Sons of Light and Darkness - A Mestoph and Leviticus Fiasco

Chapter 7 - Black is the New Orange

Leviticus was sitting on a cot in a small stone cell that was about ten feet square. There was another cot for Mestoph, but he was currently pacing the space between the cots, wearing a trail of scuff marks from the back wall to the door.

"I have to admit I'm surprised he sent anyone at all. More so that he reached out to you. It's almost like he had a momentary lapse of not giving a shit. Though the exploding head is classically him," said Mestoph.

Mestoph stopped pacing and looked down at Leviticus. The Angel was sitting slumped over looking at the ground. He hadn't said much since recounting his tale to Mestoph.

"Come on, it's not that bad. The Sons are real, and they're up to something, and we're in almost as good a position to find out what as one of the Sons themselves," said Mestoph.

"Yeah, until they sacrifice us."

"It won't get that far. Marco will come murder us long before that," said Mestoph, entirely too enthusiastic.

"Assuming he's still alive, he'll come murder you. And he'll probably leave me here to rot."

"Not when he realizes we're in this together. We'll both be lying on the ground with our throats ripped out, gasping for air in ragged, bloody breaths."

"You think you could revel in our impending doom a little less?" asked Leviticus.

Mestoph shrugged and continued to pace back and forth.

The cell was relatively clean, made of large blocks of granite that were several centuries old, but it was poorly lit by a nearby torch and was below ground, so there was no outside light nor any indication of the time of day. The door was made of thick iron bars, obviously a much more recent addition, that slammed with an impressive heaviness when they were pushed into the cell. It was unlikely they would be breaking out without the help of some dynamite or a bulldozer. Based on the artifacts and iconography they saw while being transported from the stage to their cell, they both agreed they were likely in an Incan temple dedicated to Viracocha or Ayar Cachi, one the Incan creator god and the other a legendary warrior. Not every god had the decency to retire when their followers were systematically slaughtered; praying to either of them was pointless. They were probably in some temple somewhere taking a thousand-year nap.

"I guess we could always beat our heads into the walls until we died," said Mestoph.

"We'd probably pass out long before we got to that point. And then be too brain damaged to finish the job," said Leviticus as he lay back on the cot with his hands behind his head.

"This pacing thing always works better when I have a beer."

"Well, if we had any supplies, I could make you some prison wine."

"What do you know about prison?" asked Mestoph.

"I did a job in a Turkish prison once," said Leviticus, intentionally vague.