Day 193.
For five days, there were no monologues or soliloquies, no staff being pointing at my face, no glares from determined eyes approaching my throne room. There was nothing but silence, just me sitting on my throne in my room, staring at a clown painting devoid of an audience and a bedsheet made of toenails that lacked a victim. I wondered what I was supposed to do with my time if no one was trying to murder me.
I was going insane.
Not in the "I'm a demon queen and I've embraced the darkness" way. More so than anything else, my ex-girlfriend's daily assassination attempt was the only thing that broke the monotony, but now that's gone, too. The walls were closing in. Figuratively. If they'd been closing in, literally, at least something would be happening.
I tried to leave.
Not just down the stairs, but the whole tower. Leave it completely. I walked all the way to the ground floor, scaring the living daylights out of every adventurer I encountered, which was the only entertainment left. I reached the entrance. I saw the sky; I smelled the air. I could see the road leading away from this place toward a city where people presumably do things other than sitting on a throne waiting to explode someone.
I stepped forward, but a wall of force hit me in the chest like a truck, launching me backward thirty feet into a stone wall.
I tried again and again. Every time the barrier lit up, I flew and then peeled myself off the wall and walked straight toward it. It happened twelve times.
"You tried to leave?" Sable had laughed for three straight minutes when I told her, curled up on the couch in the common room, with tears running down her face. "You walked down to the lobby and tried to walk out the front door?"
So I couldn't leave. The tower wouldn't let me. I was a prisoner on the world's tallest leash: I was free to wander the building but not step outside it. That meant all I could do was roam the floors, terrorizing adventurers who were expecting a carefully curated dungeon experience and instead got the final boss stomping through floor 37 in a bad mood.
Today was no different than yesterday. Spite and Malice trailed behind me as I wandered the stairwells between floors, arms crossed, tail dragging behind me.
"Your Wickedness," Spite approached cautiously. "Perhaps we could find a diversion to lift your spirits?"
"I'm not in the mood, Spite."
"But you might enjoy watching Malice and I fight to the death? We could arrange weapons! Or no weapons! The rawness of bare-handed combat might appeal to you —"
"No."
"Understood! Alternatively, we could collect some of the lower-floor adventurers and arrange them into a human pyramid, Your Darkness! We could make them hold the formation while you —"
"No."
"Or!" Malice interjected, eyes bright. "What if we put Spite inside the mimic?"
"I volunteer!" Spite said immediately. "For your amusement, I would enter any orifice —"
"Nobody is entering any orifice!"
We took another flight down. 64. 63. The door to 62 was ajar. I could hear distant sounds of combat and I considered going in just to watch, just to look at something other than the same stone walls. But suddenly, I heard footsteps.
Rapid footsteps echoing up the stairs near us. The distinct, rhythmic slap of boots on stone from someone who was ascending at speed, skipping steps, moving in a way that I would recognize in my sleep.
I grabbed Spite by his tiny shoulders.
"How do I look?"
"Terrible! Devastating! Ruinous! Your hair is a cascade of nightmares and your eyes are the color of suffering. Your skin radiates a pallor that would make the living weep with terror! You are the most horrifying thing I have ever beheld and I am honored to behold you!"
"So my hair looks okay?"
"It is an abomination of beauty, Your Darkness!"
"Fix it." They scrambled. Malice crawled up my arm like a squirrel and started arranging my hair, taming stray strands. Spite, meanwhile, had somehow produced a tube of lipstick and was jumping up and down to reach my mouth.
"Lower the neckline," I said to Malice. "More—yeah. There. And fix the—yes. Good."
Malice pulled on the fabric, while Spite completed the application of lipstick. Both of them stepped back and looked at me with a mix of adoration and fear.
"Perfect," I said. "Now. Act casual."
"What does casual look like, Your Darkness?"
"Like we don't care. We're just here. We wander this floor all the time and it's not a big deal and I definitely wasn't waiting for anyone."
"We weren't waiting for anyone!"
"Exactly."
"Because we don't care!"
"Your indifference is a masterwork, oh Glorious —"
"Shut up, she's coming."
The sound of footsteps echoed throughout the hall, eventually reaching the landing. A silver-white head emerged from the corner, flushed and panting, clutching a staff in one hand and determination etched on her face. She took two steps into the corridor, then abruptly stopped.
I leaned my back against the wall. Casual. Indifferent. Demon queen just hanging around floor 62 for no reason at all.
"Oh," I said. "What a coincidence. Running into you here."
Ayla's eyes were wide. Her lips were parted. She had started to lift her staff.
"You're —" she started. "Why are you... this is floor 62."
"Is it? I hadn't noticed."
She blinked several times. Her grasp on her staff tightened, and I could see the gears turning as her combat instincts took over.
"Ugh." I pushed off the wall. "Can you not? For like five minutes? I want to show you something."
"You want to... what?"
"I want to show you something! On my floor! You're going to hate it, it's going to be amazing, come on come on come on." I was already making my way toward the stairs. I couldn't help myself. After six days of anticipation, the reward was right at my fingertips. I was nearly dancing with glee.
She didn't move. She was frozen in place, her staff glowing, her eyes wide, perfectly balanced between fight and flight and complete confusion.
"Oh for—come on."
I stretched out my tail, wrapped it around her midsection and lifted her off the ground. I had hated it at first: the weight, the way it knocked things over, the problem of sitting on it. But after a few months, I started to appreciate its potential. It's like having an extra arm that's six feet long and strong enough to crush rocks. I've used it to open doors, carry things, and even scratch my own back. And now, apparently, using it to transport mages.
"HEY —"
"We're going upstairs! Come on, you're going to love this. Well, you're going to hate this. Which I'm going to love."
"PUT ME DOWN —"
I carried her up the stairs. She struggled for about three floors, then gave up, hanging in my tail's grip limply. Spite and Malice trotted behind us, watching the scene with rapt attention.
Floor 67. A group of adventurers was making its way up. They caught sight of me, the demon queen, holding a mage in my tail and most of them moved. One of them didn't move fast enough. I shoved him aside with my free hand. He hit the far wall so hard the stone cracked. He did not get up.
"Oops. I forget my strength sometimes," I said. "Sorry about your friend. He should've moved." I kept going up the stairs. After about a minute of silence, Ayla spoke.
"Actually," Ayla said from somewhere around my hip, "this is kind of nice. My legs are killing me. These stairs are no joke."
We have arrived at the 100th floor. I kicked the door open and carried her inside, then set her down in the middle of the room. She stumbled, found her footing and looked around.
I was literally vibrating with anticipation. For six days, I'd waited for this. Six days of the clown painting staring at nothing. Six days of wasted psychological warfare. Now, this moment was worth it all.
"Notice something?" I asked. "Look around. Take it all in."
I paid close attention to her expression. I was more than ready. Spite and Malice were positioned behind me.
"Oh my god!" Ayla exclaimed.
Yes. YES. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Spite leaned forward, and Malice gripped his own ears in anticipation.
"Your Dreadfulness, she appears to be experiencing distress!" Spite whispered. "Shall I list the emotions? Disgust! Revulsion! Existential horror! Intestinal —"
"A deep and primal repugnance!" Malice added. "A fundamental rejection of all that is good and —"
"Shh!" I hissed.
Ayla walked toward the painting slowly. Her staff hung forgotten at her side. Her eyes were locked on the six-foot nightmare clown that I had personally selected for maximum psychological devastation.
"Is that Mollie?" she asked
"...what?"
"It is! Oh my god!" Ayla's face broke into a grin. "That's my neighbor! From the village! She wanted to be a hobbyist clown but everyone told her she didn't have the face for it and she kept trying anyway. Look at her! She actually did it!"
"That's not—the painting is supposed to be—"
"This is so inspiring. Wait, do you know Mollie? Is that why you have this? Are you guys friends?"
"The painting is meant to be SCARY."
"Mollie's not scary. She's lovely."
"Fine," I said through gritted teeth. "Fine. The painting didn't work. But what about THIS!"
I dramatically pointed at the toenail bedsheet. It was still strewn across the floor in all its horrible glory. Five days of undisturbed sitting had not diminished its impact. If anything, the slight yellowing had made it worse.
Ayla looked down at it and crouched, then picked up a handful of nail clippings and examined them with intense concentration.
"Oh, hey!" she said. "Where did you get these? I know a guy who pays really well for these. Do you know how hard it is to find quality keratin fragments in this economy? Can I take some? I could really use the extra gold."
"VEGETABLES!" I hissed.
Spite and Malice snapped to attention. There was no need for further guidance. They had been eagerly anticipating an order, and when it came, it was accompanied by the fervor of a woman unraveling. They threw themselves at the wilted cornucopia and started hurling produce at Ayla with enthusiasm.
A head of cauliflower sailed past Ayla's ear. She evaded, but a handful of Brussels sprouts struck her shoulder. A zucchini bounced off her staff.
"Oh, nice!" Ayla caught a piece of broccoli midair and took a bite. "I haven't had breakfast today."
"STOP EATING THE PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE!"
She picked a Brussels sprout off the floor and, after examining it briefly, popped it into her mouth. "These are actually pretty good. A little wilted but—oh, is this celery?" She grabbed something off the ground. "I love celery."
Something inside me broke. It was physical, not emotional. What came out of my mouth was not a word. It was a roar. It shook the floor and rattled the chandeliers. I'm sure they registered on whatever seismic instruments this world has.
Ayla stopped chewing.
"WHERE WERE YOU?" I screamed. "FIVE DAYS! FIVE DAYS, AYLA! What happened? Where WERE you?"
"Oh," she said. "I died and Barney didn't revive me. So I was just... dead. For five days." She shrugged. "The Guildmaster ended up reviving me. Guess he needed my clear times for his quarterly reports. Either way, I'm alive, but now I owe him. A lot. He's got me running guild contracts to pay off the resurrection debt." She sighed. "So I can't come here every day anymore. Not until the debt's paid off. Which sucks. But as soon as I'm clear, I'll be back to daily visits! I'm not giving up! Promise!"
I was there, panting, amid wilted vegetables, toenail clippings and a portrait of the hobbyist clown Mollie. It was there that I witnessed the wreckage of a psychological war that had achieved nothing.
I stared at her for a long moment. Her staff was at her side. Her hair was a mess from being carried up 38 floors in my tail. A piece of Brussels sprout was lodged in her teeth. She was beaming at me. Like this was fun.
"Ugh," I said, waving my hand.
She exploded.
I sat down on my throne. The cat things came in. They surveyed the room—the toenail clippings, the scattered vegetables, the remains of Ayla, and got to work.
"I can't believe it didn't work," I said.
Spite patted my ankle. "The toenail clippings were still very upsetting to us, Your Wickedness."
"Thank you, Spite."
"Yeah! We were deeply disturbed."
"I appreciate that."
"Shall we prepare new psychological torments for tomorrow, Your Terribleness?"
I looked at the clown painting. Mollie smiled down at me with her red teeth and her uneven pupils and her dream of being a hobbyist clown, which had apparently come true.
"Yeah," I said. "We should."