Pass It Along: April

Daemon was a rather intimidating looking Scarfox in their own right. They were a deep grey in color, with long arms that were a common sight ona Scarfox such as this. They were accented with red, which was also a fairly common color to see on a Scarfox. What was slightly less common was a Scarfox with multiple tails. Daemon had three of them, and each one was a cream color with red streaks in the tufts of the tails.

They also had large intimidating spikes jutting out of each long arm. They were a jagged looking grey. Steel, really, and were matched only by an equally spiky collar that ended with a chain that had been obviously shorn. A less sophisticated Scarfox might have pegged Daemon all wrong, but the truth was…Daemon was just as cantankerous as any other Scarfox in the Scarfox Realm. Though they had the intimidating look, that was a plsu in their line of work, which was that of a grungy retail worker in the City of Foxington.

Foxington was a bustling place that was gaining more and more traction as Corriedale was beginning to feel more like a cottagecore type of place rather than a naturally bustling city. That, and also the place was running out of room, and with conglomerations trying to find a new economy to get their foot in the door with, Daemon, like many other Scarfoxes had decided to move to Foxington some time ago.

The details were a bit muddled, but the long and short of it was that they needed to go somewhere and Foxington was just as good as any other place. Was it because they had been a run away experiment? A metaphorical and literal attack dog on a leash? Well, the way Daemon saw it, it wasn’t anybody’s business what the truth was.

For now, Daemon worked a normal job in a normal city that was gaining a lot of traction, which meant that soon, Daemon would have to make another decision in the course of their life. Their escapades for now also entailed getting into fights. But only sometimes, and only when the situation was dire enough to warrant that kind of response.

The place Daemon worked at was called Grunges, and it was a living so they would say to anybody who pried into their life. Here one day and gone the next. Presently, Daemon was in the back stock room, folding a bunch of shirts into neat piles and minding their own business when suddenly there was a common out in the front of the store.

They had considered just letting it be, as they didn’t really feel the need to reveal much about what they were really thinking and doing. However, after more shouting had broken into the back room, Daemon heaved the biggest sigh of their life (for that week at least) and exited the back room to see what all the commotion was about.

What they had not expected, was a group of punks blockading the front door of Grunges.

---

Daemon could not believe what they were seeing once they had left the back room. In the commotion, there was a group of punks dressed in leather with a handful of sneers and snarls plastered across the groups’ faces. Daemon could not quite make out what had happened before they had left the back room, but they were not liking what was going on.

They made their way through the display floor of Grunges, carefully weaving through other Scarfoxes as some tried to look like they were not worried about what was happening. Some Scarfoxes - mostly with headphones over their ears - continued to shop without looking up. They were apparently still lost in the world of their music and podcasts. How Daemon envied them, for now they were going to have to hedge their bets against a group of punks. That was, of course, unless their manager told them not to. Usually that was how these sorts of confrontations started and ended.

The manager called the fox police, and then the fox police would show up and there would either be an additional commotion, or it would go over smoothly and everyone could go back to what they were doing before all hell had broken loose in their normal and average daily lives.

Daemon craved a little something to spice up their boring work day so far, and if they could have a fight with a bunch of street punks in tacky leather, then that was just as good as anything else was. And, judging by the looks of them all, Daemon doubted that any of the individuals in the group were touting any kind of real magic. The most they probably had was flashy lights and sparks, but nothing dangerous.

Daemon was fairly experienced in that field, or so they thought of themself.

“What’s going on over here?” Daemon said after finally making it to the blockade.

“We’re taking what we want from this place,” said one of the Scarfoxes. They all looked the same to Daemon, so it was just a matter of listening to the words, not necessarily where they were coming from.

“Is that so?” Daemon replied, unfazed. “Well you’re disturbing these fox’s days and I’m going to have to ask you to leave if you know what’s good for you.”

Daemon puffed their chest out and their arm eyes scanned for their manager, who was standing at the register. They gave a slight nod and Daemon grinned. So a fight it was.

However, no sooner had they looked away did Daemon find themself with a punch in the jaw. Daemon had not been prepared for it, and it hurt something fierce, but they were not the sort of fox to just take something like that laying down.

As soon as the first punch had been thrown, there was a collective silence as Daemon withdrew into themself, settling into something of a mind palace to explore their options for a little bit. Weigh the pros and cons of starting something that had to be finished in mere moments or they would be over run.

They didn’t want that.

---

Daemon’s mind palace was more like a prison than a palace. One would think that a mind palace would be filled with many books and shelves. Winding corridors that would never end until the being who kept such a luxurious place ceased to be present. Or lost their mind, whichever happened first.

The mind prison was still a well organized place, filled with winding corridors, though the corridors were plain. Simple grey hallways lined with boxes - cages - for each thought and option to manifest as Daemon needed it to. In this mind prison, Daemon was the warden, and each mental step they took was accompanied by the clinking of chains against a soft fabric body with steel spikes.

Mist escaped them in their mind prison. It felt like the correct image for Daemon to contemplate. A heaving beast of a fox with mist leaking from their mouth and great clouds of magic swirling around them, obscuring them from the observations of their logic and reason. Only when Daemon found the options they were looking for would they emerge from the thick fog to truly contemplate and entertain their various thoughts.

“We have been assaulted,” Daemon said into the prison, their voice carrying from the central post.

Lights scanned across the unending hallways, causing a great stir within the cells that lined them. There were many many options that had presented themselves in this moment, and while the cacophony was nearly unbearable, one wheeze from daemon and the mind prison fell completely silent, the options waiting for the most obvious selections to surge to the forefront.

Daemon’s wishes were law in the mind prison and they had all the time in the world to consider each option carefully. Of the hundreds and hundreds of options there were, Daemon made it clear that logic and fun were the most important aspects of this decision.

They left the central tower of the mind prison and began to walk the many many halls, peering into each cell to assess the logic and fun factor. Most of them did not make sense, and each one that did not fill one of the requirements was executed on the spot, shadows lost into the void of thought in an instant, only to be replaced by another thought. Another option.

It seemed to go one forever before there were only two real options to contend with. One was the obvious choice, decided before anything else had even occurred to them. Daemon looked upon the shadowy option with an air of contempt.

“Just wait until the fox police show up.”

It was simple, effective, would ensure that Daemon would still have a job at the end of it. Just defend themself until the fox police showed up. Daemon could not argue with the logic. They needed to pay for things like rent and utilities, and crystals were hard to come by if one was not willing to go into the caves to excavate the  on their own.

“This one is boring, but effective,” Daemon said. “And what is the other option?”

The other option did not manifest.

---

The other option had been nothing of any real substance. Daemon had known this from the start as well but it was still tempting to consider it. The logic would undoubtedly win out on this one, but the desire to hear the other option out was too great. The mind prison was a prison for a reason. It hid so many secrets both from Daemon themself, and also any other casual observers of their affairs, namely omnipotent forces that ran through the Scarfox Realm when the entities were not busy with whatever occupied an omnipotent being’s typical day.

This option was the fun one. It was scrawny and shallow. A dark shadow in the cage, unable to leave the confines of said cage no matter how much it scrambled across the floor and clung to the individual bars. It had a toothy smile not unlike Daemon’s own toothy smile and it peered out of hole it was confined to with a lust for freedom. It was an unhinged mess, but still so very very fun for any Scarfox that was willing to partake in the treachery that laid underneath the almost vacant and blank stare that was a permanent fixture to every option’s face.

The other options jeered, hooting and hollering as Daemon brought out their supreme authority as the warden of the mind prison. The options fell silent as Daemon left their fog and paced in front of the two adjacent cells. The options inside could not have been more different. One was the obvious choice. It sat in silence, a smugness there, mocking the other more carnal option that continued to zip around the cell at warp speed, doing everything in its power to seem more appealing.

“I did ask for logic and fun,” Daemon said, once again sinking into the fog. “I am thinking about it. I need more than just the obvious. So explain yourselves. We do not have much more time, I’m afraid. And if I wait too long, I will be dogpiled. Foxpiled?”

The logical option went first. It stood silently and wavered very little despite the noise from the other.

“You need a safe place to live and stay for the time being. Beyond what you need, making a mess of this would only bring about your ruin faster. Even if you do not care about the far future, the immediate one is the more pressing one anyway. Unless you want to scrooge for safety. Not that it would affect anything in the long long term. Short term is more pressing in this moment. You don’t have time to justify the other option’s existence.”

Daemon blinked. “I do. Explain yourself.”

“Rip!” came the other option without hesitation. “Claw! Gnaw! Fighting is fun and you want to do it so badly. You want to be bad and take out your retail rage on a bunch of punks. Do it! DO IT!”

That was enough for Daemon right now. They withdrew into the fog, the options ceasing to be there as they came out of the mind prison.

A second later, Daemon was throwing hands.

---

Grunges was supposed to be a fantastic shopping experience for the vague Scarfox that was simply traveling through their life searching for the perfect underground and alt fashion ensemble. Today, however, it seemed to be the center stage for an all out brawl that eventually involved fox police, random civilians, punks, gangs, bikers, upper management, and middle management.

Everybody in Foxington had gotten involved in the fight, it seemed, though Daemon was the one who had to bear the brunt of it. It was kind of funny in a way to see how out of hand it had all gotten in such a short period of time. This had not been explained when Daemon had been in the mind palace - mind prison, it was a prison not a palace - and it was only just now dawning on them that maybe they should have let the logic win out on this one.

The fight was a short lived one thankfully, though once the fox police had taken all the troublemaker punks away and the display floor of Grunges had been cleaned up, the customers politely asked to leave while they got the store in working order, Daemon had realized that they had sabotaged their own success by giving into the flying fists and near catastrophic threats of magical casting.

Doubly thankfully, it seemed that at least one fox had been in their corner.

The manager that had given daemon permission to defend Grunges from the onslaught of random punks looking to cause trouble. Like some kind of stereotype of a big city. At least tha manager had Daemon’s back.

Oh, no?

Upper management had made an explicit demand?

Daemon was nursing a bit of leaking mist from the corner of their mouth. It had liquified and was a little red before it turned back into mist.

“I protected this place!” Daemon had said, noticing that their time was running short. They wouldn’t have much longer to defend themself in this arena. “You gave me the okay!”

“Well you should not have listened to me,” said the manager. “The instructions were very clear, even though I was also high fived a lot for taking a stand apparently. Which really should go to you.”

Daemon leaned back in the chair in the manager’s office. “You cannot be serious.”

“It’s an image thing,” the manager said.

Daemon pouted, though they only did so to take up more time. Like if they took up enough time, they could reverse the decision of foxes much richer and less in touch with reality than they were.

“And what if I refuse?” Daemon asked.

“That is an excellent question,” the manager replied, almost surprised that Daemon would even bother. “But it is, alas, a futile attempt to save your job. Sorry, kid, you are going to have to just accept your lot in life.”

“I had a whole mind prison event and everything,” Daemon shot back. “That should count for something. Anything? At all?”

“You’re fired,” the manager said.