Chapter Text
End Town, 20XX. Years since the human-daemon war: 296
The sun is getting low… he should be getting home by now. Papa said to be home before dark. Cause it’s a Tuesday. And Tuesday is the “inspection” day for their town. Virgil never really understood why it’s called an inspection, when it’s really just a bunch of people in suits breaking all of their stuff and taking their money.
It’s a euphemism, is what Patton had said. Something that doesn’t sound as true as the actual word so that it doesn’t seem so bad. If it’s not true, then it’s just lying and everyone is being stupid, in his opinion. But Patton says it’s just better to go with things as they are. The logic is sound, he knows, acting up never causes anything good to happen, but it feels wrong nothing, too.
There’s a change in the air, just as he’s bending down to grab another bottle cap off the ground. (Good for melting, or making pretty things. Pretty things can be sold, and that’s the whole point. He just wants a few more before he goes home…) It’s suddenly a bit colder and smells like mint, but even sharper.
A daemon is following him. It looks like a cat but too thin and the eyes are a bit too large. He offers them the crackers he’d been saving for a snack because they look hungry. It’s the right thing to do. Always be nice to daemons, because then they will be nice too. And it’s good to make friends with them, when possible.
The daemon is hesitant but accepts the gift gracefully.
“...You are kind, child. What is your name?”
“I’m Virgil! It’s nice to meet you.”
“I will repay your selflessness with a Gift, little Virgil.”
“Oh- that’s okay! You don’t have to. Gifts are a big deal, momma says. I just gave you some sweets...”
They quirked their head in a telltale sign of curiosity. “A big deal, you say? Hmmm… I had not thought that was the human’s perspective on the matter.”
“Yeah, it’s supposed to be super special, because… I don’t remember exactly how momma said it… uhm. Because… our gifts to you are for… tolerance? Of us taking up your ter-it-tory. In the war.”
“Humble creatures, you are. Very well; if our Gifts to you are such a “big deal,” then I think I should give you something truly precious, for the sake of balance. There is no such thing as paying to be tolerated, little Virgil.”
“I mean- thank you so much! You really don’t have to if you’re busy...”
“I will give you the abilities of the creature I inhabit. You will always land on your feet. You will see the path ahead of you even in near pitch-darkness. You will have nine chances at life.”
“Woah! That is a big Gift!”
The daemon nodded and seemed like they were going to talk again, before there was a bunch of shouting and loud noises from around the corner, and they fled.
Virgil didn’t actually feel much different, but he trusted the daemon to be honest and that the Gifts were true. But for now, it was time to run, because now he knows that there would be no more bottle caps today. It's a Tuesday, and the “inspectors” are here. He only hopes that maybe some of the agileness of a cat had been given to him as well, so that he could get home unseen, or at least quickly.
...That was not to be, he recalls, but this is where the details become fuzzy and not quite graspable. It’s all water slipping through his hands, even trying to remember it just the next morning.
What he does know is that there was someone in a white suit, (Was it white? Or just a very light grey?) and that they were angry. Their white (Yes, it was definitely white) pant cuffs had turned red with blood that day (His blood?) and Virgil had experienced the worst headache he’d ever felt in his life. There was a skull-splitting, ear-ringing pain all through his head, and then darkness.
Virgil woke up when the moon was high, in a puddle of blood and dirt, but he had no visible injuries. That’s why he was never quite able to remember if the blood was his, because there was nowhere that he’d been hurt.
He made his way home quickly, and when his parents had calmed down and stopped crying because they thought he was gone forever, he went to sleep. He went to sleep and dreamed of light, bright and blinding, with a crowd of disappointed people shouting that he had wasted a chance. Eight, eight, eight. Eight more left, stupid little boy!
Virgil felt like that was important for some reason, but couldn’t quite make the connection in wakefulness. He asked his parents what it might mean, but they said it was just a nightmare. He asked the curious little cat daemon the next time they crossed paths, and they gladly explained in exchange for a dish of milk.
“You saw death, child. It is different for everybody, but that is no doubt what you experienced. I suppose it is rather lucky that we met that day, then. You lost a life within hours of gaining several. Do not waste the chances you have been given. At the very least, make your deaths meaningful, and perhaps the spirits will not be so angered.”
“So… is that what’s gonna happen when I die for real? All bright and awful with people screaming at me?”
“...I am unsure. Not many have had the opportunity to die more than once. It may very well be different next time.”
“Okay. That makes sense, I guess… well, not really, but thank you for the advice anyway.”
“And thank you for the milk, little Virgil. I have a feeling that we could be very good friends.”
“Me too!”