The Simulacrum

"I want results!"

The strained, high-pitched roar of the wounded man echoed in the large, crowded bedroom for a second, only to be immediately followed by a series of painful, wheezing coughs that didn't subside for several seconds. None of the ten or so people in the room dared to utter a single word until the man in the bed finished.

They were all dressed in fine, if slightly eclectic clothes ranging from modern suits to what looked like costumes from a Victorian Era stage play, with the only common ground between all of them being their pale faces filled with disbelief and uncertainty.

At last, a middle-aged man stepped forward. He was wearing what at first glance appeared to be a grey navy officer's uniform, with several black stripes on its sleeves. He had long, dark brown hair that reached the middle of his back, and upon approaching the bedside, he bowed and respectfully told its occupant, "My liege, please calm down. Your previous injuries haven't completely healed yet, and you've also been poisoned. Losing your temper like so will only hinder your recovery."

The man on the bed, Lord of the Abyss, head of house Inanna, Noire Liliam Inanna, and also colloquially known as Crowey or 'that dick', turned his withering glare towards the man.

"I wouldn't be losing my temper if I wasn't surrounded by incompetent buffoons," he began to hiss through clenched teeth, yet his voice kept rising until it reached a crescendo with, "Why are you standing around my bed like a pack of vultures instead of looking for whoever is responsible for this... bullshit...!"

Crowed chocked up at the end, and then he was seized by another violent coughing fit that turned his face purple. Or rather only one side, as the other was still under layers of bandages covering the burns he suffered less than a week ago.

At long last, his seizure abated, and after heaving several times he croaked out, "Did you figure out how they got into my study without any of your guards noticing a thing?"

"My deepest apologies, my liege, but we found no trace of the intruders," the middle-aged man answered with an apologetic bow. "None of the guards or servants noticed any intruders. The wards around the room are undisturbed, and neither the seals nor the locks show any kind of tampering. As for the insides of the study, we are currently unable to investigate in earnest. Lady Audra strongly insisted that no one should enter until the last traces of the Udug Blood Amalgam are neutralized by her men. The process may take days."

"Marvelous," Crowey scoffed. "And who is in charge of that damn letter?"

There was a long moment of pause, but then a young woman hurriedly stepped forth like she just realized she was called. She had a youthful face with an upturned nose supporting a pair of round, thick-rimmed glasses, and she had almost comically well-endowed, especially considering her short stature, and further emphasized by her outfit, which could be best described as a vampire cosplayer's wet dream with a fur coat on top. Maybe even more importantly, her straight, shoulder-length hair was pitch black on one side and a pinkish blonde on the other, signifying the fact that she was most likely important in some shape or form.

"It is also my responsibility, my lord," she stated in a low voice.

"Then speak," Crowey growled in turn.

"Yes sir, certainly," the woman with the mismatched hair responded with a sputter, and then she cleared her throat. "My men are still compiling the results of our test, but allow me to share with you our preliminary findings." She paused once more, this time so that she could reach into the inner pocket of her coat, which unfortunately made it look like she reached into her generous cleavage, and she produced a folded piece of paper.

"First, our experts have ascertained that the source of the Udug Blood Amalgam on the letter was the bottle our lord kept in the hidden compartment inside his desk. The beguilement, misdirection, and security wards have all been removed without any trace. We've also discovered that the culprit used our lord's fountain pen to write the letter. We've sealed all of these items for the time being. Based on the suffusion of the Blood Amalgam within the room, we estimate that the culprit wrote the letter last evening, between five and six o'clock."

"That's curious," interjected an older woman with her grey hair in a bun on the top of her head.

"What did you say, matron?" the middle-aged man turned towards the old woman and gestured for her to continue.

"I find the circumstances surrounding the Blood Amalgam truly curious. It was a secret only our lord knew about, was it not? And it was hidden in a compartment that was impossible to find by chance."

"You mean to say that the culprit broke into our liege's study with the express purpose of using the Blood Amalgam?"

"Is there any other way to interpret this?" the old woman responded with a disinterested shrug. "They must have already known not only where to find the poison, but also how to access it. There's no other way to explain what happened."

"True," the man in the navy uniform slowly nodded. "Which would mean that this was a message. It was to show us they have infiltrated our estate so thoroughly they were privy to even our most well-kept secrets."

"That would certainly agree with the content of the letter," the busty woman agreed. "Maybe the two were supposed to reinforce each other?"

"It's likely," the old woman nodded after some contemplation. "It would certainly fit the Celestials' modus operandi."

"Right!" a previously silent old man with a big bushy beard suddenly yelled out in the back. "What did that accursed script say at the end of the letter anyway?"

"It's… please give me a moment… it was here somewhere…" the woman with the two hair colors mumbled as she began rummaging through her pockets, ultimately producing another piece of paper from some nook or cranny, and then she quickly unfolded it. "Yes, here it is." She theatrically cleared her throat, then she said, "After making sure the Blood Amalgam on the paper was properly sealed, we showed the final line to several of our experts on Celestial Script, including some of our collaborators. According to their assessments the last line, which appears where the signature would traditionally be, was written in an unusually complex, archaic dialect of High Celestial Script. After meeting with some difficulties during the translation process, our experts concluded that it was most likely an actual signature, consisting of four overlapping Sub-Scripts, most likely titles of the—"

"We don't need the history lesson, just tell us what it said," Crowey interrupted her in a low voice, and she let out an audible gulp in response.

"Yes, my lord!" she hastily answered as she raised the paper to her eyes again. "The first part says, 'The Second True Archon, Prince of the Blade and Sovereign of the Spear.' "

"'Archon'?" the man with the navy uniform repeated after her. "That isn't a rank amongst the Celestials."

"Not anymore, it's not," the old woman replied almost absent-mindedly. "It hasn't been for centuries, if not for millennia. Not ever since the Celestials worship their false god."

"I can't make sense of this," the old man with the beard grumbled. "What about the rest?"

"The second part is a little vague, and our experts came up with multiple possible translations. The most likely one says, 'A Conspiracy of Ravens'"

"Conspiracy?" Crowey asked, genuinely baffled.

"My lord, I believe it is not in the literal sense," a younger man with a very short crop sporting some sort of medieval cloth armor explained after some hesitation. "I think it refers to the peculiar way a group of ravens is called."

"They call them a conspiracy?" the man with the bushy beard asked with a skeptical expression.

"I believe so, yes."

"Huh. I learn something new every day."

"I'm glad to hear that, but we are still not any closer to the solution of this riddle," the long-haired man told his colleague with a disapproving frown.

"Let us hear the rest, maybe context can help," the old woman urged, and the dual-haired woman complied.

"Yes, matron. The third part was translated as 'The One Who Rejects Your Reality and Substitutes Their Own'."

The whole group fell silent for a moment.

"What the hell does that mean!?" Crowey suddenly burst out, followed by a short but just as vicious coughing fit.

"I believe it's a quote, my lord," the younger man with the crew cut answered confidently, but when everyone in the room gave him skeptical looks, he sheepishly added, "It's… from a human television show, I think."

"I thought it was from a parody cartoon on the internet," the busty woman added uncertainly.

"It's actually from an old low-budget movie, my dears," the old woman revealed with a nonchalant expression.

"Really? Matron is truly knowledgeable," the bearded man nodded repeatedly in approval, only to flinch a moment later when Crowey once again opened his mouth.

"Who cares about where that goddamn quote comes from!? Can any of you bastards actually tell me why an assassin would sign his letter with one!? Can you tell me that? No? Then shut up!"

After sitting through another coughing fit, the people in the room stayed true to their lord's command and remained completely silent, right until the man on the bed asked, in a slightly less sneering tone, "What's the last part?"

"I… I believe that it still requires some proofreading, so maybe your lordship should…"

"Tell me. Now."

"Yes…" the busty woman whined in resignation before she told him, "The last part is very complex, so this is certainly not the final translation, and our experts were sure there is some kind of hidden nuance or reference behind it, so…"

"Get on with it," the bearded man grumbled in the side.

"Yes. Please just tell us as it is," the man in the navy suit agreed.

"Errr… It says… 'The One and Only True God of Grilled Cheese'…"

The whole room fell silent once again. At last, Crowey let out a sound halfway between a groan and gurgle and then said, "I am surrounded by imbeciles…" After another short but intense pause, he looked each of his vassals in the eye in turn and asked, "Do any of you have anything to say that wouldn't make me want to drown each and every one of you in a spoonful of vinegar?"

"Aaah!" the bearded man suddenly exclaimed as a shit-eating grin spread on his face. "Actually, my lord, I have good news!"

"Do you now?" the bedridden man sounded quite skeptical, but he didn't seem to mind.

"Yes, my lord! I didn't have the opportunity to report this until now, but we successfully tracked down the escaped convict and his cohorts! Warmaster Redmane has already boxed them in within the servant quarters of the old armory building. It's only a question of time before your loyal Fauns will weed out the traitors from their midst!"

"At last, some actual competence," Crowey grumbled, though his complexion visibly improved upon hearing the news, only for it to darken again a moment later as his bros knit together as she asked, "Have you discovered how he escaped from the Hole?"

"No, my liege," the middle-aged man answered apologetically. "While we found the trail of the traitorous Faun after he already left the prison, we couldn't determine how he escaped his cell or his bindings."

"Continue to investigate," Crowey ordered, paying no attention to the messenger quietly slipping into the room. "I want to know how he escaped. If you can find out how he did it before he is captured and he confesses the method himself, I might even be gracious enough not to have you inept guards skinned alive."

"I will do so," the man in the navy uniform nodded and then glanced towards the back of the room, where the bearded man was in the process of chasing out the messenger. "Is something the matter?"

"No," the other man denied quite suspiciously, but she quickly cracked under the pressure of the crossfire of gazes directed at him, and so he confessed, "My liege, I received… bad news."

"Clarify," the man in the bed demanded with an icy glare.

"Y-Yes. Errr… I just informed you about the impending capture of the traitorous Fauns?"

"You did."

"Well, you see… they are gone."

"… Have Redmane killed them all?"

"Err… No, my lord. I didn't mean that figuratively. They are literally gone. Like, at one moment they were inside the barricaded quarters, with no way in or out, and then a few seconds later, poof, they were all gone."

"You cannot be serious," the old woman muttered with eyes wide open.

"I am," the bearded man huffed. "Even the 'poof' part. It's exactly what the messenger said."

"I—" the young woman tried to interrupt him, only to be interrupted by a quiet yet inescapable voice.

"Get out," Crowey whispered while the air around him began to roil with black miasma.

"My liege, if you continue to use your powers, your injuries will—"

"I said get out of my sight you MISERABLE, USELESS SIMPLETONS!!!"

The man's voice swept through the room, and as it did so the entire group backed out of the room, with only their last shred of dignity allowing them not to do so like a flock of chicken with a fox thrown into the pen. In just a few seconds the only person remaining in the room was the bedridden Crowey, who was glaring at the closed doors with bloodshot eyes.

After a few seconds he finally lowered his eyes, only for his gaze to stop mid-way as he noticed a piece of folded paper on the floor, no doubt left behind during the hasty retreat of his vassals. He made a few delicate gestures with his hand, which also made his face wince for some reason, and the piece of paper abruptly rose to the air like it was hit by a gust of wind and then gently landed on the bedsheets. He reached out a shaky hand and took it, then unfolded it and took a look at its content.

"'Second True Archon'," he muttered as his fingers traced the words. "'Sovereign of the Spear.' 'Conspiracy of Ravens'…"

At this moment he suddenly fell silent as he repeated the last translation a few more times, then his eyes opened wide as he muttered, in near delirium, "The note here says 'conspiracy' means a 'flock'. This note says the second part loosely means black birds. What if it isn't 'ravens', but 'crows'? Then that would make it a flock of crows, a…" Suddenly the bedridden Abyssal Lord's eyes flared up with a colorless light that blasted the piece of paper, along with most of his bedding and the other end of the room into shreds and he howled, "A MURDER OF CROWS! CROWS! THAT MOTHER-FU—!"

…

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the point I decided I've spied on Crowey long enough for the day. I let out a small sigh, hoping this wouldn't bite me in the ass later (though I was fairly sure it would). For the time being though, I decided to make some grilled cheese for dinner.