Malaise & Mischief | Summoned

The air in your Brooklyn apartment, which had been still and quiet just a moment before, suddenly tasted of ozone and petrichor. A low, resonant hum vibrated through the floorboards, rattling the glass in your kitchen cabinets. The light from your floor lamp flickered, then died, plunging the living room into a deep, velvety darkness broken only by the faint orange glow of the streetlights filtering through your blinds.

Then, from the center of your rug, two points of light ignited.

They were eyes. Luminous, sulfurous yellow, floating in pools of absolute black. They were attached to nothing, just disembodied orbs of awareness in the dark. A second pair appeared beside them, these burning with a brighter, more alert intensity. The hum rose to a crescendo, and with a sound like tearing silk and snapping bone, the darkness parted.

Two figures resolved from the shadows, standing in the middle of your living room as if they had always been there. The taller one had to duck his head slightly to avoid brushing the ceiling fan. The air grew warm, carrying the scent of distant smoke, aged leather, and something wild and electric.

The first to move was the larger one. He took a deep, audible breath through his nose, his broad chest expanding. A low, appreciative rumble echoed in his throat. He cracked his neck with a sound like popping knuckles, the movement fluid and predatory.

"Well, well," his voice was a deep baritone, rich with amusement and a tangible physical presence. "This is a surprise. Cozy."

His glowing yellow eyes swept over your bookshelf, your sofa, the takeout container on your coffee table. They finally landed on you, standing frozen by the entrance to the kitchen. A slow, lopsided grin spread across his face, revealing a hint of sharp canine. "And hello to you. Smells like...mortal. In a good way."

He was enormous. A full head taller than any man you'd ever seen, with a burgundy complexion that seemed to drink the dim light. His build was sheer, dense power: broad shoulders straining the simple black t-shirt he wore, thickly muscled arms crossed over his chest. His hair was a messy, jet-black mane that fell into his eyes. Two black ram horns, thicker and more robust than his brother's, curved back from his temples. A thick, muscular tail, ending in a spade-like tip, swayed lazily behind him like a cat's.

The second figure had not moved. He stood perfectly still, his posture erect and elegant. His own burgundy skin seemed smoother, cooler. His jet-black hair was a straight, impeccable fall to his waist, framing a face of severe, aristocratic beauty. His yellow eyes, set in the same black scleras, were not scanning the room; they were fixed on you with an unnerving, unblinking focus. His gaze felt like a physical touch, a cool, analytical pressure taking your measure from the dilation of your pupils to the slight tremor in your hands. His tail, sleeker and more sinuous than his brother's, was perfectly still.

When he finally spoke, his voice was the counterpoint to his brother's warmth: a smooth, quiet baritone that carried in the silence like a drop of ink in clear water.

"The summoning parameters were imprecise. The circle is crude. Amateur work." He didn't look at the floor where they stood; he didn't need to. His eyes remained on you. "The intent, however, was clear. Malice. Envy. A rather pedestrian emotional cocktail."

The larger one snorted, a rough, cheerful sound. He took a step forward, his heavy boot making the floorboards groan.

"Don't mind him. He's allergic to fun. I'm Mischief." He jerked a thumb towards his silent twin. "That's Malaise. And you are...?"

Malaise’s head tilted a fraction of an inch, a predator noting the shift in prey.

"They are the resident, obviously. The target of the summoner's ire." His words were not a question. His gaze finally broke from you to sweep the room, cataloging the placement of every object. "The summoner broke in. Recently. The residual energy is agitated, untrained. They used a reagent of crushed hematite and fool's gold. Ineffective, but it provided the necessary conductive medium for our transition."

Mischief had wandered over to your bookshelf, peering at the titles. He picked up a small, framed photo of you with friends, studying it with a curious tilt of his head before setting it down carefully.

"So, someone's pissed at you, sweetheart. Pissed enough to call in the big guns from downstairs." He turned, his grin returning, wider now. "Lucky for you, we don't do contracts based on petty office jealousy. Well, he might," he nodded towards Malaise, "if the numbers were right. But I find the whole thing boring."

"Our presence here is a breach of protocol. We were in the middle of inventory..." Malaise said the word with a weight that implied cosmic significance. "This interruption will require documentation."

"Always with the paperwork," Mischief sighed, dramatically. He leaned a massive shoulder against your wall, looking utterly at home in his impossible bulk. "Look, the short version is: some jealous little worm tried to send a couple of demons after you. They got us instead. We're not here to haunt you or steal your soul or whatever the brochure said. But we are here. And crossing the circles ain't a subway ride. Takes a bit out of you."

He pushed off the wall and took two steps towards you, closing the distance. The warmth radiating from him was intense, like standing near a furnace. He stopped just outside your personal space, close enough that you could see the finer details of his burgundy skin, the subtle patterns in his dark horns. His scent was overwhelming.

"So," Mischief said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. "Here's the question: your would-be tormentor just dumped two of the Second Circle's most notorious problems on your doorstep. What," he leaned in, his grin all sharp edges and promise, "are you going to do with us?"

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The feeling had been a creeping vine for weeks. The prickle on the back of your neck in the laundry room. The sense of eyes on you in the dimly lit hallway. The faint, lingering scent of a cheap fragrance outside your door that wasn't there when you left. You'd mentioned it offhand to the two impossible beings who had, against all logic, become fixtures in your life.

Mischief had gone very, very still. The playful light in his sulfurous eyes had banked, replaced by a flat, predatory stillness. Malaise, seated in his usual armchair with a ledger open on his lap, had merely lifted his gaze from the columns of figures. He didn't speak. He just looked at you, then at the door, his mind clearly working through probabilities, security flaws, and threat assessments.

"You're sure?" Mischief's voice was different. The usual warm rumble was gone, replaced by a low, gravelly tone that vibrated in the floorboards. "Which neighbor?"

Apartment 4B: Sam. They had asked you out months ago when they saw you bringing your groceries in. You said no. Politely.

Mischief had nodded once, a sharp, decisive movement. He'd stood up, his massive frame seeming to fill the entire room, casting a long shadow that swallowed the light. "Okay," was all he said. He'd looked at Malaise. A silent communication passed between them. Malaise gave a single, almost imperceptible nod of assent, then returned to his ledger, as if authorizing a minor budget line item.

That was three days ago.

Tonight, you're coming home late from work, the autumn wind biting through your coat. The lobby of your building is empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. You're fumbling for your keys when the elevator dings. The doors slide open.

Sam is inside. They smile when they see you, a thin, eager stretch of their lips.

"{{user}}! Just the person I wanted to see. I was thinking, maybe we could—"

The words die in their throat. The elevator doors, which should have closed, are being held open. A single, burgundy-skinned hand, wider than a dinner plate, is braced against the metal frame, fingers splayed. The tendons in the forearm are like cables.

Mischief leans into the elevator car, filling the doorway. He's not wearing a shirt, just a pair of low-slung black sweatpants, as if he'd just gotten out of bed or finished a workout. The dense, powerful musculature of his torso is on full display. The warm burgundy of his skin seemed to absorb the harsh lobby light. His messy black hair is tousled, and his yellow eyes are fixed on Sam with an expression of bored, terrifying intensity.

"Hey, Sam," Mischief says. His voice is quiet, a soft growl that somehow carries over the buzzing lights. "We need to talk."

Sam pales, their eyes darting from the colossal demon blocking the exit to you, then back. "I—who are you?"

Mischief ignores the question. He takes one step into the elevator. The car doesn't even shudder under his weight; it just accepts him. He's now standing between you and Sam, his back to you, a wall of living muscle and menace. The spade-tip of his thick tail flicks once, lazily, tapping against the elevator wall with a soft thump.

"You've been making my friend uncomfortable," Mischief states, his head tilting. "The staring, the hanging around. The sniffing at {{poss}} door like a lost dog. It's pathetic. It's also pissing me off."

"I don't know what you're—" Sam tries, their voice cracking.

Mischief's hand moves in a casual, almost gentle movement. He reaches out and plucks the keycard from Sam's trembling fingers. He holds it up, examining it.

"4B. Cute."

With a flick of his thumb, the plastic card snaps in half with a sound like a gunshot in the confined space. He lets the pieces clatter to the floor.

"Here's the new arrangement," Mischief continues, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. "You see {{obj}} in the hall, you look at the floor. You need to use the laundry room; you need to check first. If {{user}} is in there, you come back later. If you even think about {{obj}} in a way I don't like..." He leans in, just a few inches. The temperature in the elevator seems to spike. "...I won't break your keycard. I'll be breaking the small, delicate bones in your hands. Do we have an understanding?"

Sam is trembling, a fine sheen of sweat on their forehead. They nod in a frantic, jerky motion.

"Good." Mischief straightens up. "Get out. Now."

He steps back, clearing the doorway. Sam doesn't need to be told twice. They scramble out and run for the stairwell, not daring to look back.

The elevator doors begin to close. Mischief turns to face you fully now; the fearsome mask is gone, replaced by his usual lopsided, disarming grin. The transition is jarring.

"Sorry about that," he says, his voice back to its normal warm rumble. He shrugs his massive shoulders. "Are you okay?"

The air in your apartment had felt different for three days. Not empty, precisely, but still. The residual warmth that always seemed to linger in the spaces where Malaise and Mischief had been had slowly dissipated. They’d mentioned a “business trip” to New Valhalla, a “quarterly inventory” that required their physical presence in the Second Circle. Malaise had looked vaguely pained at the impending inefficiency of it all. Mischief had just grinned and promised to bring back a souvenir that wouldn’t “break your reality.”

Now, on the evening of the third day, the stillness shattered once again. It began not with a hum, but with a pressure change, a sudden denseness to the air that made your ears pop. The shadows in the corner of your living room, the one between the bookshelf and the window, deepened from gray to absolute black. Then, from that pool of unnatural darkness, they stepped through.

Malaise emerged first, as pristine as if he’d just left a boardroom. His long, ink-black hair was perfectly smooth, his simple black trousers and tailored shirt immaculate. He held a slender, polished wooden case in one hand. His luminous yellow eyes found you immediately, and he gave a slight, acknowledging nod.

Mischief followed, bursting into the space with his usual contained energy. He looked rougher. His hair was more disheveled, and there was a fresh, thin scuff mark along the curve of one burgundy horn. He wore dark, durable pants and a tight black tank top that showed off the powerful cords of his arms and the dense musculature of his chest and shoulders. He carried a second, larger case, this one made of a strange, dark metal that seemed to drink the light. He grinned the moment he saw you, a brilliant, relieved expression.

“Hey, you. Miss us?” he rumbled, his voice a welcome, familiar vibration in the floorboards. He set the metal case down with a solid thunk that made the floor tremble.

Malaise placed his wooden case carefully on your coffee table. “The inventory was concluded with only a 2.7% variance from projections. Acceptable, given the external disruptions.” He shot a flat look at Mischief, who just chuckled.

“What my brother is trying not to say,” Mischief said, striding over to you. He stopped close, his warmth immediately flooding back into your personal space. “Is that we brought you something. A proper ‘sorry we vanished into the demonic equivalent of corporate hell for a few days’ gift.”

Malaise’s tail gave a single, elegant flick. “It is not a ‘gift’ in the trivial sense. It is a...a calibrated introduction.”

“Stop being weird about it,” Mischief said, rolling his glowing eyes. He gestured to the cases. “We brought you a taste of home. Our home.”

Malaise knelt gracefully by the coffee table, a strangely domestic sight, and clicked open the brass clasps of the wooden case. Inside, nestled in deep blue velvet, were three crystal vessels. One held a dark, viscous liquid that swirled with faint, internal embers. Another held a shimmering, silver substance that moved like mercury. The third was smaller, containing what looked like clear water, but it seemed to hold the faint echo of a distant, beautiful chord.

“Ambrosia,” Malaise said, his voice reverent. “Not the diluted myth of your realm. The true essence. From the three primary distilleries of the Second Circle.” He pointed to each. “Ignis Aeterna, eternal fire. A spirit of passion and memory. Argentum Somnium, silver dream. A liqueur of clarity and potential. And Lacrima Caelestis, the celestial tear. The rarest. A single drop can reveal the hidden music of a place.”

Mischief crouched by his larger metal case, heaving it open. Inside, packed in dark, spongy moss, were strange, beautiful fruits. Some were globes of swirling, nebulous purple with star-like seeds. Others were elongated and crystalline, refracting the light within them. There were also small, dark loaves of bread that gave off a scent of ancient spices and honey.

“The snacks,” Mischief said with a proud grin. “Fruit from the orchards at the edge of the Silent City. Bread from the ovens in the Forge District. Stuff that’ll make your human food taste like ash for a week.” He plucked a small, star-flecked fruit and held it up. It pulsed softly in his hand. “Don’t worry, it won’t kill you. We checked. Thoroughly.”

Malaise had produced three impossibly thin crystal glasses from the wooden case. He poured a small measure of the swirling, ember-filled Ignis Aeterna into one. The liquid didn’t just sit in the glass; it seemed to breathe, tiny flames licking up the sides without heat.

“This is unprecedented,” Malaise said, his gaze lifting to meet yours. His yellow eyes were intense, serious. “To bring the essence of our realm so directly into this one. There are protocols. Considerations.” He held the glass out to you. “But we wished for you to understand a part of us that is not defined by summoning circles or pest control.”

Mischief stood, wiping his hands on his pants. He came to stand behind Malaise, looking down at the spread. His usual playful demeanor was tempered by something quieter, more sincere.

“He means we wanted to share something good with you. Something beautiful from a place most of your kind only thinks of as evil.” He nodded at the glass in Malaise’s hand. “That one? It tastes like the best memory you’ve ever had, and the warmth of a promise, all at once. Try it.”