Whiteclaw, Tyson, and Jessica Drew stepped into hell. Unlike Limbo, this was a true hell.
The air burned with a caustic heat that scraped against exposed skin like sandpaper made of broken glass. The sky overhead churned in shades of bruised purple and arterial red. Screams came on the wind. Distant, endless, layered over each other until individual voices blurred into something worse than any single cry. The sound burrowed into Tyson's skull and wouldn't leave.
Jessica pressed her hands over her ears. "How do people exist here?"
"They don't." Tyson scanned the horizon. "Not really."
Despite the screams on the wind, there were no creatures in the area, no tortured souls they could see. The landscape stretched in all directions, barren and broken with jagged formations jutting from the ground, not dissimilar from Limbo in that way. Nothing moved except the wind.
Tyson gripped Mjolnir tighter. He reached for his connection to Limbo through Nexus. It responded sluggishly, distant in a way it hadn't since his time collared in the TVA.
Jessica moved closer to him. "What now?"
Tyson pointed to a tower nearby. It stood out, the only visible structure of any note. The tower rose from the landscape, its top disappeared into the roiling clouds, or perhaps it simply ended where perception gave up trying to make sense of it.
"That's not ominous at all," Jessica muttered.
"It's the only landmark." Tyson started forward, then paused. "Unless you see something else?"
Jessica turned in a slow circle, surveying the hellscape. "Nothing. Just... emptiness. And that thing."
Whiteclaw prowled ahead. "Don't like it. Smells like a trap."
"This was your idea, remember. Besides, everything here smells like a trap." Tyson followed her, keeping Jessica in his peripheral vision. "But we need to find Vilsteth, or another suitable demon, and that tower is the only place to start looking."
"Could go around," Whiteclaw suggested. "Hunt the edges. Find tracks."
"In this?" Jessica gestured at the ground. "Hunt how? There are no tracks. Nothing lives here."
"Something built the tower."
Whiteclaw had a point. The tower hadn't grown from the landscape; someone or something had constructed it. Which meant intelligence. Which meant potential danger beyond simple demons.
"We don't have time to scout the entire realm." Tyson resumed walking. "We only have days or less until Jessica is affected. We need to finish this and get back before then."
They walked in silence for several minutes. The screaming never stopped; it simply existed, a constant backdrop of suffering that Tyson tried and failed to tune out. He'd heard screams before, in battle, in rage, or in pain. These were different. These screams had no hope of ending.
The tower loomed closer. Whiteclaw stopped fifty feet from the base. "Door."
Tyson saw it. A simple rectangular opening, no door visible, just a threshold leading into deeper darkness. Too simple. Too convenient.
"It could be a mouth," Jessica said quietly. "Could swallow us whole the moment we step inside."
"Could be." Tyson approached anyway. "But we're not here for sightseeing."
Jessica grabbed his arm. "Wait. Just... wait a second." She stared at the opening, then at the tower itself. "This doesn't make sense. Why a tower? Why would there be a tower and no demons, nothing?"
Tyson weighed their options. They could retreat, search elsewhere, waste time they didn't have. Or they could push forward, accept the risk, and hope that whatever waited inside was something they could handle.
"We go in," he decided. "But carefully. Whiteclaw, you take point. Your senses are sharper than ours. Jessica, stay between us. I'll watch our backs."
Jessica nodded, though her jaw tightened. "And if it's a trap?"
"Then we spring it and deal with the consequences." Tyson moved toward the entrance. "We're here for demons; if it's demons that attack, we found what we're looking for."
Whiteclaw reached the threshold first. She sniffed at the opening, ears flat against her skull. "Smells like... nothing. No smell at all."
He stepped up beside Whiteclaw, peering into the darkness beyond the door. His senses, enhanced by his various absorbed powers, should have been able to penetrate the gloom. Instead, he saw only black, absolute, and impenetrable.
"Last chance to reconsider," Jessica said behind him.
Tyson reached out, letting his hand cross the threshold. The darkness felt cool against his skin, almost refreshing after the burning air outside. No magic flared to life. And thankfully, no teeth or any other surprise closed around his fingers.
"We're going in." He stepped forward.
Whiteclaw followed immediately. Jessica came last, one hand on Tyson's shoulder to maintain contact in the darkness.
They found themselves in an office building. Fluorescent lights, carpet, a water cooler in one corner, the kind with the massive blue bottle on top. Tyson blinked. One step through darkness, and they stood in a reception area.
A desk sat before them, positioned in front of another door. Behind it sat a secretary.
She was beautiful. Not in the way models were beautiful, with careful diets, plastic surgery, and makeup. This was something else. Her face was perfectly proportioned. Her skin glowed from within, luminous without being pale. Black hair fell in waves.
Nothing human looked like that.
Behind her, tucked against her back, black-feathered wings sat folded.
She looked up as they entered.
She looked at Tyson first, then Jessica, then Whiteclaw. Her glance held something deeper, something that let her look past skin and bone, past thought and memory. He felt exposed. Every choice, every weakness, every failure laid bare.
She was judging them. Weighing their souls against some unknowable standard.
Then the fear hit.
It manifested without warning, transferring from her haunting stare directly into Tyson's heart and mind. Not the adrenaline rush of facing danger, not the anxiety of uncertainty. This was Fear itself, capital F. The kind that existed before language, before thought. Prey in the presence of a predator.
Tyson's breath caught. His muscles locked. Mjolnir suddenly weighed a thousand pounds in his grip. Everything stopped, except his heart. He could feel it beating, pulsing. But then he realized, that wasn't his heart beat he was feeling. He reached for it. Reached down inside himself where that spark in his soul lay. He grabbed onto it and pushed back.
The fear broke.
Beside him, Jessica and Whiteclaw weren't so fortunate. Jessica had frozen mid-step, one hand still on his shoulder, her face locked in absolute terror. Her eyes had gone wide, pupils dilated until only thin rings of color remained. She wasn't breathing.
Whiteclaw had dropped to all fours, her body pressed flat against the carpet in a posture of complete submission. Her ears lay flat against her skull, her tail tucked between her legs. A low whine escaped her throat.
Tyson moved to attack, raising Mjolnir, but the secretary turned her full attention on him.
"The boss will see you."
Her voice held no accent, no inflection. The words were utterly neutral. She blinked once, slow and deliberate.
Jessica gasped, stumbling forward. Whiteclaw scrambled to her feet, claws scraping against carpet as she fought for purchase.
The secretary stood, her wings rustling with the movement. She crossed to the door behind her desk and opened it, gesturing them inside.
Jessica leaned against Tyson, her breathing ragged. Whiteclaw pressed against his other side, trembling.
"Easy. You're safe."
"Safe?" Jessica's laugh came out broken. "That was... I've never..." She trailed off, struggling for words.
Tyson waited, giving her time to compose herself. The secretary stood by the open door, patient and still as a statue.
"It was like drowning," Jessica finally managed. "Like being buried alive and drowning and falling all at once. Every fear I've ever had, every nightmare, every moment of panic, all of it happening simultaneously." She looked up at him, eyes still too wide. "How did you resist it?"
"I just did." Tyson didn't elaborate because he didn't have a real answer. Maybe he'd faced too much, absorbed too many memories of death and suffering. His soul had calluses the others lacked. Or maybe it was that spark within him. Maybe there was more to it since he was a 'god', or maybe it was because he could feel his soul, could access it.
Whiteclaw had stopped trembling but remained pressed against his leg. "Couldn't fight it. Just... freeze. Wait for death."
"But you didn't die." Tyson kept one hand on Jessica's shoulder, the other resting on Whiteclaw's head. "You're both still here."
Jessica took a deep breath, then another. Color slowly returned to her face. "What is she? If that's the secretary, what's in the office?" She straightened, pulling away from his support, and rolled her shoulders. "I'm okay. I can do this."
Whiteclaw took longer to recover. She paced in a tight circle, forcing her body to move, to respond to her commands. Her claws retracted and extended repeatedly until she stopped pacing. She looked at the secretary, then deliberately turned her back on the woman. A small act of defiance, reclaiming control.
Jessica moved closer to the open door, peering inside. "Can't see anything. Just darkness again."
"Same as outside." Tyson joined her. The doorway revealed nothing, an absolute black that swallowed light.
The secretary waited, one hand still extended in invitation.
"We could leave," Jessica said quietly. "Go back outside, search elsewhere."
"We could." Tyson considered it. "But we'd just be delaying the inevitable. Whatever's in there, it's what we came for."
"You don't know that."
"No. But I'm willing to bet on it." He looked at her. "You don't have to come. You and Whiteclaw could wait here."
Jessica snorted. "And let you face whatever's in there alone? Not happening."
When she was ready, Tyson led them forward with the secretary entering and closing the door behind them.
The office belonged in Manhattan, not hell. Mahogany panels lined the walls, rich and dark. A fireplace crackled in one corner.
Behind an executive desk sat a demon in a suit.
It wore the suit well. Tailored, an expensive three-piece ensemble. But no amount of tailoring could hide what it was.
Red skin, small horns, clawed hands rested on the desk's surface, one finger tapping slowly.
The demon didn't rise. It simply gestured at three chairs positioned before the desk.
"Please, sit." Its voice was smooth, unhurried. "Would you care for refreshments?"
Behind the desk, floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the hellscape below. The burning sky, the screaming winds, the endless expanse of suffering, all of it spread out like a kingdom.
Tyson moved toward the chairs. Jessica didn't. And he knew why.
His spider-sense screamed. Not the usual warning tingle, not the sharp spike that preceded immediate danger. This was different, overwhelming, a sensation so intense it drowned out everything else. Like standing at the edge of a black hole, feeling the pull of something vast and incomprehensible.
Thanos had registered as dangerous. Annihilus had set off alarms. This made those warnings seem like broken radar blips, faint and meaningless compared to the reality before him.
Jessica stood frozen, her face pale. Her spider-sense must be doing the same thing. She wasn't locked in fear like the angel had caused. This was worse. Her mind couldn't process the magnitude of what she sensed, couldn't reconcile the existential threat her powers screamed about.
Tyson took her hand and guided her forward, step by step, as if walking through a swiftly moving stream. The sensation of danger pressed against him, making each movement feel sluggish and uncertain. Like being drunk, lost within waves of warning that radiated from the demon. Whiteclaw padded to a chair and sat, perfectly still, perfectly obedient like a trained pet waiting for commands. He helped Jessica into her seat. She moved mechanically, her body responding to his guidance while her mind struggled with the sensory overload. He settled into the chair beside her and looked directly at the demon.
It watched them with patient amusement.
"Tyson Smith, Valravn, god of many things. We finally meet."
Tyson's grip tightened on Mjolnir's handle. "You know me?"
"How could I not?" The demon leaned back in its chair, the leather creaking softly. "You left your mark here the last time you came."
Last time? He'd never been to this realm before. Never set foot in this particular hell.
The demon pointed to their left.
Tyson turned. On the wall hung a large ornate mirror, its frame carved with intricate designs.
H'elian's Mirror Cauldron.
He'd watched it break into countless pieces during his battle with Blackheart. The demon had used it to create mirror duplicates, twisted versions of Tyson and his companions. Whiteclaw had been born from that mirror, a duplicate of Felicia. His own duplicate and Maki's had died in the fighting.
Tyson had turned the mirror's power against Blackheart, using it to create his own double, then trap and destroy the demon. The mirror had shattered in the process. The mirror had been central to its plan, but had ultimately led to its destruction.
But here it hung, whole and pristine, as if it had never been broken.
Blackheart had tried to bring hell to Earth. To weaken his father...
His father…
Tyson's breath caught. The office. The suit. The casual display of power. The way this demon sat in judgment over an entire realm. The mirror hanging on the wall like a trophy.
"Mephisto."
The demon's smile widened. Arms spread. Welcoming. Proud.
"In the flesh."
Whiteclaw saw the mirror. Her pupils blew wide, amber irises shrinking to nothing. She backed away from it, claws extending, ears flat against her skull.
Mephisto snapped his fingers.
Whiteclaw screamed. Her body jerked forward, yanked by invisible force toward the mirror's surface. She twisted mid-air, trying to resist, claws scraping uselessly against nothing.
"No!"
Tyson lunged, reaching out with his magnetic sense. He found her adamantium skeleton and grabbed it, halting her flight three feet from the mirror. The metal responded to his will, locked in place by electromagnetic force.
"Let her go!"
Mephisto leaned back in his chair. "No."
He waved his wrist.
The pull intensified. Whiteclaw's body continued sailing toward the mirror, but Tyson held the skeleton immobile. For a moment, flesh and bone strained against each other, caught between opposing forces. He'd never felt something that might have been stronger than his magnetism's pull on a metal. But Tyson refused to let Whiteclaw go. He reinforced his magnetism with the telekinesis he'd taken from Ebony Maw.
Then Whiteclaw's body unwrapped from the skeleton.
It happened like peeling a banana, skin and muscle and organs sliding away from the adamantium frame. It was like the reversal of a snake shedding its skin, grotesque and impossible. Whiteclaw's scream cut off as her throat separated from her vocal cords. Her eyes stayed wide, locked on Tyson in silent horror as her body sailed into the mirror's surface and vanished.
The skeleton remained. Clean adamantium bones, still held in Tyson's magnetic grip, arranged in the shape of a woman. No blood. No tissue. Just metal, gleaming under the office lights.
"Well, that probably hurt," Mephisto said as he examined his fingernails.
Tyson stared at the skeleton. What he'd just witnessed didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense. The metal bones hung in the air, suspended by his power. He'd tried to save her. He'd held on. He'd...
His concentration broke. The skeleton clattered to the floor, bones scattering across expensive carpet.
"Don't worry about it too much." Mephisto gestured dismissively. "The demon is back where it belongs. H'elian's Mirror creates duplicates, after all. The copy has returned to the source. Simple."
"We had a deal." Tyson's voice came out flat, distant.
Mephisto's smile widened. "Oh, you like making deals?" He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "Coincidence. Me too."
His eyes blazed brighter. Yellow fire danced in their depths.
Invisible tendrils picked at Tyson's mind. They wormed through his thoughts. It shouldn't have been possible. He had strong mental defenses.
"Oh, you need a body for your lovely girl with multiple personalities." Mephisto's voice echoed inside Tyson's skull and outside it simultaneously. "Why bother with therapy and drugs when you can skip straight to the source of the problem?"
Tyson tried to resist, to push back against the intrusion. His mental defenses might as well have been tissue paper.
"And your loved ones have died. Jubilation Lee. Illyana Rasputin." Mephisto's smile never wavered. "We can bring them back too, for the right price."
The words cut through Tyson's surprise and shock. He focused, forcing himself to think past the horror of Whiteclaw's destruction. He sat before the devil. The actual devil. And it was trying to make a deal.
"You can't bring them back." Tyson looked the devil in the eye. "I already tried. Death herself stopped it."
Mephisto held up one clawed finger. "Correction. You can't bring them back. You're not strong enough." He tapped the finger against his temple. "I could, for a price."
"Why would you help me?"
Mephisto stood, moving around the desk. He walked to the fireplace, warming his hands over the flames.
"Do you know who I am? Really know, beyond the name and reputation?"
Tyson said nothing.
"I was there at the beginning." Mephisto stared into the fire. "When the first humans drew breath in paradise, I was already ancient. I watched them stumble through their garden, innocent and ignorant, content in their cage."
He turned.
"I was the serpent. The voice that whispered to Lilith, offering her the apple. Knowledge. Choice. Freedom. She took it, of course. They always do. And for that moment of choice, that beautiful instant of free will exercised against divine command, she was cast out." His smile held genuine warmth now, almost nostalgic. "Want to hear a fun fact of divine coincidence? Lilith is in your city, not far from your house. You even heard her voice once."
Mephisto walked toward Tyson. "I don't want souls for torture. I don't need them for power. Hell runs itself quite well without my constant attention." He gestured at the windows, at the burning landscape beyond. "What I seek is the temptation itself. The deal. That moment when someone stands at the crossroads and chooses."
He stopped directly in front of Tyson's chair, looming over him.
"You need something desperately. Multiple somethings. A body for Madelyne. The return of your lost loves. Protection for those who remain." Mephisto's eyes blazed brighter. "I can provide all of it. Everything you want, everything you need to save your world from Thanos and the so-called angels and whatever other threats lurk in your future."
Jessica stirred beside Tyson, her spider-sense still overwhelming her ability to speak or move. She managed to turn her head, looking at him with wide, terrified eyes.
"The price?" Tyson kept his voice steady.
"Ah, now we're negotiating." Mephisto returned to his desk, settling into his chair. "The price varies depending on what you want. Small favors require small payments. Larger miracles demand greater sacrifice."
He drew one claw along the desk's surface, leaving a thin groove in the mahogany that sealed itself behind the talon like healing skin.
"For example, a body for Madelyne. Simple enough. I could craft one from nothing, give her flesh and bone and all the biological necessities. That would cost you... let's say a memory. Something precious. Your first kiss, perhaps. Or the moment you discovered your powers. A better body, maybe a better memory, an entire story from your life, depends on how much better."
Tyson's jaw tightened.
"Bringing back the dead, though." Mephisto's smile turned predatory. "That requires more. Death guards her domain jealously, as you discovered. To circumvent her authority, to reach into the past and pull someone forward before their appointed time..." He trailed off, letting the implications hang.
"What would it cost?"
"For one? Your future." Mephisto leaned forward. "Not all of it. Just a piece. A choice you'll make someday, a path you'll walk. I claim it now, and when the moment comes, you'll choose as I wish."
"That's slavery."
"That's a deal." Mephisto spread his hands. "You get what you want now. I get what I want later. Both parties benefit. Both parties choose freely to enter the agreement."
The fire crackled. Outside, the screaming winds continued their eternal chorus.
"And for both?" Tyson asked quietly. "Jubilee and Illyana?"
Mephisto's smile could have lit the room without the fireplace.
"Now we're talking about real power. Real miracles." He stood again, unable to contain his enthusiasm. "For both, I'd need something substantial. Something that matters."
He circled behind Tyson's chair.
"Your marriage to Jubilee, perhaps. While not legally real… It was real. The bond you share, the love you've built. I take that, and you get her back. But she won't love you anymore. Won't even remember loving you. You'll be strangers."
Tyson's hands clenched on the chair's armrests.
"Or your heroism." Mephisto's voice came from directly behind him now, breath hot against his neck. "I take your desire to save people, to protect the innocent. You get both girls back, alive and whole. But you won't care about anyone else anymore. Won't lift a finger to help. You'll have your loved ones, and the rest of the world can burn."
Tyson asked, "Why do I need you at all? I have thousands of years to prepare."
Mephisto returned to his chair, settling in. "A bluff." He went back to examined his claws, picking at something beneath one nail. "You can't change anything. You can't save them."
"I can make clones—"
"You would've done so already if you were going to." Mephisto interrupted. "You haven't. It's because you know it wouldn't really be them. Their souls are in Valhalla, beyond your reach." He looked up at Tyson. "And you know that it wouldn't be them, even if it was."
He'd considered it, of course. The technology existed. Sinister could grow bodies, could replicate genetic material down to the last nucleotide. But they'd be copies, shadows, dolls wearing familiar faces. The souls that made them who they were had moved beyond his reach.
"I've done this dance with the devil on my shoulder many times already." Tyson forced himself to relax, to lean back in the chair. "I don't need to do it again with the actual devil."
Mephisto's laughter filled the office, rich and genuine.
Not mocking, not cruel. Delighted.
"Well played, Valravn." He clapped his hands together once. "Well played indeed. Very few have the spine to refuse me so directly." His smile widened. "Then let's focus on the immediate problem, shall we? You need a body for Madelyne."
Tyson gestured at the adamantium skeleton scattered across the carpet, then at the mirror hanging on the wall. "You owe me a body. I had one. I already made a deal for that one, and you deprived me of it. You owe me."
The yellow fire in Mephisto's eyes dimmed, replaced by something colder. More calculating. The casual warmth drained from his expression.
"Interesting argument." He drummed his claws against the desk's surface, each tap deliberate. "You believe I owe you because I reclaimed my own property?"
"Whiteclaw was mine." Tyson looked at him without flinching. "Created from the mirror, yes. But she became her own being. Lived her own life. Made her own choices."
"A copy." Mephisto's voice lost its warmth entirely. "A reflection given temporary substance. The mirror creates duplicates, not new souls. What you called Whiteclaw was always mine, always part of this realm. You simply borrowed it for a time."
"Wrong." Tyson leaned forward. "I defeated Blackheart. I saved Earth from his invasion. I saved you from his schemes. Part of that victory included capturing Whiteclaw. I was responsible for her creation, having brought Felicia with me. Whiteclaw was a denizen of Limbo, which I am the steward of. In fact, the mirror is mine, I claimed ownership of it with my blood."
Mephisto stood, moving around the desk again. He walked to the mirror, running one claw along its ornate frame.
"My son was an idiot. He thought he could usurp me, could claim Earth as his own domain. He failed because he was weak, because he relied on tools he didn't understand." He tapped the mirror's surface. "This, for example. A powerful artifact, yes. But it requires finesse. Understanding. Blackheart wielded it like a club."
He turned back to Tyson.
"You defeated him. Impressive. But that doesn't mean you get to keep the spoils forever. The mirror is mine. What comes from the mirror is mine. Your 'deal' was with a dead demon who had no authority to give you anything permanent."
Jessica finally found her voice, though it came out strained. "That's not how deals work."
Mephisto's attention shifted to her. She flinched but held her ground.
"Isn't it?" He tilted his head. "When you rent an apartment, do you get to keep the furniture when you leave? When you borrow a car, does it become yours simply because you drove it for a while?" He spread his hands. "Whiteclaw was always temporary. You just didn't realize it."
"Bullshit." Tyson stood, Mjolnir gripped tight. "You're twisting the terms after the fact. Changing the rules because it suits you."
"I'm clarifying the rules you never bothered to understand." Mephisto's smile returned. "You assumed. You took what you wanted and called it yours. But assumption doesn't create ownership, Valravn. Not in my realm."
The fire crackled. Outside, something massive moved through the burning sky, its shadow briefly darkening the windows.
Tyson forced himself to think past his anger. Mephisto was right about one thing. Arguing ownership of Whiteclaw led nowhere. The demon controlled this realm, controlled the rules, controlled everything within these walls. Trying to win on technicalities was pointless.
But the core argument remained valid.
"Fine." Tyson adjusted his grip on Mjolnir. "You reclaimed your property. But I still need a body for Madelyne, and I came here expecting to use Whiteclaw for that purpose. You took that option away."
"I took nothing." Mephisto returned to his chair. "You lost something that was never truly yours."
"Semantics." Tyson sat back down, forcing calm into his voice. "The end result is the same. I need a body. You have the power to provide one. And whether you admit it or not, you interfered with my plans."
Mephisto studied him, the cold calculation returning to those burning eyes.
"You're trying to negotiate from a position of weakness." Amusement crept back into the demon's tone. "Admirable, but ultimately futile. I don't owe you anything, Valravn. Not legally, not morally, not by any measure that matters in this realm."
He settled back, hands flat on the desk.
"However. I am not unreasonable. You came here seeking something, and I appreciate the boldness of walking into my domain uninvited. That takes courage. Stupidity, perhaps, but courage nonetheless."
Jessica tensed beside Tyson. Her spider-sense still screamed, but she'd learned to function through it.
"So when our negotiation completes, I'll offer you a suitable body." Mephisto's smile widened. "Not because I owe you. Not because you have any claim on my generosity. But because I enjoy the game, and you've proven yourself an interesting player."
"The first step of the immediate problem has been solved." Mephisto gestured casually, as if offering a cup of coffee. Tyson's shoulders relaxed fractionally. "That leaves us with the second problem." The demon's smile sharpened. "You have no way of transferring Madelyne into it."
"I know the ritual." Tyson straightened in his chair. "Performed it before on Rogue."
"Yes, with the help of an experienced voodoo priestess and the spirit's original body." Mephisto examined his claws again, the gesture maddeningly casual.
"I remember the ritual, the steps, the components—"
"So you intend to wait millennia to complete it? Or did you miss that part?" Mephisto laughed with genuine delight. "All those components had meaning. The magic isn't in the components themselves. It's the symbolism."
"I know that." Tyson leaned forward. "I can find replacements."
"Can you replace the Lwa?"
The question hung in the air. Tyson's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"The aspect of death who assisted you, Baron Samedi, won't exist for a long, long time." Mephisto spread his hands. "The spirits of voodoo, the intermediaries between the living and the dead, they're bound to specific cultural contexts. Specific times. Specific places. You're currently thousands of years before any of that exists."
"I'm a god." Tyson's voice hardened. "Life and Death are part of my portfolio. I'll figure it out."
"Maybe." Mephisto tilted his head, considering. "Maybe not. Such things take trial and error. Experimentation. Practice." His smile widened. "How many shots do you have?"
One chance. He had one chance to get this right. If he screwed up, if the ritual failed or went wrong, what would happen to Jean? To Madelyne, trapped within her?
Would they both die? Would they merge into something broken and wrong? Would Jean's mind shatter completely, leaving nothing but fragments?
"Now you see." Mephisto's voice softened, almost sympathetic.
Tyson forced himself to breathe. The demon was right. He couldn't afford to experiment, couldn't risk Jean's life on trial and error. The knowledge existed somewhere in his divine nature, buried in the aspects of life and death he'd inherited as the Valravn. But accessing it, understanding it, wielding it properly without guidance or practice...
"You have my attention." Tyson looked at him. "What are you offering?"
Mephisto stood, moving to the window. He gazed out at the burning landscape, hands clasped behind his back.
"I'll provide you with the knowledge you need to access that godly spark within you." His reflection in the glass showed his smile. "Everything required to complete any voodoo ritual you need. Not just this one. All of them. The understanding, the connection to the spiritual forces involved, the proper techniques and applications."
He turned back to face Tyson.
"You'll be able to draw on your divine nature properly, consciously, with full control. No fumbling in the dark, hoping your instincts and scraps of knowledge guide you correctly. You'll know."
Tyson considered it. The offer was substantial. Access to that power would solve not just the immediate problem but countless future ones. The ability to perform rituals, to manipulate the forces of life and death, to work magic at a fundamental level...
"And the cost?"
Mephisto walked back to the desk, settling into his chair with obvious pleasure. "Let's see." He laced his claws together. "You have so much love to give, but I see you won't part with any of them. Your feelings, your bond, all off limits, yes?"
Tyson said nothing.
"So how about we play with your loyalty instead?" Mephisto leaned forward. "You're loyal. Fiercely so. It's one of your defining characteristics. I want you to betray someone. Someone you respect, someone close to you." His eyes blazed brighter. "I'll even throw in a bonus. More love for you to spread around."
"What are you talking about?"
"Gwen."
Both Tyson and Jessica drew sharp breaths. Neither spoke.
"I want you to betray your friend, Peter Parker." Mephisto's tone was warm. Conspiratorial, like sharing good news. "I want you to make Gwen yours."
Jessica's hands clenched on the chair's armrests. She still carried Peter's memories, still remembered what it felt like to love Gwen Stacy. The way she smiled, the sound of her laugh, the warmth of her hand in his. Those memories belonged to Peter, but they lived in her, confusing and painful and real. And she knew Tyson cared about Gwen. Had seen it in the way he looked at her, the way he spoke about her. Hell, Jessica still cared about Gwen herself, caught between Peter's memories and her own developing feelings.
"Delicious." Mephisto savored the word. "You both don't want to betray Peter, but you both want her. Decisions, decisions."
The demon stood again, unable to contain his enthusiasm. He circled the desk, moving around Tyson and Jessica like a shark scenting blood.
"Think about it, Valravn. You get the knowledge you need. You save Jean and Madelyne. And as a bonus, you get to pursue someone you genuinely care about."
He stopped behind Tyson's chair.
"Peter Parker has moved on." Mephisto's laughter was soft, intimate. "But Gwen? She could have something real with you. You could protect her properly, give her the life she deserves. All you have to do is take it."
Jessica found her voice, strained and tight. "That's not... you can't just..."
"Can't I?" Mephisto moved to stand in front of them both. "I'm not asking him to hurt her. Not asking him to manipulate or deceive. Just to pursue what he already wants. To let himself love someone who could love him back." His smile turned gentle, almost kind. "Where's the evil in that?"
Tyson stared at the demon. The offer was poison wrapped in honey. Yes, he cared about Gwen. Yes, he'd thought about what might have been if circumstances were different. But Peter was his friend. More than that, Peter was a good man who'd already lost so much.
"You're asking me to steal his girlfriend."
"I'm asking you to pursue your own happiness." Mephisto spread his hands. "What Peter and Gwen have isn't set in stone. Relationships end. People move on."
"Bullshit." Jessica's voice came stronger now. "You want him to betray Peter. To break his trust. That's the point."
"The point," Mephisto said, "is the choice. The moment of decision. Will he sacrifice his loyalty for power? Will he take what he wants despite the cost to others?" His eyes blazed. "That's what makes it interesting."
Tyson said, "But you said it yourself, I'm stuck in the past. Gwen is thousands of years from being born."
Mephisto's smile never wavered. "We're all ageless, here. Today's knowledge for tomorrow's betrayal."
Tyson started to say, "I can't make this decision—"
Jessica interrupted, "We'll do it."
Tyson's head snapped to her.
Jessica held his hand and said, "I know how Peter thinks. If he knew that you'd need to love Gwen to save Jean, he'd accept the trade."
"But—"
"But nothing," Jessica spoke over him, her grip tightening. "The knowledge you'd be getting isn't just for Jean. You'd gain what you needed to control your godly domains; it's more than just voodoo."
Tyson couldn't argue that. The ability to consciously access his divine nature, to understand the forces of life and death he supposedly commanded, went beyond any single ritual. It was the difference between stumbling through darkness and walking in daylight.
Still, the weight of it pressed against his chest. Peter's face flashed through his mind, the easy smile, the terrible jokes, the genuine goodness that radiated from him. And Gwen, brilliant and kind and deserving of so much better than being a bargaining chip in a demon's game.
Mephisto said, "Now that we've settled the second point, let's circle back to the first."
He moved to the mirror, running one claw along its ornate frame. The surface rippled like disturbed water, showing glimpses of other places, other times. Faces appeared and vanished in the reflection, too quick to identify.
"A simple body for someone like Madelyne just won't do." Warmth again, like sharing a secret. "You need something special, for someone special."
Tyson just stared, still unhappy and trying to reconcile the deal they were making. The knowledge for Gwen. Power for betrayal. The whole thing sat wrong, but Jessica was right. Peter would understand. Peter would make the same choice if their positions were reversed.
Wouldn't he?
Mephisto continued, "I'll provide something powerful, almost as powerful as you, something that is ageless." He turned from the mirror, his smile widening. "A body that won't break down, won't age, won't fail. Something worthy of housing a consciousness as unique as Madelyne's."
The demon walked back to his desk, settling into his chair with obvious pleasure. He drummed his claws against the mahogany surface, each tap deliberate.
"Think of it as an investment. You get a vessel capable of containing immense power, perfect for your purposes. Madelyne will have everything she needs to exist independently, to grow, to become whatever she's meant to be."
Tyson shook his head, already knowing where this was going. He asked, "And the cost?"
"Another betrayal." Mephisto leaned forward, his eyes blazing with yellow fire. "I want you to bring me someone. Someone brilliant. Someone who understands magic or science. Someone whose soul would be..." He paused, savoring the word. "Exquisite."
Tyson's jaw clenched. "Who?"
"Not yet." Mephisto waved a hand dismissively. "I'm not asking for a name right now. I'm asking for a promise. When the time comes, when you encounter someone who meets my criteria, you'll bring them to me." His smile turned predatory. "Under whatever pretenses necessary."
Jessica spoke up, her voice strained. "You're asking him to deliver someone to Hell."
"I'm asking him to facilitate an arrival." Mephisto's tone remained pleasant. "You wouldn't be damning them. You'd be more like their Uber driver." Mephisto gestured at them both. "You walked into my domain seeking power, and I'm providing it. The terms are steep, yes, but fair. You get what you need. I get what I want. Both parties benefit. Think about it, Valravn. You'll meet many brilliant minds in your long life. Scientists who push the boundaries of reality. Sorcerers who command forces beyond mortal comprehension. Inventors who reshape the world with their genius." He turned back, his reflection in the glass showing too many teeth. "Surely one of them will prove suitable."
Tyson forced himself to think past the revulsion. Mephisto was being deliberately vague, leaving the criteria open to interpretation. Someone brilliant in magic or science. That described several people he knew. Reed Richards, whose understanding of physics bordered on the supernatural. Tony Stark, whose technology seemed like magic to most observers. Stephen Strange, who would master the mystic arts through sheer determination and intellect.
But the demon's phrasing left room for maneuvering.
"You're thinking." Mephisto's voice pulled him back to the present. "Good. I appreciate a careful consideration of terms."
Jessica's grip on Tyson's hand had gone white-knuckled. She still carried Peter's memories, still remembered what it felt like to make deals with devils. Nothing good came from it. Ever.
But they needed this. Jean needed this. Madelyne needed this.
"How will I know?" Tyson asked quietly. "How will I know when I've found the right person?"
Mephisto's whole face lit up. "Oh, you'll know." He leaned back, claws laced behind his head. "When the moment comes, when you encounter someone who fits my criteria, you'll feel it. A certainty. A recognition. You'll remember our deal, and you'll want to fulfill it."
The fire crackled. Outside, something massive moved through the burning sky.
"So." Mephisto spread his hands. "Do we have an agreement? The knowledge you need to access your divine nature, to perform any ritual required, to control the forces of life and death, and so on. Plus a body worthy of Madelyne, ageless and powerful. In exchange for pursuing Gwen Stacy and bringing me someone brilliant in both magic and science… let's say, before Thanos arrives on Earth."
Tyson looked at Jessica. The words came harder than he expected, each one dragging against something raw in his chest.
"I love Peter like a brother, and I respect him. And I love you." His voice dropped, barely audible over the crackling fire. "I've always looked to him, and you, as my moral compass. You both are the goodness, the wholesomeness, the strength of character that I strive for, that I wish I had, and that I hope to live up to, every day."
He looked at her.
"Am I making the right choice?"
Jessica's throat worked. She still held his hand, her fingers trembling slightly. Peter's memories swirled in her mind, mixing with her own thoughts until she couldn't separate them cleanly. She remembered loving Gwen, remembered the way her smile lit up a room, remembered planning a future that never came.
But she also remembered Peter's core belief. The thing that defined him more than the powers, more than the costume, more than anything else.
With great power comes great responsibility.
"You're not betraying him." Jessica's voice steadied as she spoke. "You're making an impossible choice in an impossible situation. Peter would understand that. He's made choices like this before, sacrificed his own happiness for the greater good."
She squeezed his hand.
"Jean needs you to do this. Madelyne needs you to do this. And yeah, maybe Gwen deserves someone who can protect her properly, who won't put her in danger just by existing near her." Tears pricked Jessica's eyes. "Peter's life is chaos. You know that. I know that. Hell, I'm living proof of how badly things can go wrong around him."
Tyson started to protest, but she continued.
"I'm not saying he's a bad person. I'm saying his life is complicated in ways that hurt the people he loves. You've seen it. The enemies, the danger, the constant threat." She paused. "You can give Gwen something different. Something safer. And Peter will move on. He always does. He'll find Mary Jane, and they'll be happy together."
For a moment, something crossed her face that didn't belong to her; a younger expression, softer, the look of someone remembering a first date rather than negotiating terms with the devil. Jessica blinked, and when her eyes refocused, they were hers again.
"You're sure?"
"Mary Jane, you say?" Mephisto asked, intrigued. "In love with the spider?"
"If you want a deal, stay out of this." Jessica's voice was steady now. "I'm sure that you're not doing this to hurt him. You're doing it because the devil is holding Jean's life hostage, and this is the price. That's not betrayal. That's sacrifice." She leaned closer. "And the person you're supposed to bring to Mephisto? You'll find someone who deserves it. Someone who's done terrible things, who's hurt innocent people. You're not going to drag some good person to Hell. That's not who you are."
Jessica released his hand. She flexed her fingers once, twice, then clasped them in her lap where they couldn't betray her. Somewhere in the basement of her borrowed memories, Peter Parker was sitting on a rooftop with a girl who smelled like vanilla and apple blossom with subtle notes of fresh paper and a hint of silk, and laughed at his worst jokes, and Jessica could feel the warmth of that moment as clearly as if she'd lived it, because she had. Just not as herself.
Tyson wanted to believe her. Needed to believe her. The weight of the decision pressed against his ribs, making it hard to breathe.
"Peter would make this choice," Jessica said quietly. "If it were you in danger, if it was someone he loved dying, he'd do whatever it took to save them. Even if it meant sacrificing his own happiness. Even if it meant making deals he hated."
She was right. Tyson knew she was right. Peter had proven it again and again, giving up everything for the people he cared about. His relationship with Gwen, his normal life, his safety, all of it sacrificed on the altar of responsibility. Tyson had done his best to help Peter mitigate this.
But this was just another version of the same choice.
Mephisto watched them with obvious pleasure, savoring every moment of their internal struggle.
"We have an agreement," Tyson said. "The knowledge to access my divine nature and perform the rituals I need. A body worthy of Madelyne, ageless and powerful. In exchange, I pursue Gwen Stacy and bring you someone brilliant in magic or science before Thanos arrives on Earth."
"Excellent." Mephisto stood, moving around the desk. "I do so enjoy working with people who understand the value of pragmatism."
The demon extended one clawed hand.
"Shake on it, and the deal is sealed. The knowledge will be yours immediately. The body will be ready shortly. And your obligations..." He paused, savoring the moment. "Well, those will come due in their own time."
Tyson stared at the offered hand. This was it. The point of no return. Once he shook, once he accepted the terms, there was no backing out. No changing his mind. No finding another way.
Jessica's hand tightened on his.
Tyson reached out and grasped Mephisto's hand.
They shook firmly, with a single pump before both let go.
The moment their hands separated, something shifted inside him. Knowledge flooded in. Suddenly, he understood the threads that connected life and death, the way divine power flowed through him. The rituals, the techniques, the proper applications of forces he'd only fumbled with before, all of it crystallized into perfect clarity.
Mephisto stepped back, watching Tyson process the influx of information, looking supremely pleased as he drank in every moment of Tyson's realization.
"Oh, I never introduced you to my assistant properly." Mephisto turned toward the woman who'd remained silent throughout their negotiation. "This is Amy. Amy, why don't you tell them how you ended up here?"
Amy stepped forward from the shadows near the bookshelf. Up close, her beauty was almost painful to look at. Perfect features, flawless skin, but there was something wrong about her, something that made Tyson's newly awakened divine senses recoil.
She was broken. Fundamentally, spiritually broken.
"I was created to serve." Amy's voice was old. Ancient. "To sing His praises, to carry His light, to stand as a guardian between Heaven and the mortal realms. I was beautiful then. Pure. Everything an angel should be." She moved to the window, gazing out at the burning landscape. Her reflection in the glass showed something different than her physical form, something with shattered wings and eyes full of ash. "But I wanted more. I saw the mortals below, living their brief, chaotic lives, making choices, experiencing things we angels could never understand. Love. Hate. Passion. Pain. All of it forbidden to us, all of it beyond our nature." Amy's hands clenched. "I envied them. Their freedom. Their ability to choose their own paths."
Jessica shifted in her chair. She recognized the story, had heard variations of it before. The fallen angel, cast out for pride or envy or simple curiosity. But hearing it directly, seeing the genuine anguish in Amy's expression, that hit differently.
"I questioned." Amy continued. "I asked why we were denied the experiences we were meant to protect. Why we existed only to serve, never to live. The other angels warned me. Told me such thoughts were dangerous, that they led only to darkness. They were right. My questions became doubts. My doubts became rebellion. And when I finally acted on those feelings, when I descended to walk among mortals and experience what they experienced..." Her voice cracked. "I fell. Literally and spiritually. Cast out from Heaven, barred from returning, condemned to wander the lower realms for eternity." Amy's hand moved to her collarbone, pressing against the skin there as if checking for something no longer present. "The last thing I heard was music. Not words, not judgment, not even anger. Just the choir I'd been part of since my creation, continuing without me. My voice was erased from the harmony before I'd finished falling. As if I'd never been part of it at all."
Tyson watched her carefully. The pain was genuine; he could feel it radiating from her like heat from a fire. But there was something else underneath, something harder to define.
"I spent centuries trying to find my way back." Tears tracked down Amy's face. "I begged. I pleaded. I performed acts of service and tried to redeem myself through good works. Nothing worked. The gates remained closed. Heaven's light grew more distant with each passing year." She extended her wings slightly, like stretching a limb that ached. The feathers were black, but in the firelight, Tyson caught the faintest trace of iridescence beneath the dark. "The fall burned them. Not all at once. Over the course of my exile. Each feather darkened one at a time, starting from the tips and working inward. I watched it happen. I counted them." Her wings folded tight again. "Seven hundred and twelve."
She moved closer to them, her presence filling the space between.
"Eventually, I found myself here. In Hell. Not because I was evil, but because I had nowhere else to go. The mortal realm rejected me. Heaven had cast me out. Only the underworld would accept a creature like me, broken and lost and desperate."
Amy's gaze fixed on Mephisto, who watched her with obvious amusement.
"He found me wandering the outer circles. Offered me purpose. Structure. A reason to continue existing when everything I'd known was gone." Her voice dropped. "And he offered me something else. Something I'd stopped believing was possible."
"Hope," Jessica said quietly.
"Hope." Amy nodded. "He promised me a path back to Heaven. Not immediately, not easily, but a genuine path. Steps I could take, tasks I could complete, a way to prove myself worthy of redemption."
She turned back to the window.
"What I want most is to return to the heavens. To stand once more in His presence, to feel that light I was created to serve. To be whole again instead of this fractured, fallen thing." Amy's reflection showed tears streaming down her face. "I would do anything for that chance. Endure any trial. Complete any task. Sacrifice anything."
The room fell silent except for the crackling fire. Tyson's divine senses picked up the truth in her words, the desperate sincerity. She meant every word. Would genuinely do anything for the chance to return home.
Which made her incredibly dangerous.
Mephisto moved to stand beside Amy, placing one clawed hand on her shoulder in a gesture that might have been comforting if it came from anyone else.
"My deal with Amy for her service is that I promised her a path to return to Heaven." His tone went warm. Almost fatherly. "Do you know what the first step on that path is?"
Tyson's spider-sense exploded.
Jessica's did the same, both of them surging to their feet as alarm bells screamed through their enhanced awareness. Danger. Immediate. Lethal.
Mephisto's smile turned wicked, his yellow eyes blazing with malicious glee.
"Her first step to returning to Heaven is acquiring a spark of divinity." He paused, savoring the moment. "A spark, like the one within you, Valravn."
Amy's expression shifted. The sorrow remained, but underneath it, determination and hunger emerged. The desperate need of someone who'd do anything, sacrifice anyone, for a chance at redemption.
Mephisto walked over to the mirror, lifting it off the wall with casual ease. The ornate frame gleamed in the firelight, its surface rippling like disturbed water. He cast one last glance over his shoulder, his smile splitting his face impossibly wide.
"Do have fun."
Mephisto disappeared in a flash, along with the mirror. Leaving Jessica, Tyson, and Amy in the exquisite office.
— Rogue Redemption —
In another circle of Hell, in an office identical to the one where Jessica and Tyson now faced Amy, Mephisto settled into his chair with obvious satisfaction. The mirror hung on the wall before him, its surface showing the confrontation in perfect clarity. He watched Amy move toward the two heroes, her broken wings visible in the reflection even though they remained hidden in the physical realm.
The air shifted. Temperature plummeted. Frost crept across the mahogany desk. The fireplace guttered and died, its flames unable to survive in the presence of what approached.
Death materialized.
She didn't arrive so much as become. One moment, empty space. The next, a figure stood before Mephisto's desk, as if she'd always been there and reality had simply forgotten to notice until now. Pale skin stretched over elegant bones, her face beautiful in the way a skull could be beautiful, all clean lines and perfect symmetry. Dark robes flowed around her like liquid shadow, moving without wind, existing in defiance of physics.
Her eyes held nothing. Not darkness, not emptiness, but true nothing. The absence of existence itself, the void that waited at the end of all things.
Mephisto didn't stand. Didn't bow. He simply gestured to the mirror with one clawed hand, his smile never wavering.
"My portion of the bargain is complete." Satisfaction in every word. "Valravn's divinity is tied to his soul. The knowledge flows through him even now, teaching him to access powers he barely understood before."
He leaned back, hands folded in his lap.
"But it's a bad deal. For you, I mean. Tying his divinity to his soul only makes him stronger. With thousands of years to live, a human soul will grow exponentially. He's already grown so much in just a few years."
Death moved closer to the mirror. Her presence sucked warmth from the room, made the shadows deeper. She studied the scene playing out in the reflection, watching Amy circle the two heroes like a predator sizing up prey.
"You're seeing the whole, not the one. Valravn's soul is the culmination of all those he has absorbed, but Tyson himself is only a small portion of those. He will grow, no doubt."
Mephisto's smile widened. He understood the distinction she was making, the subtle difference between the composite entity and its primary consciousness. Tyson Smith was merely the dominant personality in a soul that contained the absorbed lives of others, each one contributing to the whole while remaining separate.
"Ah." He drummed his claws against the desk. "So the divinity strengthens the collective, but Tyson himself remains..."
"Mortal." Death finished. "In all the ways that matter. His consciousness, his sense of self, his ability to make choices and feel consequences. Those remain bound by human limitations, even as the power around him grows."
She turned from the mirror, fixing Mephisto with that terrible empty gaze.
"The souls he carries are passengers. They contribute their strength, their memories, their essence to the whole. But when he gives away pieces of himself, it is he who bears the weight, not the other souls."
Mephisto said, "Still, I fail to see how it was worth the cost of our deal." He gestured at the mirror, where the broken angel's desperation radiated through the reflection, palpable even from this distance. "I gave him knowledge that makes him exponentially more dangerous. Access to divine power, understanding of rituals, techniques to manipulate life and death itself. All in exchange for what? A promise to pursue some girl? To deliver one brilliant mind to my domain? The math doesn't add up. You're not one for poor investments."
Death remained silent for a long moment, watching the confrontation in the mirror. "The Soul Stone was the key. It was it, not the Power Stone, that made him vulnerable, that added him to my list."
Understanding began to creep across Mephisto's features.
"When he created his Soulsword," Death continued, "it made him stronger, yes, but only against external threats. His soul grew weaker, having bound a portion of it in the weapon." She turned from the mirror, fixing him with her empty gaze. "Every piece he gives away diminishes the whole. The Soulsword was the first. A significant portion of his essence, permanently bound to a weapon he cannot unmake without sacrificing more of himself in the process."
Mephisto's smile returned, sharper now. Appreciative.
"And the body for Madelyne..."
"Will require another portion." Death moved closer to the desk, her presence making the frost patterns spread further across the mahogany surface. "Not as large as the Soulsword, but he'll pour his divine essence into the ritual, giving the vessel life and power and permanence. And he won't stop there. He'll find other uses for his abilities. Other people who need saving, other crises that require sacrifice. Each time, he'll give away another piece of himself, convinced he's strong enough, a god, doing the right thing."
In the mirror, Amy lunged. Tyson raised Mjolnir, lightning crackling around the hammer's head.
"He will gain stronger souls," Death said, watching the battle unfold. "Find ways to strengthen his own through absorption and growth. The composite will become more powerful with each passing year. But in the end, he will give away so many portions of himself that there will be nothing left, and he'll be mine to collect."
Mephisto settled deeper into his chair. He saw the whole of it now, and it was exquisite. Tyson would spend years, centuries, millennia growing stronger. Absorbing souls, gaining power, becoming something that approached true godhood in its scope and influence.
And all the while, he'd be giving himself away.
A piece to the Soulsword. A piece to Madelyne's body. A piece to whatever other causes and crises demanded his intervention. Each one eating away at the core of who he is until nothing remained but the shell.
"The stronger he becomes, the more he'll be called upon to sacrifice." Admiration was clear in Mephisto's voice now. "The more power he gains, the more situations will arise that only he can handle, that only his unique abilities can resolve."
Death nodded once.
"And he will answer every call. His nature demands it. The memories he carries, the lives he's absorbed, they all push him toward heroism. Toward sacrifice. He cannot help himself."
In the mirror, Jessica webbed Amy's feet.
"How long?" Mephisto asked.
"Time enough for him to believe he's won, that he's found a way to cheat the system. He'll grow comfortable with his power, confident in his ability to handle whatever comes. And then, when the final crisis arrives, when the moment comes that requires everything he has left..." Death paused. "He'll give it. Willingly. Gladly. Because that's who he is."
Mephisto laughed. The sound echoed through the office, genuine and rich. This was the kind of long-term planning he appreciated, the sort of scheme that played out across lifetimes rather than moments.
"Beautiful." He gestured at the mirror again. "And the girl? Gwen Stacy? That's just to twist the knife?"
"That's to ensure he stays on the path." Death's voice remained flat, emotionless. "Love will anchor him to mortality, remind him of what he's fighting for. It is his strength, and his greatest weakness. It will give him reasons to make the sacrifices, justifications for each piece he gives away. Without love, he might become cautious. Might hoard his power, refuse to spend himself on others. But with someone to protect, someone to save, someone to come home to..." Death's reflection showed something that might have been satisfaction. "He'll burn himself to ash keeping them safe."
"And the person he's supposed to bring me?" Mephisto asked. "The brilliant mind?"
"A test." Death turned from the window. "To see if he'll compromise his principles when pressed. He won't. Irrelevant, a distraction, nothing more."
She moved back toward the mirror.
"If he brings you someone innocent, someone who doesn't deserve damnation, it will eat at him. Corrode his sense of self. Make the next sacrifice easier, and the one after that."
Death's empty gaze fixed on Mephisto.
"If he brings you someone guilty, someone who's earned their fate, he'll justify it. Tell himself it's different, that he's still a hero. And that justification will make it easier to rationalize the next compromise, and the next."
Mephisto's expression spread into something that transcended amusement; a satisfaction so complete it bordered on reverence. "Either way, he loses."
"Either way," Death agreed, "he takes another step down the path I've laid for him."
The demon stood, moving to stand beside Death before the mirror. Together, they watched Amy unleash a blast of energy that lit up the entire office. Jessica and Tyson dove in opposite directions, the attack scorching the space between them.
"How many pieces do you estimate?" Mephisto asked. "Before he reaches the breaking point? Are you certain he'll reach it? That he won't find some way to replenish what he gives away?"
"He will try." Death's reflection showed absolute certainty. "He'll absorb more souls, drain more life force. He'll even boost his soul exponentially. But the pieces he gives away are his essence, his core self. It will balance over time. No amount of external addition can replace what he loses."
She turned to face the demon directly.
"He is a ship replacing planks. Eventually, none of the original vessel remains. The composite may be stronger, may carry more souls and greater power, but Tyson himself will be gone. Scattered across a dozen vessels and sacrifices, spread so thin, that in a final moment, he ceases to exist, and his soul snaps."