Stars and Stripes Forever

Stars and Stripes Forever or 'The Yankee's Grand Week' is a multi-part fic by Bird/ Strataffin detailing the Yankee's doings in the weeks leading up to graduation. 'Chapter 1: In a Bind, Way Behind' features Edison Axeman as he responds to Yankee's attempt to summon a demon and sell his soul.

Chapter 1: In a Bind, Way Behind
Edison Axeman had been around for a long, long time, in his own way. He wasn’t so ageless as to have been around at, say, the time of Christ, but time passed different in the devilish spheres of the netherworlds, and he was -- at once -- laughably inexperienced and knowledgeably jaded.

That was why he couldn’t exactly discern if he was beyond flattered or if he’d just been a victim of something resembling casual racism when he heard about what Yankee was doing in the courtyard at 3AM.

American mysticism was so… problematic. Openly problematic, too. Eddy couldn’t stand Satanists, cultists, they gave Devils a bad name. The more pagan and depraved the ritual, the practice was, the more Devil culture suffered as a whole. That wasn’t to say that America was bad on all counts in that regard, though. One of Eddie’s best friends, a lady demon called Liberty that had a few more eternities under her belt than Eddie did, had actually been summoned by the Founding Fathers, extended the invitation to act as the Spirit of Freedom, the bulwark of what the country stood for, or something.

That had to have been an honor. A cheap, fabricated pretence designed to distract from the fact that the founders had literally sought supernatural help in order to ensure the strength of their budding nation, but, eh.

If you asked Eddie personally, he’d claim dual citizenship, in most regards. In between Heaven and Hell. In between happy and sad. In between America and Canada. That last one sounded like a joke, but he recently found out he was supposed to show up in Yukon at some point to offer some guy named McGee a chance at being fireproof, so…

That was the other thing. He felt like he was only being told about some of these responsibilities late in the game and that irritated him. It wasn’t like he was going to blow them off, no, but he would have liked to have known earlier. You couldn’t just… tack these things on at the end. That was unfair. He was only a few weeks away from finishing high school and he kept getting these horrible emails and texts from his mother and father reminding him of things he had to do or things he should be thinking about.

He reckoned it was that last part that really pissed him off. Nobody had any right to tell him what to think. You could mention things, but to say that ‘x’ item should consume his every waking thought was brazen to the point of ignorance and he couldn’t stand for it. Eddy’s thoughts were his own. His actions were his own, too. Nobody could change that. Existence and life and consciousness within this universe were already so existentially meaningless, that -- in Eddy’s book -- if you tried to force others into acting a certain way, it was tantamount to a full-on declaration of war.

That’s why Jack was such an awful being. He forced. That’s all he did. He didn’t coerce, convince, or debate, in some ways. He trapped. He pressured. Barring the Stone Trial (which even Eddy had to admit was some hot shit), his Father couldn’t be accounted among clever orators or talented advocates. He just… did things. People liked him, sure. That’s all anybody in the Outerrealms ever talked about. How they’d ‘Never met an entity they liked more than Jack the Scratch’. However, as Eddy saw it, they liked him because he made them like him or else shredded their souls like tissue paper through an industrial shredder.

Eddy believed in technique. In tolerance. In the convincing of someone to believe they had been game for something the whole time. To honesty without the flowery, piteous concepts of good and evil. Existence. Existence. Existence.

It was a game. You had to put meaning into it. You had to let others put their meaning into it to, otherwise you were awful. There was yet another reason why he hated the whole ‘Fires of Hell, eating children, endless torment’ trope. Because (in addition to being woefully inaccurate) it permeated propaganda and was actually, legitimately evil. Good was nebulous and may not have actually existed in the strictest sense, Eddy reckoned, but evil was absolutely alive and well and it was epitomized in anyone that sought to subjugate, discriminate, or inflict cruelty for the sake of cruelty. If something was evil, it was against independence, it was against respect and it was against the meaning that other people believed in.

Evil was evil.

Eddy was not evil. Eddy was far from it. Eddie was an ambassador. Eddy was a missionary. Eddie was an envoy, a representative from planes outside the radius of human imagination that didn’t really care about you so much as cared you were aware that they didn’t care. He was an entity that was designed to show you the hollowness of all things and grant you enjoyment and power while you still lived. That was where the emphasis should be placed. While you still lived. Everybody deserved to get what they wanted because there was barely a hereafter and it what structure it had was worryingly sparse.

Eddy knew this. Eddy felt it made him wiser, but…

...but why in the actual hell was Yankee blasting ‘Long Tall Sally’ by Little Richard at 3AM and tracing a pentagram?

He hadn’t actually heard the music directly, he’d just gotten a call from Anomaly that pointed him to the courtyard and that he’d “know what was going on when he got there”.

Eddy was actually still in his pajamas, a Midas Gold Solid t-shirt and black and white flannel pants, but the Yankee was actually dressed in a full, wine-red suit. He was clearly serious about this whole summoning thing, but he’d made the rookie mistake of placing the speaker dead center in the pentagram and for whatever reason that was the detail that bothered Eddy the most. Not the earliness of the ritual, not the sloppy, pointless glyphs, not the song choice (it was actually pretty good), but his stupid placing of the music player dead center.

It was a wonder somebody hadn’t stopped him already. It was loud and there had to be some dorm within earshot. Did Ever After even have campus security? Or was it just all… fruity loops magical incantations and whatever?

Regardless, there was the Yankee, in full suit, on his knees, etching things in chalk and looking like it was only the most common of pastimes. What, haven’t you drawn your daily summoning circle set to the high notes of Little Richard?

“Yankee!” Eddy called out. Brow was locked in a scowl and yet he still felt the need to aggressively try to rub sleep out of the corners of his eyes.

No response. Eddy continued forward, nearly closed the gap entirely, only standing about a meter behind Yankee.

“Yankee!” He repeated. Still nothing. “What the hell, man?”

Yankee’s right chalk hand stopped working away and he sat still a moment, but didn’t turn to look behind him. “... Is that a pun?”

Eddy resisted the urge to kick at him with a socked foot. “No, it’s not a pun! What the… what are you doing out here!?”

Another huge pause. Eddy could hear the Yankee open his mouth several times and inhale as if to speak, but after the third time it became clear that nothing was going to come out, and Eddy elected to press.

“Don’t say you’re camping.”

This time Yankee’s response was almost automatic. “Is that a response you get a lot?”

“You’d be surprised.”

The lull that came after that exchange bothered Eddy further and he lifted his thumb and forefinger like a pistol, produced a small tendril of flame not unlike a barbecue lighter, and then shot it, twisting, spitting and sparking, towards the music player, damaging it soundly enough to shut it up or at least greatly decrease the volume.

“Didn’t like the song?”

“Start talking.” Eddy prompted, ignoring the question.

“Or what?”

“Or else I’m gonna have to assume that you’re performing a hate crime.”

“Are you serious?”

“Partly.”

More breathing. Eddy, in desperation, took the last few steps, and after resting a hand on Yankee’s shoulder, helped him to stand. He seemed slightly unsteady and upon turning him so they could look eye to eye, Eddy could detect redness, even in the low light.

No, not redness in his actual eyes… redness around them. Tears. Recent tears.

Eddy suddenly softened. Almost entirely. “Damn, are you… are you okay? You need to talk?”

“Depends.”

“If you keep giving me the runaround, I swear on His Majesty I’m going to report this.”

The Yankee stared at him, blinked twice, then seemed to catch a sob in his throat. He covered it with a laugh, hid his face, angled himself away again. Eddy slackened his grip just enough, and spoke more gently this time.

“No tricks, no deals, I’ll talk to you. Batshit stuff like this is a call for help.”

The Yankee appeared to actually be weeping, but as Eddy continued to stare, he turned back to him and he could see that despite the eyes, the edges of his mouth were turned up in some rueful smile. He cleared his throat, phlegm-ridden, then straightened his posture and seemed to compose himself a little more.

Eddy wished he could take the words back. That, in itself was presumptuous, borderline hypocritical. Eddy didn’t know what this was. Eddy couldn’t know what this was. Only Yankee could. It was up to him. Whatever this ritual was supposed to represent was his own business. He and he alone could select its meaning.

“Actually, it’s parley.”

“For… me?”

“For a Devil.”

“I don’t understand.” Eddy pointed to the music player. “That was pretty on-the-nose.”

“Jazz isn’t a Devil thing?”

“That’s racist.”

“Is it?”

“It’s presumptuous and makes an assumption on all Devils based on the one single devil you’re on speaking terms with. What exactly would you call that?”

“Scientific method.”

Eddy scoffed. “How so?”

“I have evidence and a theory, and upon testing it, I’ll have certainty.”

“That’s… not really correct, but I can appreciate it. You were trying to contact a Devil, then? Not me.”

“If you’re a Litigator, then, sure, it was meant for you.” The Yankee’s eerily unreachable little fit appeared to be passing.

“And what if I’m not?”

“Then you’ll scurry off to report me, I’ll finish performing this ‘hate crime’, conclude my business, and then sleep like a baby.” The Yankee said matter-of-factly.

“You won’t.”

“Won’t sleep?”

“Won’t conclude your business. You’ve made several rookie mistakes, you’re not gonna reach anybody.”

“Then I hope to Hell that you’re a Litigator.”

“Is that a pun?” Eddy grinned.

“Actually, yes.”

“Well, you’ve broken my first rule, which is ‘No puns’, but I reckon I see where you’re going with this and I’m prepared to take it indoors. Head for the castleteria?”

“Sounds good.” The Yankee glanced back at his runes on the ground. “What should I do about this.”

“Leave it for the gnome janitor or whatever.”

The Yankee grunted. “All the more time to discuss the state of my soul.”

Eddy smiled again, but he could feel a part of his brain hollow out and his throat become slightly dry. He swallowed, reflexively.

Something about this didn’t seem sporting.

---

“Your wrist says ‘Art is Dead’. Why?”

Eddie shrugged. “Because it is. Passion’s gone out of reality in so many ways.”

“And yet you still make music.”

“I still try to do a lot of things. I’m not Churchill, but I don’t surrender. We have to make the most of the time we’ve begin, and bein’ honest I’m comfortable fighting for what I like. Losing battle or no.”

“Mmm.” The Yankee broke from his gaze and stared off into the darkness.

“...Are you happy, Yankee?”

“I’m not sure, most days.” He said quietly.

“I’m impressed by the suit, but it’s superfluous. Most Devils will take you as you are -- it’s not a job interview -- yet I can see where you were coming from and I respect that. It’s nice. Where did you get it?”

The Yankee remained silent, fixated on a point somewhere above Edison’s left shoulder and he could actually watch a part of his eyes almost hollow out, light leaving as a thought seemed to occur to him.

“So, what’s it like?” The Yankee’s eyes snapped back to his.

“What is…? Oh, you mean…” Eddie’s pause was long not out of a sense of payback for the Yankee’s extended deliberation between answers, but truly because he was searching for the right way to put it. “Cold. It’s cold.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not. We’re not packing fire because there’s fire everywhere.” Eddie let the ends of his fingers spit out a small little spurt of flame, one on each digit of his right hand as he stared at the lines on his own palm, flipped the hand over and looked at the ink. “That wouldn’t make sense. We use fire because it’s cold. It’s honest-to-god just a cold sphere.”

“How cold?”

“Canada.” Eddie said automatically. It was a blank, slightly droll comment, but in a way it wasn’t inaccurate. It was hard to quantify the exact climate and feeling in words and it always helped to compare things to human-grounded locales and concepts.

“That’s not bad.”

“That’s a matter of taste. I’ve seen people who were having a grand old time until it start to wear them down. You bundle up, you busy yourself. Try not to think about what you’ve left behind. It didn’t matter anyway.”

“How bleak.” The Yankee blew out a mirthless, uncomfortable laugh.

“Not really, man.” Eddie said. “It’s honest. You may be the first person with a shred of sense in their head and I don’t even know if I like you for it. Might even be the contrary. In some ways you see things the way you should be seen. You’re not acting like it, but I can read between the lines. You have issues. We all have issues. You fix a few more of them you may really have an existence going for you.”

“But you’re sure this is binding?”

“Absolutely. Eternally. Limitless empire in mortal life. Your soul gets sent my way at the end of the road.”

“You’re not trying to screw me?”

“We wrote this up together, Yankee. There’s no clause in here you don’t know about. Nobody gets this deal in ever. It’s because you sought me out that this isn’t some kind of game. And it’s not like this is torment, either, it’s just… post-existence.”

“But, what about this?” The Yankee’s frequent questions and slightly mystified tone made him seem strangely childlike. Even in the full suit, even in the low light of cafeteria and the lantern Eddie had lit.

“That’s collateral,” Eddie smiled. “That’s my promise. If you use your empire, if you use what you’ve been given to willfully inflict harm for any of the listed reasons, you activate the clause and you lose. The soul of a loved one -- one single loved one -- is mine, too. Forfeit wholly and completely. Claimed immediately upon the breaching of our terms.” Eddie’s tone grew solemn.. Not predatory so much as serious to the point of being dangerous.

“That’s… eerily specific.”

“It’s mercifully vague. Don’t lose sight of your goal. You do that, you’ve only screwed yourself. Doubly so if it’s over a difference of ideals.”

“Ideals.” Yankee echoed numbly. “Do I still keep the empire… do I keep the power if I breach the terms?”

Eddie cracked a smile. A sad, pained smile. Yes, he knew exactly what Yankee was about and that made this deal far more tragic, far more barbed than he ever intended, far more malicious and doomed than Old Jack ever could.

“Yes. You will. But you won’t want it.”

“I’m sure I won’t.” The Yankee shrugged flippantly, smiled back. Genuine. “If I love anyone by that point, I’ll be surprised.”

“So will they.” Eddie said quietly.

“What was that?”

“I said, ‘How worryingly childish’.”

“Sure.”

The Yankee’s hand moved quickly and abruptly and his name was on the paper. Eddie’s hand snaked out and wadded it up like scrap, and as he did so the paper blazed a lustful shade of gold just for a moment before it was folded into the ether and vanished into nothingness with the sound of flapping wings, feathers, snowfall.

Eddie stuck out his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Likewise. It’s almost like we’re friends.” The Yankee’s grasp was firm but slicked in sweat.

Eddie laughed, melodic, now able to find a little more levity in the situation. “You’re my first real soul. Of course we’re friends.”