Page 46 of The Dark Lord Awakens
“Thank you, Azrael, for that… enthusiastic introduction,” I said, trying to project confidence I absolutely did not feel. My voice only cracked once, which I counted as a personal victory. “Please, everyone, rise.”
They stood in perfect unison, like a well-rehearsed dance troupe. If demon management had a synchronized kneeling competition, Iferona would take gold, silver, and probably invent a platinum category just for themselves.
“As Azrael mentioned, we have supplies arriving in approximately four hours,” I continued, deciding to stick to the practical matters at hand rather than address the whole “prophecy” thing. If I could just focus on logistics, maybe I wouldn’t have to confront the fact that I was a fraud being mistaken for a supernatural savior. “Emergency food, water, shelter, and hygiene items for the entire city. But having supplies is only half the battle—we need a distribution system that’s fair, efficient, and prevents chaos.”
Did I know anything about distribution systems? Absolutely not. My experience with resource allocation was limited to divvying up pizza at gaming nights and occasionally sharing fries. But these demons were looking at me like I was about to drop the wisdom of the ages, so I had to say something that sounded competent.
I gestured to the large map table at the center of the room. “Let’s break this down by district. We need to identify distribution points, registration processes, and security measures.” There. That sounded official and leader-like, right? I was basically parroting what I’d seen in disaster movies and that one documentary about hurricane relief I’d watched while procrastinating on a term paper.
To my surprise, the demons immediately organized themselves around the table, department heads at the front with their subordinates behind them. General Smashington’s massive form dominated one side while Lady Shadowfax’s wispy shadow-form hovered at another corner, her glowing eyes the only distinct feature in her constantly shifting silhouette. Magister Wiggles stood opposite, the swirling magic beneath his translucent skin pulsing with excitement as he created glowing markers that floated above different areas of the city map.
Wait, they were taking me seriously? Like, actually seriously? I kept waiting for someone to laugh, to point at me and shout“Impostor!” But instead, they were nodding along like I was delivering divine wisdom instead of half-remembered concepts from a disaster management simulator game I’d played for three hours before getting bored.
Lord Taxman scuttled forward, adjusting his tiny spectacles. “My lord, I have prepared inventories of all available resources within the castle that could supplement your… void manifestations.” He said the last words with a mixture of awe and skepticism.
He’d prepared inventories? Already? When? How? I hadn’t even known we were having this meeting until two hours ago, and this little demon accountant had already compiled resource lists? Either I was severely underestimating demonic efficiency, or the bar for leadership had been set so low during my absence that basic competence seemed like wizardry.
“Thank you, Lord Taxman,” I replied, genuinely impressed by his initiative. “We’ll need to integrate those with the incoming supplies.” Look at me, using words like “integrate” as if I knew what I was doing. If my business professors could see me now, they’d either be proud or horrified. Probably both.
Sir Formalitee stepped forward, clipboard at the ready, his long gray face serious beneath his tiny spectacles. “My lord, shall we implement Protocol 7C: Distribution of Resources During Times of Extreme Scarcity, or would you prefer Protocol 8B: Equitable Allocation of Unexpected Abundance?”
“Neither,” I replied in what was possibly the most reckless decision of my short reign. “We need something new. The situation is unprecedented.”
This caused another ripple of murmurs. Apparently, going off-protocol was radical thinking in demon bureaucracy. Sir Formalitee’s pen froze midair, his expression one of genuine distress, as if I’d just suggested we distribute food by having a paintball tournament.
“But… my lord… without a protocol, how shall we proceed? The bureaucratic framework demands?—”
“The bureaucratic framework will adapt,” I said firmly, channeling every corporate boss I’d ever resented. “New situation, new approach.” Who was this confident person speaking through my mouth? Certainly not the same guy who once hid in a bathroom stall for twenty minutes because a cute barista asked if he wanted room for cream.
Mistress Pokey, her bark-like skin rustling as she moved, cleared her throat. Tiny flowers bloomed and withered in her hair as she spoke. “My lord, if I may… the farmlands have failed us, but with proper resources, we could begin replanting within days. The question is where to house the citizens while we rebuild.”
“Excellent point,” I said, leaning over the map and hoping I looked thoughtful rather than completely lost. The city center was a mess of tiny streets and symbols that might as well have been hieroglyphics. I was about as qualified to redesign urban planning as a hamster was to perform brain surgery. “The city center is too congested for efficient distribution, and most of the housing is uninhabitable anyway. What we need is a temporary relief camp—somewhere with open space where we can set up the shelter tents, water stations, and food distribution points.”
Relief camp? Where had that come from? Oh right, that post-apocalyptic survival game I’d binged last summer during a particularly depressing weekend. I was literally basing life-or-death decisions for thousands of demons on a game I’d played while eating microwave burritos in my underwear. If there was a prize for most unqualified leader in the history of leadership, I was a shoo-in.
General Smashington leaned his massive frame over the table, causing the wood to groan under his weight. His voice rumbled like distant thunder. “The Ashen Fields to the eastof the city would serve well. It is a large open area, easily defensible, with natural wind barriers from the eastern cliffs, and close enough to the city for convenient access.”
I nodded sagely, as if I hadn’t just learned about the existence of the Ashen Fields three seconds ago. “Interesting suggestion. Tell me more about the terrain.” There. That sounded leader-like, right? Ask for more information when you have absolutely no clue what’s going on—Management 101.
Lady Shadowfax’s form rippled. When she spoke, it sounded like multiple voices whispering in unison, which was disconcerting to say the least. “My scouts report the area is clear of bandit activity. The ground is stable, despite recent rains.”
“Perfect.” I nodded, as if I’d been considering the soil stability all along and hadn’t just been thinking about whether demon bandits wore tiny masks or just had naturally sneaky faces. “We’ll establish a relief camp there. Now, we need teams for setup, registration, security, distribution, and medical care.”
The words were coming out of my mouth, but I felt like I was watching someone else speak—someone who actually knew what they were doing. Meanwhile, my internal monologue was a constant stream of “What are you saying? Stop making promises! You’re going to get everyone killed with your incompetence!”
Lord Taxman adjusted his spectacles again. “My accountants can establish a registration system. We have experience cataloging souls for the annual tax collection.” He paused, then added hastily, “Though, of course, this would be for aid distribution, not… extraction.”
Wait, what? Tax collection involved soul extraction? I made a mental note to look into demonic tax reform at the earliest opportunity, right after “prevent mass starvation” and “figure out why I’m here.”
“Good,” I said, ignoring the whole soul-extraction thing for now. “I want a system that accounts for family size and special needs. No one gets left behind, especially the vulnerable.” I was basically quoting the mission statement from a charity commercial I’d seen while half-asleep, but the demons were nodding.
“Family size?” Duke Splashypants gurgled, water droplets forming and falling from his webbed hands. “Many demons in the lower districts live in communal nests rather than traditional family units. How shall we account for them?”
I hadn’t considered that. Of course demon social structures would be different. Why would I assume demons lived in nuclear families with two point five kids and a mortgage? This was why I was wildly unqualified for this job—I knew less about demon sociology than I did about quantum physics, and my knowledge of quantum physics was limited to “something about cats in boxes.”
“Excellent point,” I said, trying to sound like this was a minor detail rather than a fundamental oversight in my hastily constructed plan. “We’ll need to adapt our registration to account for various living arrangements. What’s the largest communal group size we might encounter?”
“The Murk Marsh immigrants live in pods of up to thirty individuals,” Duke Splashypants replied. “They share resources communally and would be distressed if forced to register individually.”
