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.