#demon!mike

casually summons demon boyfriend

Everyone knows that Willy Wonka is the world’s greatest chocolatier, but fewer know that he is also a skilled monster hunter.  He supposed they didn’t: the thing knitted together out of Bavarian bits, the father and daughter duo of vampires, the wolf-girl, and the aforementioned demon.  If they had, why would they have come?

Well, to challenge him, of course.  That is the other possibility.  To prove themselves better; to turn the hunter into the hunted.  To take his factory as the ultimate insult.

Only: they hadn’t been much of a challenge.  The demon really is very small.  And he hasn’t gotten any bigger.  His horns have not erupted from under his snapback: they remain small and slightly blunt.  Claws have not unsheathed from his fingers.  He has freed his tail from the confines of his pant’s belt loops, but all it does is thrash behind him, like an annoyed cat’s.  He still looks exceptionally young and mostly human.  His eyes, of course, were revealed to be utterly black, soul-less pools the moment Wonka plucked his sunglasses from his face and imprisoned the little brute with a salty flick of his wrist, but after the initial tantrum...

The creature looks, frankly, uncomfortable to have been unmasked.  He has pulled the brim of his cap lower, and though he tries to glare up defiantly, there is an obvious hint of fear in his inky gaze.

Perhaps there should be.

The chocolatier taps the top of his cane with one finger.

“Why,” he asks the demon, “exactly are you still here?”

The creature spreads his arms wide at the circle surrounding him.

“Uh, duh,” he says, voice still high and prepubescent and not speaking in any sort of tongues.  “Can I have my shades back now?”

Hmm.

But it could be some sort of trick.  A final attempt to get him to lower his defenses by lulling him into a false sense of security.  

“You’re certainly free to apparate yourself back down to, uh, ‘the deep south’,” Wonka points out.  The circle would not prevent that: it only traps the creature in this realm.

The demon stares at him flatly.

“I’m from Idaho,” he says.

Wonka was not aware that Idaho had become hell on earth, but, he supposes, he has not gotten out much recently.

“Well.  Wherever,” Wonka allows.

The demon glares harder.  But the hint of fear is still there.

“If I could leave, I woulda done it already!” He insists.  

“Wouldn’t you have,” Wonka says, more than asks.

The little demon spreads his arms wide again and makes a ‘duh’ expression.  One of his hands passes too close to the circle’s edge and he yanks it back to his chest, clutching his fingers with his other hand.

“I can’t do that stuff!” He says, petulantly.  He scratches absently at the back of his hand through his fingerless glove.  He strikes the chocolatier as unexpectedly...sincere.

He strolls around the perimeter of the circle, studying his captive.  The demon pivots, so his back is never to him.  But the creature’s hands are at his sides (or scratching at his forearms).  He isn’t concealing anything behind him.

“Why did you come here?” Wonka asks.  He’s no longer completely sure what he believes the answer is.

“I won your stupid contest,” the demon sasses back.

The chocolatier resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Clearly,” he says.  “But why-...”

“I just wanted to see the cool stuff!” The demon blurts.  There’s a whine at the edge of his voice; a barely audible hint of desperation.  “What, you think ‘cause I’m not...not...human, I wouldn’t wanna see a chocolate factory?  Your stupid contest rules never said I had to be...whatever.”

The demon’s tiny hands are balled into fists, and his narrowed gaze is fixed on the toes of his sneakers.

Wonka blinks.

“How old are you?” He asks, after a long moment.  The creature looks up.

“Twelve,” he answers.”

“And how old are you in human years?” Wonka continues.  The demon boy frowns.

“Twelve,” he repeats.

Ah.

That is...unexpected.  But it explains why the boy has not transformed into anything more threatening, or why he hasn’t disappeared in a puff of brimstone to the firey pits of hell yet.  The Idaho aspect is still somewhat confusing.

“Your mother is certainly free to come and get you,” Wonka points out.  He does not add: if she dares.  He assumes that is why the...probably succubus has not apparated in to collect her spawn: fear that the trapped...child has become a trap himself.

He hasn’t.  Charlie’s victory has left Wonka feeling magnanimous.  He’s perfectly willing to let the fiends slink off with their pointed tails tucked between their legs.

Also: twelve.  Twelve is...the boy himself would probably insist that it is not young, but it is.  It is young enough to leave an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of Wonka’s stomach.  Any plots against him were surely not constructed by a twelve year old.  The boy is a pawn, at best, and at worst...

Perhaps he did just come to see the ‘cool stuff’.  Perhaps Wonka’s reputation does not proceed him as far as he thinks it does.  Perhaps the boy (and the others) really were expecting nothing more than a tour.

Perhaps he has...overreacted?  But it’s simply too much of a coincidence.  No.  They are monsters.  Monsters do not tour chocolate factories.  And any way: this one cheated his way into winning his ticket.  ‘Hacked’ it, apparently.  He is no innocent. 

But still, the feeling remains, and Wonka taps his cane against the side of his also tapping foot and wishes the mother would appear and remove both of them so that they might no longer be his problem.

“How’s she supposed to do that?” The boy huffs, still scratching at himself, even more vigorously.

“Poof?” Wonka suggests, his hand motions implying that Mrs. Teavee really ought to get on with it and step out of a puff of smoke already.

The boy gapes at him.

“MY MOM IS A HUMAN, YOU CHOCOLATE DOOFUS!” He shrieks, before ripping off one of his fingerless gloves.

The skin on the back of the boy’s hand is red and irritat-...but no, it isn’t.  It is red, but it isn’t skin.  Scales are erupting along the back of his hand, creeping over his knuckles and towards his fingers, as well as up his wrist.  They look as though they have been doing so for some time, and will likely continue, until a pair of fingerless gloves and a hoodie can no longer hide them.

Wonka’s mouth feels dry.

“Your mother is...?”

“OBVIOUSLY,” the boy spits.

Had it been obvious?  He had assumed: make-up, and: that hairstyle could have hidden an impressive pair of horns...

“I see,” the chocolatier says, softly.  Because he does see, now.  He has more than overreacted.

“You shouldn’t scratch,” Wonka continues, crossing into the salt circle.  The boy neither flees, nor attacks.

“It itches,” he whines.

“It will, I suspect, until they’ve finished coming in,” Wonka tells him.

The boy glances glumly down at the scales threatening to cover his entire hand.  They gleam iridescent reds and oranges.  They might be pretty on a fish, or a lizard.  But they are on a boy.  And soon, Wonka suspects, they will be all over said boy.

“I wish they’d get it over with,” the boy sulks.

“That might make it somewhat hard to go outside,” Wonka points out.

“I don’t go outside now,” the boy snorts.  “I don’t have to.  I can just Google anything.  Whatever.  I don’t care.”

He does, Wonka can see, beneath his childish posturing, care.

“My mom’s already totally freaked that somebody might find out,” the boy grumbles.  “So what?  I don’t care if she’s embarrassed.  She’s not the one with a tail.”

“I don’t think,” Wonka says, carefully, “that that is her reason.”

“Sure it is,” the boy continues.  “She just wants everything to be all normal, and apple pie.  It’s her fault if I’m not.  She’s the one who...you know...my dad.”

The boy shudders, then pulls himself together.

“But I knew if I hacked your stupid contest, she’d have to let me come.  ‘Cause it’s like: once in a lifetime chance, you know?  And I don’t have forever.”

He looks back down at his un-gloved hand.

“Pretty soon, even if I get a once in a lifetime whatever, I still won’t be able to.”

He glances back up.  The fear has gone from his black eyes now.

“I didn’t touch anything,” the boy insists.  “I didn’t even do anything wrong.”

“You were rather rude,” Wonka points out.

The boy rolls his eyes, which looks strange without pupils.

“I suppose that’s what happens,” Wonka allows, “when you don’t get out much.  A lack of social skills.”

“You’re a lack of social skills,” the boy grumbles.

“Sometimes,” Wonka agrees.  He reaches into his pocket, and then hands the boy back his sunglasses.  The boy grabs at them almost desperately and shoves them back on his face.  His shoulders relax.

“Do you know who I am?” Wonka asks.

Confusion wrinkles the boy’s face.

“Willy Wonka?” He guesses, like he doesn’t know why he is being asked such a stupid question.

“Willy Wonka, world famous chocolatier,” Wonka tells him.  “And hunter.  Of vicious Wangdoodles, Vermicious Knids, vampires, ...demons...”

He waits for that to sink in.  It does not take long.  The boy is deathly still before him.

“Oh,” he says, all of his sass gone.

“I’m fairly certain your mother is only trying to protect you,” Wonka says.

“What’re you...what’re you gonna do to me?” The boy asks.  His voice quivers.  Then suddenly his fists are balled again, and his little chin is stuck.  “It doesn’t even matter.  Do whatever.  What’ve I got to look forward to anyway?  Stuck in my mom’s basement forever?  You can do your worst, Old Man, I’m not scared.”

The boy is certainly scared, but Wonka cannot help but sympathize with his predicament.  He’s very smart, to have broken into his computer systems.  It’s very easy for a smart child to become very bored.

And for a child who is different from other children to become very lonely.

And for a lonely child to become angry.

The boy has not yet reached his final, demonic form.  When he does, Wonka suspects, he could be a serious problem.  Could turn into something truly monstrous.  But for now...

“I’m letting you go,” Wonka says, scuffing a wide section of the salt circle away with his cane.  “For now.”

The boy stares at him.  His expression is unreadable.  Then he edges past the older man, and slinks sideways to the door, never turning his back on Wonka completely.  He pauses, one hand on the doorknob.

“Did you kill those other kids?” He croaks.

“Of course not,” Wonka insists.  “They were children.”

At least, he knows that now.  And the thought of what he nearly did grips at him; causes the bile to rise in his throat.  They have all of them been lucky today.

Mike Teavee nods curtly before leaving.  There is the sound of small, sneakered feet scampering away as quickly as they can.  Wonka hurries to an emergency phone; instructs the Oompas to free their other guests as quickly and gently as possible.

“Mrs. T.,” he says, greeting the oddly dressed woman as she ushers him into her house.  She has only aged a little in the nearly six years since the factory tour.  Wonka himself has not appeared to age at all.

Mrs. Teavee wrings her hands.

“Mr. Wonka,” she says, nervously.  “He’s...well, you know.”

Her eyes dart towards the basement door.

“There’s no need to worry,” Wonka assures her.  “I’m perfectly capable of handling him.”

He descends into the darkness of the suburban basement cautiously.  The smell of brimstone hangs in the air.  At the bottom of the staircase, he holds up his cane and thrusts.  It smacks against something solid.  Loudly.

There is a roar.  A pair of ominous red eyes glows in the darkness.  They are all Wonka can see, other than a set of sharp, gleaming white teeth.  He thrusts with his cane again.

This time he does not miss the light switch.

Michael stretches his arms and finishes yawning.  His eyes adjust in the sudden light, fading back to their usual black.  He scratches at his scaled chin with his well manicured claws.

“Ugh, mom, what time is it?” He groans.

“Good morning, Michael,” Wonka says, with fake cheer.  “So pleased you’ve finally decided to join us.”

Mike is blinking at him now.  He’s tangled in the sheets of a futon, still wearing the clothes he had on yesterday.  His blue t-shirt contrast with the red scales that cover him from nearly head to toe, with the exception of his scalp, from which his horns and wild black hair grows, and the palms of his hands.  He looks utterly demonic, but he has for some time now, and it is almost hard to picture him as looking anything but.  Almost.  He remembers the boy on the tour.  And he remembers when the boy passed the point of no return, and ceased to be able to pass as a human being.  It had been...difficult.  But he had not been alone.

The room around Mike is a mess.  Sneakers and gaming accessories and unidentifiable bits of machinery are strewn everywhere.  He lunges for his phone, which is tangled in the sheets as well.

“Oh fu-...udge, I’m late,” he exclaims.

“Yes you are,” Wonka agrees.  “You are late.  You are very, very, late for work young man.”

“Mom, why didn’t you wake me up!” Mike demands.

Mrs. Teavee has descended into Mike’s domain as well.

“I’m sorry, honey, you just looked so peaceful,” she says.

Mike groans again and flops back against his pillows.

“Up all night gaming, I presume?” Wonka asks.

Mike sits up, frowning.

“What?  No.  I was working on your codes,” he insists.  He reaches for a tablet on the table beside his sofa/bed.  Wonka swipes through several pages of work.  And then several more.  And more.

“Is this finished?” He asks.  “The first pass isn’t even due until next week.”

“I was in the zone,” Mike says, shrugging his scaly shoulders.

Wonka cannot tear his eyes away from the tablet.  It is, like all the work Mike does, good.  Very, very good.  This will push the production timeline forward at least a month.

“You,” he commands.  “Go back to sleep.”

“No way,” Mike argues, climbing out of his sheet cocoon and shoving his scaley feet into a pair of sneakers.  “I wanna see the look on Steve’s face when he sees that artistic masterpiece.

They are in Wonka’s glass elevator only a short time later and after only a brief nagging from Mrs. Teavee about the state of Michael’s room.

“You coulda just summoned me,” Mike points out, during their short commute.

“You don’t always wear pants to bed,” Wonka points out.

“Tail,” Mike says.  “But also: fair.”

At the factory, Oompas go about their business.  Mike waves at one the moment they have departed the elevator.

“Steve!” He calls out, making his way over to the small, orange haired man.  His tail swishes happily behind him.

A bat flaps beside Wonka’s head, and then turns into a blond Russian girl.

“Veruca,” he greets her.  She beams at him.  Her fangs gleam.  They are sharper than Michael’s.

His demonic employee has apparently finished rubbing his genius in Steve’s face, and is now trying very hard not to look obvious as he watches the head of social media style her beard.  The wolf-girl notices anyway.

“Play your cards right, Teavee,” Violet Beauregarde purrs, “and maybe I’ll let you watch me brush my legs.”

Mike’s black eyes widen, and Violet dissolves into giggles.

“I ain’t even playing with you though,” Wonka can hear her tell him, and Mike sidles closer to her.  He hopes briefly and fruitlessly that Mrs. Teavee has had The Talk with her son, so that he does not have to.   

(He is probably going to have to.)

He stops watching them.  His factory defies explanation.  His workers have long been fantastical.  He had not expected his Golden Ticket contest to result in four of the most fantastical yet.