworld travelers. It is here that the lost humans and outcasts traverse to meet their fates. The world may prove cruel, but Styx proves far crueler. The river's coursing energies leap out and cling to anything even remotely alive and eat away at flesh and bone.
The Marked Lands consist of six hundred and sixty-six mud pits. The pits are arranged in a spiral pattern in order by depth: the deepest pits lie on the furthest outskirts of the spiral. Stilts loom above the pits and support raised platforms. Typhon knows that these platforms, each one covered by canvas and carved with decorative skull motifs, acts as a shelter for conducting business.
The bars and prisons reside up here. Down below the platforms, curved walkways with jutting arches run adjacent to the mud pits. The walkways are made of mismatched stones and contain huge gaps where the mud and toxic filth have worn them away. The walkways lead to small hovels that serve as brothels and hideouts for gangs and other elusive criminals.
As he glares at the hell before him, Typhon realizes he cannot rely on the anomaly for everything, even if she is his master. And so, he resorts to the dirty tricks of his youth.
"Hey, butt-head!" taunts the timid Typhon. He cowers a bit as the head rocks faster and faster, somersaulting in and out of his vision. With each swoop comes a base beat, heavy and ear-splintering. He recalls his youth, the taunts and tattles. The isolation and beastliness of it.
Oh, right. I am a beast- duh. Quit acting like a human and you might actually be able to pull a fast one on this guy. Typhon could not determine where these insane notions stemmed from, but he figured that they were rather close to those that Theresa spouted on a regular basis.
Barely dodging the pouty glares of the bobble-head beast, Typhon slides his body along the ground. He burrows into the dirt with his talon-like black nails and pounds the earth with his back legs as he lurches forward. His animalistic shuffle allows him to slide under the disembodied head without being detected immediately. However, the sulky once-man merely bobs over to Theresa with newfound ferocity.
Typhon considers calling out to his trusty tricycle but quickly realizes that he probably won't be able to escape this creep and relocate Theresa without pulling off some crazy maneuvers. And those sorts of tricks are best left to the professionals. Just as he nearly enters the Panicked Realm of No Return, Typhon glimpses a soft yellow halo in the distance. Whether it is born of Heaven or Hell, he decides to risk it. Anything is better than losing to a guy who doesn't even have a body.
The head leans in and lowers itself to Theresa's sleeping countenance. She nearly spittles out drool atop the disembodied head, right where his gleaming bald spot took up residence. Her body shakes and rumbles as she snores. Wow, and I thought my blood brothers and sisters could wake an entire village with their animalistic snores. I know she is not human, yet how can a tiny being make such a raucous?
"Dumb-ass! Get her away from that sleazy guy before he does something indecent!" shutters a veiled being covered in sapphire gems. Typhon completely forgot about the halo that had brought him hope and solace but a moment ago. He was too focused on his futile escape plans to consider that the hope he felt manifested itself in a form other than that of Theresa's flashy yellow taxi.
It is true that both entities emitted a soothing yellow aura with a slight hint of melancholy. However, this being's aura manifests as a slightly mellower hue than that of the taxi. They lack that presence, that pizazz, that "sparkle factor."
Yeah, they just wouldn't quite make it to the final round of that new hit reality show... what was it? Dueling to the Death? No... Dancing something...Oh, right. It was Dancing With Death: That trashy show where Death ballroom dances with blubbering ghouls in order to reduce the ever-growing Underworld death toll.
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