'93, Someplace back East

Beneath the blasted skin of the city, Anton walked on worn concrete, grasping for the railing of a buried stairwell. One hand clutched at the leathery scrap in his coat pocket. It was a ragged little thing, pale and damp, with a crude calacas face etched onto it. He'd been disturbed to find it as he rose the previous evening, stuck conspicuously to his forehead. From there he'd inquired around, called in a boon on a dead end, only to find himself owing another to get where he was now: seeking the King Beneath.

He'd entered Undercity through a forgotten metro station by the feeble flame of a barrel fire. It was a filthy little commune for people who lived in blue-tarp tents and slept on mattresses of cardboard. He'd weaved through a dozen clogging a single corridor, enduring the slurred spite and paranoid threats of those still conscious. The spectacle did little to take his thoughts away from the grim token in his pocket.

Something was farming them, that much was clear; probably a carrier's herd. He wondered what would happen if that fire of theirs broke the thin levy restraining his own Beast. He felt relieved, disappearing into a narrow utility corridor where he found the stairwell he'd been told of.

Anton took a seat at the foot of the steps and waited, staring idly at strange cipher tags which stood out from the usual turf markers

***

Down in the dark, he waited for about an hour before hearing faint echoes descend the stairwell. He felt his Beast ratchet up with every footstep. It threatened to engulf his consciousness when he saw the murky figure staring up from the bottom of the stairs. Gouging his nails into his palms was all he could do to stop it all flowing out. When his senses adjusted, he saw another another Worm - one with no lips - beckoning him wordlessly. Anton didn't recognise the figure, but he'd heard of a lipless Haunt named 'Empty'. The lipless guide was King Beneath's silent spokesman. Empty sniffed, then reached into Anton's pocket pulling out the moist scrap. He held it up, staring intently at it before slipping it back into Anton's pocket. Not a word passed between the pair as Empty led him through a maze of municipal decay. Finally they entered a long concrete chamber with a floor sloping downwards, caked with filth and runoff. The smell and the mark on the wall suggested that sometimes this chamber flooded.

Lipless plucked the leathery scrap from Anton's pocket, pressing it firmly into the other Haunt's palm as he ushered him towards a cluster of black outlines sitting at the far end of the chamber. The outlines came into focus and the stench of infected flesh and blood became stronger, flooding his senses. A figure dressed in a pale pinstriped suit, flecked with fluid, sat running bandaged hands over a woman. Her milky skin had been given a lattice of cuts. Burnmarks score her arms and infected wounds lined her back. The King Beneath kneaded and scraped at her skin like a potter at a kiln, adding to her gallery of wounds while she sits unperturbed, as though receiving a massage. This was the King Beneath with his torn orchestra. Anton noticed other women sat behind him, in concerto. Similar in appearance, with ruined flesh. Most have their heads buried in sheet music with instruments lying at their feet. A couple clutched tres guitars. Some gave off flashes of the Beast. One stared back at Anton with eyes which seem too bright.

Finally King Beneath pushed the woman from his lap and gazed up, revealing a face covered with some substance like rough-hewn clay, under a widebrimmed hat. It occurred to Anton that the substance may have been something the King's skin had devolved into. King Beneath held out a bandaged hand and Anton offered the etched scrap. He watched nervously as his host wandered over to the bright-eyed woman, stretching the ragged little message over a window of raw meat carved into her shoulder, where it fused with her form.

King Beneath gestured for Anton to sit upon the filthy throne he had just left and mumbled something into the ragged ear of the ruined concubine, now suckling at his wrist. He placed a manilla envelope onto Anton's lap.

"Deliver it to your Priscus or deliver it to your Bishop. So long as you deliver it. Either will sate our agreement."

It was the concubine who spoke, with a breathy voice, slightly accented. There was an awkward silence as Anton was forced to watch the regnant feed his thrall. Anton obliged readily when King Beneath motioned for him to get out of his throne, and the torn orchestra began to play a strange, hollow cancion as Anton followed Empty back to the stairwell.