The curator's menacing presence loomed over the room, casting an ominous shadow against the flickering screens of the multi-monitor war displays. Positioned at a distance from the Museum's prized trophies, which once represented a glorious and prophesied victory, now seemed like nothing more than a distant memory.
The High-Demon stood motionless, his piercing gaze fixed on the screens before him as he contemplated the chaos that had ensued. A sense of looming defeat hung heavily in the air, the weight of their failure palpable even amidst the hum of technology. His mind raced with questions, wondering how it had all gone so wrong despite their meticulous planning and preparation. The first strike occurred just as predicted, as did the destructive earthquakes—triggered by the opening of the hell mouths. But when the soulfire bombardment began—nothing. Not a single military or religious target was successfully destroyed. Was this where the thread of fate was cut? Something had to be done. Their entire arsenal of human souls couldn't be wasted for nothing, so a direct change in the great plan of The Master was made—the remaining soulfire orbs would instead target the civilian infrastructure of humanity. Billions of souls, harvested over the entire life span of humanity, wasted on structures of brick and stone, built in but a blink on a cosmic scale.
The attack left humanity's armies and weapons untouched, but a large portion of their homes at least lay in ruin—now it was up to the living creations of the soul forges to complete what the soulfire had failed to do.
The ground invasion, intended to wipe out the undefended survivors of the soulfire, were forced to battle the intact armies of humanity, a task they were not envisioned to need to do, but their numbers were numerous enough that the high council, and The Master, perceived no problem in them accomplishing this task.
The first battles outside the hell mouths were a struggle to gain and hold any ground, and worse still, another problem emerged. The slain lesser demons of the soul forges were not re-materializing in Hell, and every wound, even the most minor, ended in death. After the 2-week offensive, the lesser demon armies had made little headway from the hell mouths deployments, and humanity was still very much alive.
The curator looked over the various cities of the humans, the only solace his insatiable malice could devour was observing the soulfire's sinister aftereffect of reanimating the dead, which had caused much chaos in the streets. The sight renewed some hope that perhaps when the high council decides to finally deploy proper High-Demons into the war, there might still be a chance at the reign of fire over earth...
This thought was quashed when the alerts went off on several of the displays, The curator looked over them, to see faint lines of missile trails descending over the primary hell mouths.
The curator took the opportunity to cackle in jest, a rare chance for him, with how bad the war had gone. The hell mouths had no need to be guarded, it was a waste of useless nuclear warheads to attempt such a direct attack, one which would be easily deflected by the demonic fields that protected them...
The missiles sliced through the field with effortless precision, as if slicing through a delicate veil. The curator's eyes widened in disbelief at what he had just witnessed. With barely enough time to react, he quickly shifted his attention to the observation screen, which captured the city of Dis.
The explosion that followed was deafening, and The Master's screams echoed throughout The curator's mind. The pain was akin to The Fall itself, and The curator could do nothing but clutch his head in agony. Suddenly, new sensations began to emerge, ones that were different and unfamiliar. But before he could register them fully, an explosion erupted within the museum's walls, sending him crashing to the ground in a haze of darkness.
When he came to, everything was different. A sense of depersonalization washed over him, and he felt as though he had undergone some perverse transformation. His surroundings seemed crisper and more vivid than before, every detail imbued with a newfound significance. Though the nature of the change remained a mystery, The curator knew that he had been altered in some way—transformed by the violent force that had torn through his self.
Now nursing a massive headache, the curator struggled to pull himself up from the layer of water that now covered the museum's floor. As he surveyed the scene before him, it quickly became apparent that the source of the explosion was none other than the soulfire exhibit that had been caged within the museum's "menagerie".
The curator's pride-driven heart sank as he realized the full extent of the damage. The once-pristine museum had been reduced to a chaotic mess of shattered glass and loose concrete. And then, as he lifted his gaze from the wreckage, he saw it - the serpent-demon's tank, shattered and empty, its giblets now mingling with the floodwaters that surrounded him.
"Disgusting," the curator said to himself in revulsion; his fine clothing tainted with the creature's gore. "Couldn't even die with dignity."
"Mmmh," a chewing voice replied. "At least it gave us something to eat."
The curator's eyes scanned the various displays until they landed on the source: the creature's jet-black fur remained, but it now lacked the piercing red eyes, designed to bore into a human's very soul. The wolf-demon, as it was named, was supposed to be a ferocious beast, feared by all humans who encountered it. But this specimen appeared different now—it was sickeningly innocent—unburdened of its instinctual rage. The wolf-demon, once a symbol of terror, now looked almost pitiful, its blue eyes filled with a sickening naivety. For a moment, the curator simply stood there, transfixed by the now uncanny creature before him. The wolf-demon smiled back at the curator, its tail wagging like one of the human's mutts. "Soo, Curt, what are we going to do now?" the creature asked in that terrible human-like way of speaking. "Belittling a high-demon is grounds for immediate extermination, soul-filth." The wolf-demon's head cocked to the side. "High-demon? Have you looked at yourself, sir? You don't looked very high-demon-y anymore, just my observation."
The curator's hand instinctively reached to his throbbing head, feeling a distinct absence where two massive horns had once protruded. "The humans...they detonated nuclear warheads within the depths of Hell itself," the curator explained, his voice heavy with disbelief. "And The Master..." he trailed off—leaving the rest unspoken.
The wolf-demon hopped down from her perch, the murky water sloshing around her paws. "Well, if that's what you think happened, I'll believe it, this whole 'thinking' thing is new to me. I can really only remember being angry all the time, so whatever the humans did must've calmed me down."
The curator couldn't help but feel his newly-awoken sense of despair and resignation wash over him. How could they possibly go on, knowing that even the depths of Hell itself weren't safe from mankind's destructive tendencies?
The wolf-demon's naive voice cut through the inner-turmoil. "I'm still a little confused though, Curt, didn't we beat the humans? I mean, this entire museum is full of their mummified remains!"
The curator attempted to summon up his narrator persona, though it was rather dampened by the recent events. "A fabrication, wolf; the artifacts of this museum were pillaged from alternative universes, as was the museum's structure itself. It was hoped that their presence was a sign of a coming victory, but..." The curator stopped himself to make sure the wolf-demon was even paying attention, her absent-minded nodding seemed to indicate no. "...Do you think you could grasp the concept of 'predestination'? Because I'm not going to continue if you don't."
The wolf-demon shook her head. "Nope, you lost me at 'alternative universes', to be honest. But I do like the name 'Wolf', I think that suits me quite well, don't you think so?"
The curator let out a heavy sigh. "It fits your personality," he muttered under his breath, the words laced with bitterness and frustration.
As he spoke, Wolf wasted no time in bounding towards him, her enthusiasm infectious even in the midst of chaos. Before he knew what was happening, she had wrapped her furry arms around him in a tight embrace. The sensation was overwhelming, causing a wave of unfamiliar emotions to wash over him.
He couldn't help but notice how much more powerful she seemed compared to him. As he struggled to keep his footing, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had been de-powered in some way—reduced to a mere shadow of his former self.
"And you might as well call me 'Curt'," he added, his voice laced with resignation. "Even if it's a complete mockery of my true name."
After much effort, the curator was able to get the war displays functional, although all of the demonic-powered observation points were no longer functioning, which given the events of "The Purification", as him and Wolf had coined it, was justified.
Human security cameras in a nearby mid-western city revealed the continued presence of the reanimated dead, which meant at least some forms of demonic magic remained functional post-purification.
"We have no choice, Wolf, we're going to have to leave the museum."
"I trust your judgement, Curt, but do you really think that such a good idea? We still don't know what else The Purification has altered, what if we run into..." Wolf gulped in terror. "...Angels?"
The curator shook his head. "I still don't fully believe it's "Him" who's behind The Purification; The Master had many enemies, besides humanity. Ones I'd rather not tell you about. If the humans stumbled upon one of them for help..." The curator held his silence for a moment, "...well. We wouldn't be safe in the museum, that I will say."
After several grueling hours of tinkering, the curator had finally managed to get one of the display humvees up and running. Despite himself, he couldn't help but feel a newfound respect for human engineering in light of the recent war. If nothing else, their technology was reliable—even in the most dire circumstances.
Meanwhile, Wolf had taken it upon herself to fashion a disguise from the various military uniform displays scattered throughout the museum. It did little to hide her bestial nature, but perhaps it would be enough to fool a human from a distance.
As for the curator himself, he had opted for one of the presidential suits that had been on display. It seemed fitting somehow, given his new role as a caretaker of sorts. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that encountering the actual president might prove awkward, to say the least.
At last, the vehicle elevator rumbled to life, carrying the pair up to the surface. As they emerged into the open air, the abandoned gas station that hid the museum loomed before them like a forgotten relic of a bygone era.
Wolf fumbled with her gas mask, trying desperately to adjust it around her snout. The sight was both comical and disheartening—a stark reminder of just how out of place they were in this world. But despite the odds against them, the curator felt a surge of determination wash over him. They would find a way to survive—no matter what it took.
The Humvee made its way across the dirt service road. Their destination was the nearby city they had viewed on the Museum's monitors.