Suvudu Universe

Station 1: The Bucket Chamber

The first station on Faure’s shift was The Bucket Chamber (or as the locals liked to call it, The Masturbation Station). It was a popular choice, and so he was always grateful to start his day here, ensuring a nice percentage of his passengers left almost as soon as they’d arrived, even though anyone who got off here had clearly not considered the logics of it all.

He raised two of his arms and announced the name of the stop, allowing his voice to resonate all the way to the back, while he continued to explain to the overpopulated carriage as to what torment lay beyond the automated doors. He was very sensitive to the thousands of eyes blinking at him out of unison, but he guessed that was something you never got used to; all these humans still bewildered from the introduction he had given them only moments earlier, having found themselves on a train they didn’t remember boarding or where exactly they were before they did.

His scripted narrative went along these lines: The Bucket Chamber (if they so wished to venture into it) consisted of small rooms—so small in fact, that the Client would have much difficulty standing in them comfortably, let alone sitting down. They would each enter their own designated space like this, through a door which would be locked behind them, never to be opened again, residing on their left. To their back, a solid wall, hard bricks digging into their spine, a cold surface which could never be warmed by any amount of body heat. To their right, yet another door, weighty and thick, made of smooth stone. And to their front, a set of metal bars resembling a jail cell, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, revealing yet another, only slightly larger empty room before them. And there they would be squashed in, naked and alone, all four corners of this prison touching their body.

From this point it got interesting, Faure explained. At their feet, the Client would notice a drain embedded into the floor, running along the bottom of the cage at a slight angle, as if some sort of a primitive urinal. This drain led into a dark hole down to the right, and Faure informed them that below said hole resided their own personal bucket, out of view but imperative to the game they would play.

For through the bars they would be forced to look out from, a girl (or boy, depending on their sexual preference) would enter the adjacent room. And by anyone’s standards, it would be an incredibly attractive person—to the Client’s very specifications, in fact, without them needing to utter a single word. And these alluring strangers are there for one reason: to play with them. To touch them. To make them cum. Every single moment of every single day, there would be one of these beings stimulating their genitals, oozing sex appeal and saying everything the participant had ever wanted to hear, rotating on an hourly basis. Indeed, there were so many working at this station that a Client would never see the same one twice, a new style of their fantasy every 60 minutes.

And they would orgasm over and over, their natural liquid falling into the drain, collecting up between their feet, mounting until there was enough consistency to slowly slide down the hole and into the designated bucket. Which all sounds very enjoyable, and is very enjoyable, at first. So what’s the catch? There has got to be a catch. Well, of course there's a fucking catch. This is Hell, after all.

The catch was like any other catch on any other stop on the Johnson Line. It was a game, and in order to escape an eternity of damnation, there would be rules. The key to freedom from The Bucket Chamber was to fill your bucket with your juices, carefully calculated to hold the exact volume which would prove enough weight to pull down on the chain it hung from. Said chain was connected to the aforementioned stone door on the participant’s right, and enough collected semen meant enough pull to open the door, granting the Client an exit back to the living and the life they left behind, perhaps to make amends and avoid finding themselves in this situation again.

Faure understood the appeal, as humans were such sexual animals after all. But what he did not tell the crowd, is that nobody had yet escaped The Bucket Chamber, despite how many people somehow thought they could. Over the years many men had convinced themselves they could produce enough semen to open a door; or perhaps cunning enough to think they could fill the bucket with other bodily fluids such as urine or spit (as if Satan hadn’t already considered such a method and rendered it impossible); or perhaps they were simply sold on the lustful idea alone—Faure had no idea. And he didn’t even want to think about the only three girls in history to take this path, because those must have been the three most foolish girls ever to die, and it filled him with annoyance.

None of this mattered. For as anyone who had ever worked in The Bucket will tell you, the screams and pleas for mercy are of a different sort of nature in this area. The first few hours may be some perverse bliss, but after the third or fourth or even fifth ejaculate from the hands of sexual goddesses, Clients began to wear down very quickly. And then the chaffing begins. The bleeding, the bruising, the sores, until each stroke of the palm brought only agony and the tearing of scabs. They’d beg for the girls to stop, but these girls are not compassionate. These girls are demons designed as humans, and will continue rubbing until the Bucket is full, no matter how long it takes to happen. And it has never happened.

Some Clients had been down there for decades. They surely couldn’t have any cock left by now.

The Underground Part 1

Faure hated his job. He knew it could be worse, but that’s what everyone said about everything. Many an after-work drink at his local Beezle Pub, his friends would remind him of this fact. “At least you’re not shoveling the Mastodon’s shit or scrubbing blood off the bottom of the Torture Hall’s cages,” they would say. But it was the routine of his position which got him down, a routine he’d maintained for almost a century now.

Unlike those who rode on his train line, he wasn’t in Hell by any reasons of immoral behaviour or disregard to consequence. He was born here. His father he never knew, as directly after mating with his mother, she ate him whilst shitting out millions of larva, awaiting her next fuck. His mom, of course, being the Queen Antred, a legend in Hell for the army she produces on a daily basis. His countless brothers and sisters merely worm like creatures at birth, buried deep beneath the boiling ground, until they had developed enough arms and intellect to dig their way out. Many died trying, but those who proved their worth, got put in a sector to keep the business of Hell running.

Most of them grew eight strong arms from their mesosoma, as well as two powerful hind legs, large mandibles, and feelers. They were what those of Earth would consider of an “ant” nature, except they stood upright at three feet taller than your average full grown man and almost as intelligent. They made perfect soldiers for the most part, and were assigned to those duties accordingly, but not Faure.

Despite possessing the determination to dig himself out from the ground after birth, he was not well. He had an arm missing and was covered in pus-infected sores, head to toe. It’s quite incredible, some might say, that considering his disfigurement and the usual apathetic inner workings of Hell, they didn’t discard him immediately as some aborted scraps for one of Lucifer’s extensive pet collection. Faure knew they would have too, but also knew why they didn’t. It was because he was smart, far smarter than your average Antred anyway, passing the brain grade test by quite a mark, and in that, the system saw potential. Hence why he was assigned to take the managerial position on the Johnson Line, with the promise of promotions and then inevitably forgotten about over the years.

You see, Hell is a complex place. It’s not just some pit with fire and lava and screams like so many of the propaganda filled Christian books have taught—although such parts did exist. Instead, it had many many levels, designed to fit the crime of the deceased or at very least evaluate their worth to the cause. Nobody but Lucifer really knew how it all worked, but it did, continuing to grow and expand on a daily basis, to the point of becoming a densely populated city in its own right.

Faure’s section was interesting enough, which was another thing his comrades insisted on pointing out. The people who died and ended up on his train weren’t all bad. Known as “Clients”, they were misguided at best, committing perhaps one or two really heinous sins during their mortal lives, or perhaps a whole load of petty ones. They “deserved a chance”, or so it was said, but Faure knew the powers in charge would have never considered a “chance” an option. Whispers in the company told of a meeting between God and Satan where a deal of sorts had been agreed upon. A deal where those who fell within this category would be granted the opportunity to go back to earth and do right, now blessed with the second insight of what laid before them if they didn’t change their ways. Who knows what Satan got in return for such an agreement, but it’s not like he made it easy. For each stop on the Johnson Line presented a challenge only a sadistic joker like the Devil could possibly muster, all broadcast live throughout the upper-class homes of Hell, becoming one of the highest rated channels in the city despite the fact that it was fairly uneventful on a day to day basis. Still, when a sinner got his mortality back, it would be front page news for weeks to come, unbeknownst to them, the human now a celebrity, the masses praying for their return.

But that was an excitement Faure did not share, for he doubted today, much like any other day, would be different. People would pick their station once he described it to them, and there they would spend the rest of their days. He noted a few faces light up as he explained The Bucket Chamber to the crowd, mostly because he had strategically left out the chaffing bleeding part as per instructions. It was only his duty to inform the thousands of people crammed armpit to armpit on this bumpy ride that they had fucked up, but could get out of it with enough willpower. He had to ensure each one of them knew they had their choice of stop, and each one came with a game, but they had to select their own path without knowing what station would be coming next, and without the chance to go back to any previous choices. And as they quivered and cried whilst paying him the full attention he demanded, he was once again reminded of how much he hated his job.

A few hundred strong, all male crowd got off at The Bucket, the doors beeping then closing behind them, the train starting up again, continuing down the line. Faure took a deep breath before announcing the next station would be The DigestiTrack, and began his routine speech of what this particular game entailed.

Station 2: The DigestiTrack

The DigestiTrack was a far simpler game. Clients were placed together in a gigantic glass container and were granted by the dark powers that be, the ability not to require oxygen in order sustain their being, rendering suffocation impossible, which was a very important gift as you will soon find out.

The tank like container with its glass walls which stood as high as a five story building would be filled to the brim with a dense yet edible muddy-like substance, which the Client would have to eat in order to rise his or her way to the top. It sounded easy enough, but in reality, was much more complicated than anyone could predict. Due to the consistency of the substance, it would be impossible for the Client to swim to the top, and due to the amount one would have to eat in order to ascend, the journey became increasingly difficult the more they filled up and the heavier they became. The majority of Clients sunk back to the bottom before they even had a chance, each attempt feeling more and more futile as they plummeted to the floor, crushing their spirit and determination in the process, for all eternity. But Faure didn't need to tell them that.

Faure also didn’t mention another thing—he knew what the dense edible substance was made out of. It was faeces. In fact, all the faeces flushed from the entire population of Hell eventually ended up in this game, as shit was Lucifer’s favourite waste product, and was not to be wasted. As a result, this was one of Hell’s most watched games, and not only because it was such a thrill to see a large amount of unsuspecting people get covered in hot poo. It was because there had been a few exciting escapees in recent times.

The trick, Faure knew, was to take it slow. All too often, people got frantic and overwhelmed by the stench and instinctive fear of suffocation. They flailed around and they swallowed mouthfuls of shit, only to sink to where they had started after no time at all. But with a bit of patience (as very few realised), you could swallow a large amount of the substance and then gently sway your arms to rise ever so slightly. By keeping very still in this position, you would remain at that level until you were ready for another gulp, in order to advance upward another inch or so.

It could take years, sure, but it got even easier the higher you got, for once the participant began to produce his or her own faeces from the digestion of other faeces, it curiously seemed to build a strong base below them, allowing them to rise up quicker and with less effort. To date, more than a hundred people had escaped this way, and some were very close as we speak. But even this was not the only method of escape that Faure knew of, as once and only once before, it had been done in another way...

Macy Dull was her name. She was cute and young and all the things which went completely against her obvious nature. After growing frustrated over weeks and weeks of not getting anywhere in the tank of shit, she began to swim blindly sideways, until she found another human participant. There she would strangle them to death or break their neck in a move she’d learned during her days on earth, painstakingly pushing their limp carcasses to the side of the tank. It took her months, but she found more and more people to murder, placing them on top of each other in the muck, creating a corpse ladder she could climb to the top. When she was finally high enough, swallowing and clawing her way out of the container was pretty straightforward.

Macy Dull escaped and went back to her old life. But she would die again one day and someone as genuinely evil as her would definitely be going straight back to Hell. And when this happened, Satan would be waiting with arms wide open, having put together a very high position for her when she returned.

Station 3: Bank

Faure was by no means of a righteous or politically correct nature, but stereotypes bored the guts out of him. It was part of the reason he hated his job. As soon as The Bucket was explained, the perverted sex pests stood out like Albino Hell Dogs, sweaty and shaking, almost all with the exact identical demeanors and facial expressions. You could spot them a mile away, and it made him sick. This went in conjunction with Clients who had minimal sexual experience, captivated by the concept of a hand-job eternity from otherworldly beings that otherwise wouldn’t have given them the time of day, now granting them enough attention to fill the gap their living lives didn’t provide. It must sound appealing.

The same went for The DigestiTrack. By the time he had finished detailing what he needed to detail before they arrived at this particular game, it was nauseating to witness how many fat and gluttonous people made their way out the doors. It was as if they thought “oh yeah, food, I’m good at that,” and then waddled along without any thought as to what it actually all meant. Some days he wanted to tell them how stupid they were; how they had no idea the level of difficulty that was being proposed here; how ridiculous the mechanics of each and every game was. But if he did so, he would get fired, and getting fired had a whole different meaning in Hell.

Instead, he kept his frustration to himself as the train rolled on, while he announced the next stop and game, known simply as Bank.

It went a little something like this: Clients would be split into groups, and each group would enter an empty yet spacious room with a single door on the other side. The door they needed to get through. The door to freedom. However, guarding said door was two very large and intimidating demons, at least 10 feet tall each, armed with horns and tridents and the works, fire and lava leaking out of their mouths as they spoke. And if you attempted to walk passed them, they would aggressively inform you of your gruesome death if you took one more step.

But they had a price, and the chance to earn money which could be used to bribe these beings would be provided within the game. How to get the money, however, was a detail Faure conveniently left out, for if he explained the gruesome process of obtaining the currency, the attendance of Bank would become very minimal indeed.

It was that, depending on the amount of people who attended each game, a relevant amount of human infants would be dispersed into the room, at an average of 10 per person, crawling around and making those god awful sounds infants do. It was only at that point, the Clients would be briefed that for each baby stomach they cut open, they would find one silver coin (or if they were very lucky, a gold one). This sounds terrible enough, but gets worse when you realise that these were no ordinary children; rather genetically engineered humans, produced to be an exaggerated version of what an average person would consider to be “cute”, designed specifically to appeal to their heart strings—not to mentioned also filled with an excessive amount of blood just to make their deaths as gory and as upsetting as possible. At first, people were reluctant, some outright refusing to partake in such barbarity, but Faure knew that as soon as Clients saw other Clients cutting open the babies and earning coins that could have been theirs, they quickly got over the challenge.

This process happened once a day, everyone killing as many infants as they could stomach, cutting up their bellies and attempting to greedily earn more than their fair share of the money, all for the promise that with enough coins, you could pay the guards off, even if the right amount needed was never explicitly stated.

But it gets even more complicated than that, Faure knew but didn’t tell. As each day passed, Clients grew weary and numb due to the countless acts of infanticide, until a week or so into the game where even more interesting characters came into play. They would be assorted friendly-looking merchant demons, who would offer you hot chocolate or a massage for a very small amount of coins. Initially, everyone opposes the idea of spending their hard earned coinage, but eventually they all break, especially as the prizes got bigger and better—only 15 coins for this handheld game of Pacman! Only 22 coins for a long hot bath!—until the baby killing became about material prizes at the end of the week over their freedom, most players forgetting about the guards after a few years, opting to rather build a nice comfortable corner in the room for themselves. Which, all things considered, isn’t the worst eternity, really.

This game was a particularly sad and evil concept from Satan, in Faure’s opinion. Because some poor souls really did try their best to save up their coins, offering them to the guards on a nightly basis, only to be rejected when told that it “wasn’t enough”. It's no surprise then that everyone surrendered to their eternity eventually—because in reality, there was actually no amount of coins that could buy their escape. The solution was so simple it was painful, for even though the guards would threaten anyone who came even remotely close to the door, detailing the rape and torture and death they would receive with another single step, these were empty threats. In reality, they were instructed only to taunt, but otherwise do nothing else. All it took was for one brave soul to walk right past them and open the door to freedom, and no harm would come to them. Even on his or her first day, without murdering a single baby, a Client could do this and would not be stopped. It was tragic, because no one tried it.

No one except for some British guy named Pete something or other, half a century ago. After decades of killing babies and buying stuff, careful to always put some aside to offer the guards, he grew fed up. He told the demons to “sod off” and then walked right past them, surprised to find they did nothing about it, and almost dumbfounded at how stupid he had been for so long as he glided back into mortality.

Of course, when the rest of the room witnessed him do this, they rushed to follow suite. Unfortunately for them, there can only be one winner per group, and the guards were granted permission to kill the rest. It must have been a relief for them; finally tasting the blood they had threatened to draw for their whole career, sodomizing the woman and eating the faces off each remaining Client, one by one until they grew bored enough to smash skulls into the concrete floor. That day was one of legends, arguably the most entertaining the viewers from Hell had ever seen, and Faure was still bitter that he had missed it.

He thought about this as he watched the doors close on the station, ready to leave the platform. It was a mid-weight stop in terms of popularity, the idea of collecting coins and trying to buy your way out of Hell appealing to the business type and self proclaimed negotiators alike, as they missioned on to face an eternity of child homicide that they definitely were not prepared for. He looked back at the emptier yet still over-packed carriage, now left with the more cautious of players, still hoping a better choice would come along, probably until it was too late.

The Underground Part 2

One fair question that came up often enough on Faure’s line was “what happens when you die in Hell, if we are already dead?” On this specific trip today, it came from a brave young teenager who spoke up, standing a few rows from Faure, which once again brought sadness to the Antred. The books the humans so openly praised, such as the Bible, always so confidently stated “Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven”, which all of the Heavens and Hells knew was simply not true. Sin knows no age, as so much of our lives are predetermined by the quality of our souls. Faure had witnessed newborns who’d ended up in the carriage, crying for their mother’s breast milk for all eternity, carried to this place by a few dark thoughts or acts of unnatural selfishness beyond their age, physically under equipped to face the presented challenges and too mentally undeveloped to understand what was being asked of them. Faure felt this was unfair.

To make matters worse, Faure couldn’t answer this boy’s question, for he did not know. But he explained what he’d been told as best he could: that if one died in Hell, then they would end up in Hell 2 (which was just a nickname, no one really knew what it was officially called). It was a place spoken of with great fear. A place far worse than the one they found themselves in now. It was said to be colder. It was said to be smaller. It was said to be overcrowded by beings who weren’t even in physical form, a region of damnation which no fairy tale nor religious book knew to teach of. Basically put, it was a version of Hell so tortuous and foul that an eternity here felt like a vacation in comparison. You did not want to die in Hell.

The crowded train murmured in discomfort and distress at this thought, the first sounds the congregation had made together as a unit. They shuffled nervously shoulder to shoulder, a lot of them now scratching their pallets and swallowing any spit their dry mouths would provide, which scraped away at their throats on the way down. They were feeling sick by this news, but that wasn’t all.

It always happened round about here, between the third and fourth station. The symptoms had kicked in, designed to mimic the general flu—a ploy to encourage agitation. It was a clever plan implemented a few hundred centuries ago, meant to provide enough incentive for passengers to leave the train as soon as possible. This was because workers in Faure’s field used to complain that all too often Clients would stay on the line all the way to the end, either out of curiosity as to what the next station held, or out of fear to make any decision at all. Ever since this new nuisance was installed, there was a definite increase of people opting to get off the ride the moment any game even sounded plausible, and viewers were satisfied again. It was a good idea.

But this was not the only aspect of the period between Bank and the Chillzone which made it Faure’s favourite part of his trip. It was the sparkle amongst the dirt, the only time during his shift that he derived any pleasure from. He knew this was the longest gap between stations, and used his precious time wisely, making sure the crowd seemed sufficiently distracted by the death talk, then silently excusing himself with a hand gesture, disappearing into the private compartment at his back.

It was a box sized room which Faure valued more than his own home. His sanctuary. After he closed the door behind himself, he stood in this space between carriages. Thank God for this place and for this moment, otherwise he wasn’t sure he would survive a full days work.

Removing a dirty syringe from his front pouch, he followed his routine like an art. He searched his body for the biggest growth he had on his skin, of which there were a few recently developed sores to choose from. He located a nicely sized bubble on his upper thigh, which was just smaller than a tennis ball—not the biggest he’d ever had, but definitely a decent dose. There, he carefully stuck the empty needle into the center and began to pull up at the plunger. Yellow pus and milky discharge with a hint of blood slowly rose up into the transparent chamber and his heart quivered off-beat in anticipation. He did this every day, but never once did the pre-excitement wane at any degree.

When the growth had been relieved of all its fluids and looked like a deflated flap of skin on his leg, he removed the syringe which was almost completely fill with this murky liquid. He looked through it momentarily, almost motherly, grateful as always that no smell could escape the plastic because even he vomited at the slightest scent of the juice. He then turned it upside down, needle pointing towards the roof, and tapped on it, watching bubbles rise to the top, ensuring no air would enter his fragile system. He couldn’t remember when he’d first learned to do this, but he guessed it started at a very young age when he’d become addicted to eating out his own growths, eventually his methods of ingestion becoming more elaborate the older he got. He had tried drying it out into a pipe and then smoking it for a while, which proved useless; a very quick high consisting of dizziness more than anything else. He had then learnt to snort the dried out matter and continued to do so for years afterwards, which did the trick even though it tasted like death syrup and left him feeling groggy for hours following. However, a decade or so later he got the idea of trying the intravenous method, which quickly became his prefered process. And yet despite the heavy dependency and daily usage, no one knew he was using this self created substance as a form of recreation. They couldn’t. He would get picked apart and sold like harvest if they did.

He found a vein in his forearm which was scabbed at entry point, but still completely unnoticeable amongst the rest of his scars and rashed skin. There he dug the needle in and watched in agitation as it disappeared into his body. Slowly, he plunged the liquid down into his system, savouring the moment. Immediately, the taste of sulphur rose into his throat and he felt his head spin out of control. He leaned up against the wall of the box compartment, fighting the urge to puke whilst letting himself go into the euphoria of his own pus. His liquid. His addiction. His drug, his love, his life.

Station 4: The Chillzone

Faure had nodded out after what proved to be a potent dosage after all, and stumbled back into the main carriage a little later than he had anticipated. He would have to rush this next introduction to make it on time. The crowd before him were conversing frantically at panicked volumes, but were quick to die down when they noticed the large ant creature had returned. Faure liked that. Despite his appearance which would be terrifying to any human, sometimes these Clients did look up to him as a fatherly figure on this scary ride. A guide, the only thing who could help them make sense of a situation which overwhelmed most to tears. He appreciated the obedience, because not every day went this well.

The up and coming station was known as The Chillzone, he quickly announced, and much like those that came before, it sounded very tempting in theory when one didn’t consider the complexities of the operation. For the idea was simply to sleep. Nothing more, nothing less. Well, perhaps a little bit more.

Each Client who chose this path would be provided with their own tiny room in a long hallway of tiny rooms, every one containing two things: a single mattress, perhaps not of the most comfortable calibre, but decent enough; and a screen which resided above said mattress, monitoring the person’s brainwaves, indicating how long they had been asleep, counting down from 36 hours, resetting the moment they awoke.

Now, when taking into consideration that the record for one run of natural human sleep is said to be 8 days (with the use of hypnosis, granted), it didn’t sound all that impossible. And it wasn’t, which is why so many eager early birds jumped onto the concept, without wondering where the true enemy lay. For in this game, the true enemy lay in the hallway itself.

This was the social area, where Clients were encouraged to meet new participants or interact with their friends. Conversation was fueled by a large amount of high quality amphetamines and alcohol, provided fresh every day. Which is why so many people actually enjoyed a Chillzone eternity in the end, because all things considered, it was one of the better eternities on offer here, especially once you’d lost sight of the goal at hand and eventually opted to indulge in the environment of social activity. But for those (particularly in the beginning) who were adamant on achieving the right amount of sleep, soon enough they would curse the literal paper-thin nature of each compartment, ensuring that every noise uttered in earshot distance would be amplified in their room, a constant assault of drunk noise, shouting and laughter. It wouldn't take long to find the feat near impossible.

But despite the penetrating chaos perpetually disrupting any chance of a decent sleep, there were examples of participants who had made it out. Faure forgot their names, but remembered their methods well, which still to this day were stories of legends and attempted by many, hardly ever to any success.

The first and most obvious example was to stay awake for as long as possible; participating in the festivities and fighting the urge to sleep until your body made the decision for you. Some even managed to keep this up for a week or so, which was impressive, but was almost always guaranteed to end in frustrating disappointment when they stirred from a bad dream just to have their counter reset to 36. But while hardly any substantial number had escaped this way, some had, Faure estimating six or so since he’d started working here, one of which who had a sleeping disorder in the first place.

However, these were considered “disappointments” by Faure’s standards; a weakness in the system, as no one should have such an easy time of exiting Hell simply by slothing through it. He much preferred the more original methods of excessive sleep, like those who had attempted to drink themselves into a blackout, which was a bit more interesting, yet still hardly ever worked. But a handful of others did manage to figure out better approaches of achieving the desired amount of slumber, and more often than not, by accident.

There was this one guy who had attempted to stay awake, managing four days until the incident. On his 98th hour of awakeness, he had clumsily bumped into a drunk participant in the hallway. Harsh words were exchanged, and a fight had ensued—which wasn’t an uncommon occurrence in these parts. But this one conflict turned into a particularly vicious brawl, and whatever-his-name-was got severely beaten into a paste, either due to exhaustion, or most likely his lack of fighting skills. His body became worthless and unable to cope, shutting down into a borderline coma for the right amount of time. He had to be carried out of Hell and back to Earth when his counter successfully reached zero above his head.

Since that revelation, rumours went wild and various participants attempted the unconscious method, banging their heads against walls or causing fights and such. More than the majority went too far and had died from a brain clot or untreated broken bones and infections, or awoke in excessive pain before reaching the intended unconscious time. That is, except for this one lady named Emma Morgan, who smashed her head so many times onto a table that she broke straight through the surface, tearing her face to pieces and plunging glass deep into her temples, deafening her and defeating all the sounds of the hallway, rendering her brain acutely damaged and practically a vegetable. She slept well that night. She got out.

All of this taken into account is why the station annoyed Faure more than any other. It was one of the easiest places to escape from, and one of the most comfortable to stay in, which proved it as a bad design, especially when considering how many people were tempted by the station’s name alone, performing highly as one of the most popular choices on the line on any given day.

And sure enough, today was no different. By the time the train doors had opened and closed, all the frat kids and drug addicts and simply lazy human beings had gone, just over half of the original crowd left. There was more breathing room now and the journey was somewhat more comfortable from this point on, in that regard. Less people were crammed, less people were coughing on each other and being consumed by the natural stink humans gave off in the heat. But discomfort in general continued to rise, their symptoms escalating another notch after the stop. Noses were running and skin grew itchy, the fake flu experience progressing drastically in correlation to the distance the train traveled toward the next station, while Faure began to explain what it entailed in monotone.

Station 5: The Mousetrap

A long time ago, The Mousetrap Station was much more suited to its name, as it involved a gory game with mice and a mallet. And despite being originally conceptualised by Damon72, a demon from a respectable line of heritage (better known for his design of The Masturbation Station and co-design of Bank), it proved to be flawed. The rules were complicated and means of escape were never clear, which is why it went largely unchosen by Clients for centuries.

That was until about three thousand years ago, when Lucifer ordered a redesign and offered such a task to any inhabitant of Hell, no matter their rank. It was presented as a competition, the prize as the opportunity to spend a week with the Devil himself in his mansion, no strings attached. Perhaps on a human level, that may sound a bit intimidating, but if you considered the benefits (especially for your average soul damned for eternity) the idea was loaded with potential.

Needless to say, there were hundreds of thousands of entries, some of which were (in Faure’s opinion) much better than the one which was chosen. Faure even came up with a game himself, involving slow removal of body parts, but was beaten out by an average coal miner named Adrian Roacha, who impressed Satan so much with his idea that he not only received the week vacation, but was also promptly promoted to an interior design position for Hell’s better known landmarks and more wealthy inhabitant’s properties. The unrelated Mousetrap name just stuck, but the idea was very different. As follows:

The Client who chose this station was granted (and get this) the opportunity to go back home. Back to earth, no questions asked, as simple as that. But there was a catch—of course, of course. The only difference was that this time, Faure could reveal such a catch to the eyes on his train, who were still consuming his every word like newly hatched birds, begging for worms.

The moment they left the carriage, participants were forced to partake in an intensive survey, which evaluated who on the planet Earth they hated the most. For many, it was an easy answer, for some, a little more of a thorough process to reveal, but there was always (always!) someone. After which, the Client was sent to that person’s location, the sole (or soul) mission of the participant to harass that exact enemy to point of insanity.

Clients were granted this one way entry as a demon with limited human abilities; for the most part, undetectable and muted. However, and with enough concentration, they could reveal themselves to their enemy at certain times of the night, or perhaps even move a physical object—but this type of effort could take days to achieve and left them very fatigued afterwards. A knife stuck into the ceiling; a face in the mirror; inaudible whispers; tugging on the bed sheet; a scratch on their enemy’s skin... these were all possible, but far from lethal and exceptionally laborious to achieve. But if achieved with the desired effect, the spirit would grow stronger, meddling became easier, and the suffering became more elaborate and powerful.

And the rules were as simple as this: they had to use their spiritual wrath to push the chosen victim to commit suicide. It was a trade off; the death of their enemy not only freeing their soul back to earth, but ensuring the target a one way ticket to that special self-murdered sector of Hell, which brought additional incentive. But let’s say the target did not notice the paranormal activity? Or wrote it off as their imagination? This presented a big risk, as being disregarded weakened the Client’s powers further and created a much bigger gap between their mischief and the physical world. Not only this, but the Hell Spirit could normally only ever occupy one residential area, and if their target relocated, they would be cursed to forever dwell in that abandoned space, alone and useless (although there had been documents detailing more determined spirits who had managed to follow their target from place to place, but that was rare, and very strenuous on their demon abilities).

Faure knew that of all the stations, The Mousetrap was the most famous, as even the majority of mortals had heard about it in someway before. Almost every report of a haunted house or some ghost sighting was in direct relation to this station. Even communication with spirits via Ouija Board was a result of those lost in the Mousetrap game, using their own Ouija Board from the other side like an ancient telephone, trying to gain attention in order to get some strength back.

But much like those before, it was a difficult game to win. For the prize was in the hands of the victim chosen by the survey, and all too often said victim would move house, or (even worse) get a holy man to bless their home, which damaged the spirit significantly, weakening or even destroying their ability to interact with reality on any noticeable level. But these were risks many were willing to take, the more hateful or vengeful Clients salivating over the idea of at least getting some closure by haunting the one they hated the most—more often than not, the person who had cost them their lives in the first place.

And some people did win, eventually. The most successful Clients were the ones who either had an elderly victim in mind, or those who were more subtle about their approach. Because while it would always be tempting to initially push it as hard as possible—slamming every door in the house or standing at the foot of the victim’s bed on a nightly basis—this type of careless behaviour was counterproductive, far too obvious and resulting in terror followed abruptly by the aforementioned actions, trapping the dysfunctional soul to wander the Earth for eternity.

But those who achieved the most success, Faure knew, were those who only made a move every now and again—perhaps pulling a crucifix off the wall or flicking a light on at midnight or maybe even placing a bit of blood on the same patch of a pillow no matter how many times it was washed—which stretched beyond the usual haunting styles. It was in these acts that the victims began to question their own sanity until they started to imagine things that weren’t even the work of the Client, eventually spiralling into their own madness, and ultimately, dying by their own hands. But Faure didn’t need to talk about that.

Because regardless of the facts, it was a popular station all the same, and many got off at the stop eagerly, leaving a large but significantly smaller group remaining, all hoping a better choice would present itself still, completely clueless to the fact that they were running out of time.

The Underground Part 3

By this stage of the trip, the Clients weren't feeling well whatsoever. They coughed up mucous which appeared to overflow from all of their face holes. Their throats pained with dryness each time they swallowed. Their eyes were red and itchy, everyone noticeably unsettled from a throbbing headache, breathing in each other’s stink. Faure pitied them on a level, but at this point had grown quite desensitized to their suffering.

He hated his job. But admittedly in some ways, he had found a bit of comfort here. The nervous eyes of the recently deceased made the otherwise weak Antred feel powerful. The hum of the train’s wheels were like dull music as they rolled along the rusty tracks (which were brand new and well maintained by all means, but designed to appear old simply for effect). The smell of the humans as they sweated, crammed together in the heats of Hell was filthy but strangely encouraging. It was because of these touches, and despite everything else, Faure respected Satan. He didn’t like Satan, make no mistake, but “respect” was definitely an emotion most inhabitants would relate to the Dark Lord. It was the attention to the finer details of torture and misery which is why Satan stood undefeated as the master of evil, and no one could be unimpressed by such a thing. That, and of course the fact that the Devil had taken God on by himself all those millenniums ago, succeeding in building a self-sustaining empire based on nothing but his treason alone, the title earned independently and from scratch. And Faure was the slightest bit proud to be a part of it, no matter how small.

As these thoughts brought on an uncharacteristic feeling of gratitude about how one should consider themselves honoured to be a member of Hell’s army, and how nice it was that his day had gone so well; it happened, like it had happened so many times before. At this point, the carriage had less than a few hundred participants left, which meant it was so late in the day that the incident took him by total surprise despite how often something like this occurred. A young adult male’s desperation and fear had got the best of him, and he forgot where he was, convinced the quickest way to solve the predicament he had found himself in would be the same way he dealt with most things in his mortal life: by fighting. He rushed towards Faure, screaming obscenities, flailing fists toward the Antred’s upper abdomen, no thought as to what consequences may come as a result. It happened so suddenly, that this misguided man nearly connected Faure to his punches too, which would have been the joke of the pub for years to come. “Oh, like that time Faure got punched by a mortal,” imagine.

With two of his left arms, Faure caught the man’s wrist mid-air, and then pulled it upwards, his long claws sliding effortlessly into the Client’s skin like putty. The man yelped as his feet lifted from the ground and he dangled, suspended, his face now inches away from the ant demon. With a right arm, Faure took the male around the waist and pulled him closer, as if the two now embraced in a slow-dance.

Without much thought, Faure dug his mandibles into the human throat. They pinched together behind the windpipe, while antenna danced all over the young man’s face, sending useless signals into Faure’s mind which he didn’t want there. Quickly, Faure turned his head to the left, tearing the throat right out of this Client’s neck. Blood spurted into Faure’s mouth which tasted so foul that he immediately dropped the human to the floor, breaking two of his ribs in the process; a gargling mess, dying within seconds, while the crowd gasped and screamed, small panic washing over them, the last thing Faure felt like dealing with today.

It wasn’t an uncommon situation, but Faure still hated it when one of these creatures were so stupid and reckless to actually try and take him on. He was not a monster, but part of his job description was to be one. He needed to be intimidating enough to prevent such an act, and by appearances, he was, but just like today, sometimes appearances were not enough. And now those before him feared his presence. He was no longer just the conductor, he was a demon from Hell. The crowd no longer obedient but shouting in cowardice in amongst themselves, which made Faure’s primary job of explaining the next station much more difficult. He raised all seven of his arms and released a high pitched squeal like a broken amplifier which froze all conversation in an instant. It had passed the point of trying to calm the carriage down in any rational way, and now he had to use this newly developed fear as a tool. After all, he was tired, and as the end of the Johnson Line approached, he hadn’t the time to be polite.

Station 6: The Chess Tournament

Time was of an essence owed in part to the next station currently being closed off. Which was unfortunate because so many Clients had already decided to take the next stop whatever it may be, not only due to the escalating onset of illness, but also due to the murder they had just witnessed. Their vibe was upset. They did not want to spend another moment in the presence of the murderous ant demon.

This bothered Faure, even though the aptly named Chess Tournament was the least imaginative of all the stations, in his opinion. For if it was open, he would explain that the stop revolved around Lucifer’s favourite human game, chess, as he found it so delightfully simple without losing any depth of skill involved. He loved it so much, in fact, that during the 6th century, he had paid a hefty price for the original maker to join his ranks, granting the guy a very comfortable eternity in a highly respected area of Hell.

For that reason, the Dark Lord was ecstatic when the concept was proposed for this specific game, which worked like this: certain Clients were sectioned off into a large rooms in which they would stay for a potential ever, and where they would find themselves in the presence of two things. The first would be a well crafted chess board, large and carved from ungodly stone. The second would be a very peculiar demon watching over them, known as an Euchreves. These creatures appeared to be nothing more than cliché Joker-heads from some ancient deck of playing cards; big pointy noses, dark blue rings surrounding massive black eyes, cheekbones which were ridiculously predominant, and a smile which filled half of their faces, sharp teeth, the works. And no body. Just a trail of orange smoke following those oversized heads around, forever laughing.

One half of the room would be the first Client’s half, the other, a different Client’s half. These split halves would rotate with the use of heavy mechanics, lining different Clients up, seated opposite each other, separated only by a chess board. Once the meet of two new Clients was established, the chess game would begin with the Head announcing the prize which they would be playing for. Sometimes it would be food; sometimes it would be the opportunity to hear a living loved one’s voice; sometimes it would be a few hours break in a comfortable bed. And sometimes ... sometimes, it would be freedom.

And naturally, the two Clients would play the game of chess to authorise an instant winner, receiving the prize immediately with just one simple catch: they had to enjoy said prize in front of the Client they’d just beaten. Whether it was a ham sandwich, a pillow to sit on for a few hours, or sexual intercourse with an attractive stranger; the entire act had to be witnessed by the loser with their full attention, creating an envy which was cruel, but also crucial as fuel for more furious determination, ensuring jealous incentive to play harder and harder in each game, for all of eternity.

But, of course, it was rigged. The second “Client” was next to never a real human, rather a cunning demon disguised as one with a set of predetermined instructions per each game. Sometimes, it was to let the real Client win, granting them a false sense of hope, feeding them or blessing them with rest. But more often than not (especially with the bigger prizes), the demon was set to win, as they were expert players after centuries of training, sometimes from the inventor of chess himself.

However, a small degree of randomness was still involved, otherwise such a game would have never been signed off by God. Every once in a thousand games per person or so, the coincidental scenario would manifest where a real Client faced another real Client, unbeknownst to either of them. However, this random chance of a Client facing a Client coinciding with the random chance of playing for freedom, only happened once every 10 years, give or take. Which does seem like decent odds, particularly when compared to other stations. One guaranteed Client freed every decade? Fairly generous, if you ask Faure. But when you took into account how many millions of people were playing these contests a hundred times a day, you could understand how chess game after chess game would eventually break down any normal player to a mess of tears, especially when you learn that some of the original players from centuries ago were still here to this day, their fingers hardened from chess pieces, watching in agony as demons enjoyed the prize they’d worked so hard for, finding only small relief in the odd bowl of warm porridge they’d win each week or so.

But every few hundred years, a participant would be an exceptionally proficient player of the game, and would beat a demon. This would result in two things: the first would be that the human won the prize, which was very (very) seldomly freedom, completely oblivious as to what they had actually just achieved. The second would be the immediate extermination of the demon itself for being incompetent. While such a thing was rare, it was a flaw in the system which became quite a nuisance and weakened Hell’s control over the outcome. It was an embarrassment, as far as Faure was concerned.

Take Paul Morphy for example. Chess was his profession above the surface, and after his death in 1884, he promptly defeated almost every demon opponent placed in front of him. The first round he won better chess pieces, and that demon was killed. The second round he won a roast dinner, and enjoyed it in front of that demon just before he was killed too. Round after round, he won, going on to be solely responsible for over 50 demon’s deaths in 62 games, which was more than what almost any mortal had achieved single handedly in history, and he had no idea. When he eventually played for his freedom, it was a relief when he won and the massacre was finally over, having wiped out more trained chess demons than Hell could afford. He escaped back to earth to live in secret, achieving the feat in two days, the fastest on record.

Since Morphy, training definitely became more intense, but it still stood as the best choice of station for those with a little more smarts and strategy skills. Not that any of Faure’s current crowd needed to know that, as very recently something had gone wrong which nobody in his position quite understood. Apparently, a powerful spell had been cast from Earth, opening a gateway between the Chess Tournament and the surface. One of the Euchreves dived at the opportunity, escaping Hell to roam the mortal realm, and was still at large to this very day despite the colossal army sent to track him down. The Devil was furious about this, apparently to the point of executing anyone who mentioned it, as this deserter’s actions had caused more trouble than it knew.

When it happened, the rest of the Euchreves quickly got word of the escape and revolted, now uncontrollable and no longer willing to curate the game, flying around in disorder, filling the rooms with their orange smoke as they ate the Clients out of rebellion and fun. The situation got so out of control that within 24 hours, Satan had no choice but to burn the entire Station down, Clients and demons alike, causing a much troublesome breach of contract between Hell and God, and rendering the game unusable for at least another 2 years while they rebuilt it. Faure didn’t care much about any of this though, as the station was never a popular choice by any means, only a handful of intellects and chess lovers ever opting to get off here. And besides, as the final station approached only one stop away, he was all too aware that his shift was nearly over, and as he usually felt by this stage, he’d had more than enough of today already.

Station 7: Before The Fall

With the wheels scraping beneath the train, those left aboard were feeling anything but healthy. They were pale and fragile, the brutal murder they had witnessed still plaguing their minds whilst the encouraging sickness intensified, like a blackhearted gift from the depths of misery. Faure watched in pity as one or two puked up their last meal, and while a guy near the back coughed up blood. It was getting very unhygienic in here, and so Faure was grateful that his shift was as close to the end as it was.

The final station was called Before The Fall, and Faure considered it to be an interesting one as he explained the rules. Each Client who chose this stop would be allocated a space underneath a cliff, marked by a single large screw bolted into the edge of the surface. This was not a cave or a strip one could stand on, but a literal open space hanging over nothing but an endless drop toward bubbling lava below, steaming and heating everything above its presence. Along with this space, each player was presented with a backpack which contained some rope; a knife; and a few other random material possessions. With these, they had the rest of the day to construct a hammock which would dangle from their designated cliff space miles above the lava, granting them a safe place to sleep after the “sunset”.

This was important, for every night within the 12 hour darkness, a demon unlike any other was released. Locals knew it only as The Patriot due to its colossal eagle-like wings genetically fused onto an iguana-type body, the size of a small airline carrier, scouring the cliff for any human exposed throughout the blackness. And if it spotted a Client who wasn’t securely hidden underneath the top ridge of the rock face, it would simply pluck them up with its talon-blades, and fly them off to a much worse place, most likely to serve as food for its countless spawns or something equally disturbing, Faure wasn’t sure. Regardless, the sounds of flapping wings and piercing screams guaranteed a disturbed first nights sleep for any player, cowering in their hammock, wondering if they had done a good enough job not to be seen. But everyone got used to it eventually.

And this demon, while monstrous in appearance, was ultimately beneficial for local participants. For once the “sun” had broken out after the long 12 hours and the area was trustworthy again, Clients would find the creature had dropped thousands of little objects, scattered at random around the area. At first glance, many of the items would be considered useless: a strip of leather; a dirty cushion; a 12 inch feather ... but all of these served one purpose. To add to the hammock, building a better and more comfortable place of sleep; a place to have pride in. And as one could imagine, after a few years or decades or centuries of this behaviour, some of the hammocks became very elaborate indeed—and that was the point of the game.

For once every human calendar month, a collection of judge demons would patrol the area and evaluate each and every hammock hanging off the cliff, then determining a winner based on originality, style, comfort, and technique. And this winner would be granted the much sought out permission to leave, going back to their old life on earth, earned by their hard work.

This meant that the hammocks became a project of flaunting to the level of competition. Some were multi-levelled, resembling oversized dreamcatchers or upside down tents; others hung low but spread great distances, bursting with glorious colours and decoration. Others even had separate rooms, but each and every one of them hung from a single piece of strong rope attached to the cliff from the small yet indestructible screw designated to them on their first day.

With all of this bragging came the inevitable resentment, which of course, bred just the kind of antagonism the Devil loved. A neighbour with a superior hammock may wake up on occasion to the sawing noise of their core rope being cut at, as some desperate soul risked capture from the Eagle by sneaking around at night time, attempting to sabotage the opposition in order to up their chances. Luckily, this was next to impossible, as the Eagle was sharp and would catch them in seconds, and the ropes were far too durable to be cut. And for good reason.

This was because, like those stations that came before, the proposed method of freedom was a fake promise. No Client was ever chosen to be freed based on their hammock, and if you ever saw one winning that prize, it was a demon in disguise placed as a decoy. However, and unlike the stations that came before, there was no actual way to achieve freedom in this area, the whole station having no exit. The only chance one would have would be to jump off the cliff and into the fierce lava below, slowly melting and burning, screaming in pain for what took many minutes to eventually dissolve you. But you wouldn’t die and get sent to Hell 2 like most deaths in Hell, nor would you be freed.

Instead, the Client would find themselves right back on this very train, The Johnson Line, at Station One, facing Faure or another train guide. This proposed concept excited all of Hell, and even though it took a while, the game was eventually approved by God, agreeing that it stuck to the original contract, as the Client still had the chance of freedom, now allowed to select a different station except armed with the superior knowledge of what every station entailed before it came. Such an advantage could prove priceless in their escape, which made for a fascinating stop, so much so that Lucifer threw a party for most upper classes of Hell once the finer details had been signed-off.

It’s somewhat a pity then, that jumping into fiery lava was so counter-intuitive that nobody would ever think to do it, and as of yet, not a single Client had claimed the result. But when one did, they would be watched very closely on the televisions of demons all across Hell, as the only Client to ride the line twice.

The Overground Part 1