After laying on the floor until his head stopped aching, Zac had plenty of time to think. What was the point of the princess rescue storyline? Did demons remember feelings from dreams? Was immersive roleplay actually just training in disguise, and Marchosias was truly a tactical genius that would be spoken about for eons?

  And most importantly: why didn't he rip that sheet off of Nock and stare at the lion's junk?

  Zac squeezed his eyes shut and felt the tears fall on his cheeks. Barbs. He knew there were barbs or something and the lion tube steak was impressive, but he couldn't remember the feeling of it, just that it had made him a bit damp.

  However, after wallowing in self-admonishment for nearly an hour, he realized that he was not going to be able to go back to sleep, how could he ever think about drifting off when there was no demon to give him dream strip teases. Even with the lingering effects of the demon dream visit (which once again had left him quite limp) his blood was boiling with the hormones of a thousand degenerate fan girls waiting to get books signed by their favorite yaoi author. Even if he could not raise his mast to sail the seas of his imagination, he needed to take action. He needed... to cruise.

  The light outside the window was still its static vague red. He had no idea how long he had been asleep or unconscious. He also had no clue as to where exactly he wanted to go. But when he pulled himself up by the doorknob and found it turned easily in his hand, he knew that Bune’s embarrassed exit the night before was now his free pass to get into trouble.

  Zac peeked out into the corridor. It looked exactly the same as any other time he'd been in the halls: cold, stony, and aggressively gothic. He felt a bit of anti-climax; he thought there might be some early morning mood lighting, maybe a sconce dimmed for ambiance. Totally a missed opportunity.

  He padded down the hall, looking at the very sharp-looking weapons mounted as art on the walls. He felt a bit judged by the different suits of armor as he passed. He hoped they were not filled with bugs, but he was not really in the mood to find out. He was still a bit salty from being rejected by the Arachne-Strider down in the stables the night before.

  He tried to remember his way to the dining room as he walked along, rubbing the sore spot on his head. It seemed like whenever Bune led him around, the dragon just confidently walked down whatever hallway he fancied and the keep would lead him where he wanted to go. Zac felt like this would work out for him too. You know what they say: play it by ear if you want a hot wolfman in your rear.

  Zac struck a confident pose, pointing forward down the corridor. "Alright my soon-to-be-betrothed wolf man's million-dollar bachelor pad! Show me the kitchen! Kitty wants to get some breakfast!"

  He strutted down the hall, his tail swishing with purpose.

  Twenty minutes later, Zac was less confident. Somehow, he had found himself in a long hallway with no end in sight in either direction. He had turned around after walking for about eight minutes in one direction and was growing ever more unsettled that there were not even doors now. He should have been back to where he started at this point, but it would appear that the building did not like him very much.

  "I swear to god," Zac muttered under his breath, glaring at a sconce, "I am not above pulling one of these wall lights down and starting a fire. I will do it. I'm crazy."

  "You're gonna start a fire?"

  Zac sighed before turning. He should have just had a killer jumpscare (he had no clue someone was behind him) but now he was just a bit embarrassed he was overheard earnestly threatening an inanimate object.

  Halphas was standing in front of him, looking a strange combination of winded, amused, and also a bit concerned. The eagle demon was dressed in a jogging outfit that consisted of very short shorts and a tight white wifebeater.

  "Fire hot... so fucking hot..." Zac murmured as he stared at the eagle's shorts.

  Halphas's legs were thick. Zac didn't know how, but even with the light dusting of feathers, he could tell these were beefcake legs. Nock might have had a sexy vein, but these legs were sculpted. How the feathers on the eagle's inner thighs didn't rub off when he walked didn't make any sense, but Zac wasn't questioning the physics of thigh gaps right now.

  "Yeah, that's one of its key features," Halphas chuckled as he watched Zac get instantly dick-hypnotized… or dicknotized as Zac would begrudgingly refer to it later in his memoirs.

  Zac was lost in a fantasy involving Halphas in a bodybuilding competition, and Zac got to play the role of the very eager judge. He imagined himself oiling up those massive thighs, giving a thorough, hands-on critique of the eagle's gluteal striations.

  He returned to reality as Halphas snapped his fingers in front of the zoned-out human's face. "So what is it? You trying to get sweaty?" the eagle asked.

  "Yes," Zac said instinctively. Getting sweaty with a hunky jock was an easy ask.

  Halphas crossed his arms and looked pleased, his biceps flexing. "That's the spirit, new guy. It would take you a while to get back to the main keep anyways if you weren't up for a run."

  "Run?" Zac questioned. "Like... with my legs?"

  The keep, apparently, was quite large and also quite demonic. The magical and spiritual powers that were infused into the Pit had given the building an atypical floor plan. The corridor was, according to Halphas, about two miles away from where Zac had begun his early morning escapade.

  Twenty minutes later, Zac was dripping with sweat and panting as he struggled to keep up with Halphas, who was barely breaking a sweat jogging slowly down the corridor. Zac was half-listening as Halphas droned on about the keep and how it was excellent for his morning cardio routine. The carpet was a bit bad for his joints, apparently, but being able to run a marathon without any distractions or interruptions was quite nice.

  "I need... a break..." Zac wheezed, the fleece of his leopard onesie clinging to him like a wet, sweaty second skin. He felt like dying.

  Halphas laughed, a sharp bark, and barely slowed his pace. "That's the spirit, new guy! You'll get whipped into shape in no time."

  Zac fell dramatically to the floor, holding a hand up. "But I'm a bottom! If I get buff, people will want me to fuck them!"

  Halphas stopped, jogging in place and looking down at the sprawled-out human with a grin. "This is cardio, not weightlifting. Endurance is key for any position."

  Zac sucked in air, his chest heaving. "There are better forms of cardio," he gasped, "like getting held down onto a mattress and struggling until I can't move while a big cruel demon groans about how tight my-"

  Zac trailed off, hugging himself and rolling around on the floor as the fantasy took hold, momentarily overriding his exhaustion.

  Halphas shook his head and laughed, the sound echoing down the endless hallway. "You'd be fun to fuck for all of five minutes before you passed out. Are you even doing kegels?"

  Zac slowly opened his eyes and stopped hugging himself. He looked up at Halphas from the floor, affronted. "I'm not an old blown-out grandma."

  Halphas stopped jogging in place and clicked his beak in disapproval. "Do you think someone with no experience would be better in the sack than that old blown-out grandma?" He reached down, offering a taloned hand to help Zac up. "If she's truly blown out, she must have been quite the slut back in the day. Experience counts for something."

  Zac reluctantly took Halphas's hand and allowed himself to be easily heaved to his feet. "Touché. You've really made a great case for fucking grandmas over virgins."

  Halphas squawked with laughter. "That's not what I'm trying to say." He slapped Zac heartily on the back, nearly sending the human sprawling again. "I don't wanna risk getting flayed by March unless I know you've got the stamina to keep struggling for at least half an hour. Where's the fun if you go limp after the first round?"

  A shiver ran up Zac’s spine. The wheels in his mind began to turn. It was true that he did not really care to become a buff bodybuilder, in the same way that a reader does not truly care to write, Zac was a consumer of the visually impressive. But... half an hour of hardcore, intense, passionate demon assault really would be a taxing ordeal. In Zac's fantasies, he never considered the physical demands of holding himself in different positions for extended periods of time. Or the core strength required to ride a boulder.

  Zac felt a rush of panicked realization. He should actually work out a bit.

  The rest of the run (if you could call a man in a leopard onesie slightly power-walking while wailing about a stitch in his side and how working out blows "a run") was surprisingly informative. Between complaints, Zac got to listen to Halphas talk more, and the eagle really did like talking.

  “...and that's how we killed the Easter Bunny,” Halphas said, looking fondly out into space. “I knew I'd never enjoy working for any captain other than March after that. Got myself reassigned that very evening.”

  Zac shuffled towards the eagle, who was holding open the dining room door. He wanted to ask more about the Easter Bunny being a real thing and how stupid that sounded. He also wanted to ignore the eagle and walk straight towards the closest chair and collapse. But the eagle had mentioned Marchosias, and Zac needed to do some detective work.

  “A big win,” Zac said, trying much too hard to sound nonchalant, which was immediately undercut by his huffing and wheezing. “And you didn't bring the Captain out to Evil Gay Hooters to get some wings and look at butts after? I thought you all liked March.”

  Halphas looked a bit confused. “Like… March? I mean...” He looked around to check if anyone else was awake yet. “He’s a great captain.”

  Zac finally got to a chair and slowly lowered himself into it. Yeah, his legs were going to hurt a lot. Spontaneous two-mile runs in slippers were not a good life choice. “Yeah, you all seem to respect him, but I thought this was a goofy found family, fraternal bonds from your time doing bad dog shit together, bros before hoes because all the bros are gay or at least bi-flexible… situation.”

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  “Uhh...” Halphas walked over to the table and, with a puff of black smoke, poofed a big tub of protein powder into existence. “I don’t know what that really means, but we are demons. We don't like each other.”

  Zac happily grabbed a box of waffles from Halphas as the eagle demon began creating a breakfast spread. “You say that, but that's just years of ingrained toxic masculinity,” Zac said through his first bites of unheated breakfast. “I know you all care for each other. After an eternity of battles with your backs to each other as you brave the assault of angels... It’s been centuries since you've even needed to express your feelings towards each other in words since you're all so in sync with each other. Just a glance of the eyes, a subtle gesture, a...”

  Zac's voice trailed off, his eyes glazing over. “Touch of the hands. How lonely you all have been. So of course it would only be natural that you began to look towards each other for comfort... for pleasure...”

  Zac looked up to see Halphas humming to himself and shaking a big protein drink next to his head.

  “What was that?” the eagle asked as the drink sloshed loudly.

  "Nothing," Zac said wistfully, "just enjoying my shipping hobby."

  He was just beginning to imagine Halphas and Marchosias getting steamy in the Captain's war tent… perhaps over a map table, pushing all the little figurines aside and spilling a bottle of ink over some random documents… when Halphas actually acknowledged what Zac had said.

  “Boats, huh?” the demon said between slurps of his chunky, not-shaken-enough protein powder syrup. “I actually know a bit about them too. I'm surprised you're into that sort of thing. After Bune told us you were an artist, I just thought you'd be into lame chick stuff.”

  Zac’s mind raced, trying to process how not to seem like he was into "lame chick stuff" in front of the very sexy demon. "Yeah, ships, haha. Uh, like, it's so cool that they don't sink and stuff." Zac was floundering. "So, what do you like about ships?"

  “I uh...” Halphas looked a bit confused by the extremely vague question. “I guess I like the spectacle. It’s do or die. Imagine... the Battle of Svolder.”

  Halphas began to light up. He put down his shaker, his golden eyes widening with enthusiasm. He began to gesture with his hands, mapping out fleet formations on the empty table using pepper grinders and a stray fork. "King Olaf was cornered! His longship, the Long Serpent, was surrounded by enemies. But he didn't run. He tied his ships together into a floating fortress! It was brutal! Axes swinging, men falling into the freezing water, the sea turning red! Pure, chaotic, close-quarters carnage on a wooden platform that could burn or sink at any moment!"

  Zac slowly relaxed in his chair as Halphas's excited story washed over him. Much like Bune's lectures, he wasn't really listening to the historical details, but seeing the sexy and scantily dressed eagle geeking out so hard was endearing. ‘He’s not a big stupid himbo meathead,’ Zac thought, admiring the way Halphas's pecs flexed when he simulated an axe swing. ‘He’s a nerdy vending machine who never skips leg day. So fucking perfect. I wonder if he'd give me his number if I asked.’

  “It’s about resolve!” Halphas gushed, slamming a fist into his open palm. “No retreat, no surrender! If you do not push forward and take the victory, only a cold watery grave awaits you!”

  Halphas paused, his chest heaving slightly from the exertion of his storytelling. He looked at Zac, then down at his impromptu battle map of breakfast condiments, and seemed to realize he was getting a little too intense. He cleared his throat, quickly grabbing his protein shaker and downing the rest in one go. “But uh, yeah. Boats are cool and stuff, I guess. It’s not like they're that interesting.”

  Zac raised a skeptical eyebrow, leaning forward over his waffle box. "So, did any of the Vikings say 'never let go' right before immediately leaving their lover to drown in the freezing water even though there was clearly enough room on the door for two people?"

  Halphas blinked, his golden eyes narrowing in confusion. "Uhh... I don't think so. Most of them died by axe wounds or drowning under the weight of their armor. There wasn't much time for floating door logistics."

  "Well, you wouldn't have to worry about that from me," Zac said fiercely, wiping sticky waffle crumbs from his hands onto his leopard-print thighs. "I have excellent grip strength. I'm not some bitch like Rose."

  Halphas opened his beak to ask who Rose was and why she was a bitch, but Zac was already gone.

  His eyes glazed over as the dining hall dissolved into the opulent, mahogany-paneled stateroom of a luxury ocean liner. Soft, golden light filtered through a porthole, illuminating Halphas, who was draped dramatically across a velvet fainting couch. He was wearing nothing but a small, white towel loosely knotted at his hip.

  "Paint me, Zachary," Dream-Halphas rumbled, his voice like velvet over gravel. "Paint me like one of your monster men."

  Zac, holding a charcoal stick and wearing a beret for some reason, frowned critically at his subject. "I can't capture your essence with that towel in the way, Hal," he scolded gently. "To truly understand the enormity of your masculine beauty, I need to see the... eagle dick."

  Imagination-Halphas smirked and reached for the knot of the towel. "Anything for your lame chick art..."

  Zac leaned forward, breathless, as the towel began to slip-

  Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.

  The sound of aggressive swallowing snapped Zac back to reality. He blinked rapidly. The ocean liner vanished, replaced by the austere stone of the dining hall. Halphas was standing by the table, head tipped back, chugging a glass of freshly conjured orange juice. His throat bobbed mesmerizingly with each swallow.

  Zac watched the juice disappear, but for once, his mind didn't go straight to the gutter. Instead, a different, more desperate craving clawed its way to the surface. He looked at the eagle’s glowing hand as the empty glass vanished in a puff of smoke.

  "Hey, Halphas," Zac said, his voice taking on a wheedling, desperate tone. "Hal. Buddy. Old pal. My favorite gym partner."

  Halphas wiped his beak with the back of his hand, looking down at the human. "What do you want, new guy?"

  "You wouldn't be able to summon me up a hot cup of coffee, would you?" Zac asked, clasping his hands together in prayer. "Just a little cup? A dark roast? I'm begging you. My blood is crying out for bean juice."

  Halphas looked at him, an amused glint entering his eyes. "You're into that sort of thing, huh? Stimulants?" He chuckled, leaning back against the table and crossing his massive arms. "Was Nock really that bad last night that you're afraid of falling back asleep?"

  Wait... fall back asleep?

  Zac froze mid-sip, his eyes going wide. ‘Why didn't I think of that?’ he screamed internally. ‘I could have just laid there! I could have bonked my head against the bureau again! By now I could be at the dream clinic, getting a very thorough check-up to make sure I didn’t catch the plague!’

  His existential angst over missed opportunities was cut short by a familiar poof of black smoke and grey feathers. The rich, earthy aroma of dark roast coffee filled the air, instantly overriding every other thought in Zac’s head.

  He snatched the steaming mug from the air before Halphas could even extend his arm.

  "Mine," Zac hissed.

  He brought the cup to his lips and downed a third of it in one gulp. Searing pain lanced across his tongue and the roof of his mouth, first-degree burns, easily, but he didn't care. It was hot. It was bitter. It was life itself.

  "Whoa, easy there, tiger," Halphas said, looking a little concerned as steam billowed from Zac’s open mouth. "It's probably a bit hot. You want to maybe let it cool down?"

  Zac just shook his head violently, picking a small, grey down feather from between his teeth. "Coffee good," he croaked, his voice raspy from the heat. "Coffee make happy. Mmmm coffee." He drained the rest of the cup and slammed it down on the table. "Another."

  Five minutes later, Halphas was starting to look genuinely worried.

  "You know this stuff has caffeine in it, right?" the eagle asked, hesitating by the time he pushed a seventh steaming mug across the table. "Like... demonic caffeine. It's pretty strong stuff. Maybe you should pace yourself?"

  "Don't judge me, you sexy vending machine," Zac murmured into the cup, his hands shaking violently as he lifted it. His mouth was numb, his heart felt like it was trying to vibrate its way out of his ribcage, and he could see colors he didn't have names for. He gave precisely zero fucks.

  He downed the cup. "Another."

  Halphas stood up, stretching his arms over his head with a series of satisfying pops. "Alright, that's enough. Better not let March catch you binging like this. The Cap is strict about substance abuse. He might put you into a program with Buney-boy, and trust me, you don't want to attend those meetings."

  "I don't have a problem, you have a problem!" Zac hissed, clutching his empty mug to his chest like a precious artifact. His hands were vibrating so hard the ceramic rattled against his sternum. "I can quit anytime I want! I just don't want to! It's a lifestyle choice!"

  "Right, just like being a virgin is a lifestyle choice," Halphas said with a grin.

  Zac's mouth opened and closed like a fish. His demonically caffeinated mind sprinted through a hundred potential comebacks at light speed.

  No, you're a virgin.

  No, that eagle definitely fucks.

  It's not a lifestyle choice, it's a disability, I'm sexually dyslexic.

  Too wordy.

  Oh, so you'll make me coffee but you won't make me scream?

  Promising, but off-topic.

  Finally, he looked up from his mug and shouted, "How can it be a lifestyle choice if I'm in hell?! That's a deathstyle choice!"

  He looked around for approval, expecting a witty retort or at least a confused squawk.

  The dining room was empty.

  Zac blinked. He looked down. His coffee had gone cold. A thin, oily film had formed on the surface.

  "Damn it," he whispered. "I really need to work on my timing."

  He groaned as he pushed himself up from the table, leaving behind a graveyard of empty mugs and a single plate covered in waffle crumbs. His legs felt like jelly, his hands were still shaking, and his head was buzzing like a hive of angry bees.

  "Ugh, gotta piss so bad," he muttered, shuffling toward the door.

  He took two steps before his face went white. A deep, ominous rumble echoed from his stomach, louder than a warg's growl. The demonic caffeine, having finished rewiring his nervous system, was now declaring war on his digestive tract.

  Zac froze, clutching his stomach.

  "Oh fuck," he whispered, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. "I'm gonna shit my pants."

  Zac speed-waddled out of the dining room, his knees knocked together in a desperate, friction-heavy attempt to maintain the structural integrity of his sphincter. He looked up the hallway. He looked down the hallway. It was endless, dark, and seemingly bathroom-free.

  Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in his chest. This wasn't happening. There was absolutely no way he was going to poop himself on his third day in Hell. He refused to be that guy. And certainly not in a tactical, soul-threaded leopard onesie. The cleanup would be a logistical nightmare, and Bune would never let him live it down.

  He began to shuffle down the corridor, his pace frantic but restricted by the terrifying biology of his situation. He reached the first door and flung it open.

  A broom closet. Just brooms. "Useless!" he shrieked, slamming it.

  He hobbled to the next one. He threw it open. A wall of humid, earthy heat hit him. The room was filled with writhing, purple ferns that vibrated aggressively and hissed at him. "Nope!" Slam.

  He tried the third door across the hall. He was met with the deafening, bone-shaking roar of a supermassive black hole projected onto the ceiling of a planetarium, swirling with cosmic violence. "Too loud!" Slam.

  Sweat was blinding him now. He reached the fourth door. Inside, a figure was standing perfectly still, facing the corner. It was wearing a leopard-print onesie.

  "Hey!" Zac shouted at his evil twin, desperation overriding fear. "Where's the shitter?!"

  The doppelganger slowly turned around. Where its face should have been, there were only squiggly, swirling black voids, spiraling into nothingness. It began to float toward him, arms outstretched.

  "Ugh, sorry buddy, didn't know you were having a moment," Zac grunted, slamming the door in the void-monster's face.

  His stomach gave a lurch that felt like a tectonic plate shifting. A cramp seized his midsection so hard he doubled over.

  Zac blinked the stinging sweat out of his eyes. He glared at the stone walls of the hallway. He knew this castle was alive. He knew it was messing with him. And he was done playing nice.

  "IF THE NEXT ROOM ISN'T THE BATHROOM," he yelled furiously at the ceiling, "I'M GONNA JUST TAKE A DUMP RIGHT ON THE FLOOR!"

  His ears popped. The ambient hum of the keep went silent. It felt like the hallway was holding its breath.

  Zac narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping to a menacing, erratic whisper. He pointed a shaking finger at the ornate runner beneath his feet. "It would be a shame if this high-thread-count, antique rug got a big, demonically-caffeinated dookie on it."

  The torches in the sconces flickered nervously. The shadows seemed to recoil.

  "I mean it!" Zac threatened, waddling toward a pristine suit of armor. "I'll do it in the helmet! I'll do it right in the visor! I have no shame left! I will ruin the resale value of this entire wing!"

  He reached for the next handle. The castle seemed to shudder.

  He threw the door open.

  Black marble. Polished silver. Steam.

  It was the infernal bathroom.

  Zac felt a surge of triumph, the unique, god-like thrill of bullying a sentient building into submission. But his victory lap was cut short.

  Pfft.

  A tiny, high-pitched fart rang out in the tiled acoustics of the room. It was the warning shot.

  "Oh god," Zac whimpered.

  He abandoned all dignity and sprinted the last ten feet, ripping at the zipper of his onesie as he dove for the toilet.