Deep in the nether planes, in a sub-sub-basement of existence, a very junior demon trudged through the frosty streets of Hell.
He wore a standard-issue student imp’s uniform, a dull black jumpsuit complete with decorative tail. His long, dark
hair was pulled back in a formal pony-tail. Except for the glowing red eyes, his thin, elongated, beardless face could almost
have passed for human, although there was something distinctly bat-like about the nose.
The precinct commander had a flair for the theatrical, and prided himself on his attention to detail. This area, which housed
mostly junior demons assigned to planet Earth, was designed to mimic a run-down warehouse district in a large Earth city.
It was dominated by huge gray, crumbling buildings, realistically coated with grime and peeling paint. The perpetually leaden
‘sky’ overhead proclaimed that it was ‘always winter, and never Christmas.’ Occasionally the commander
indulged in his hobby of weather-making: his tastes ran largely to fog, freezing rain, and sooty snow.
A marrow-freezing wind gusted around a corner, stirring up dust and debris from the filthy street. Mosca shivered and wrapped
his leathery wings tighter around his frail body. He didn’t mind so much being required to manifest in this humanoid
form, nor even that he had to walk instead of flying or simply slipping through the ethereal planes. But the human form carried
with it human senses, and Mosca lacked sufficient substance to ward off the cold. He needed to eat, and soon.
Read more at Fool’s Motley, issue 1 (2003)