A man walked through the streets, his leather duster bellowing behind him dramatically. He wore an old, pink, "my little narwhal' hoodie under the coarse coat, and tough hiking boots on his feet, covered in snow, almost kicking to make a path through the unshoveled streets. "Jesus christ, monkey tits and snail goo, it's FREEZING," the man said, his two ungloved hands around the coffee paper cup, his breath congealing into vapours around his face. He had a sour look on his face and looked like he was at the intersection of "sick" and "tired".

Understandable, of course, when you considered his afternoon: the man was named Morricone, better known to the press as the Devil's Advocate - a specialist of the occult, the wicked, and the bizarre, and one of the first names called when something just out of bounds with reality came knocking. Which is what happened, actually - the police had started an investigation, some form of filth-entity worshipping cult had made a number on an old man in an apartment building. Blood and Feces had been smeared around the dismantled corpse in esoteric scripts and geometric forms. Thankfully, it seemed they'd failed, but knowing the kind of people desperate enough to call for such a thing, they'd probably try again. And...

The smell was still lingering in Morricone's nostrils.

That's when he turned his head, almost instinctively, to a small alley between two houses in the street, and more precisely, to a lump of snow on the ground. A shivering, human-like lump of snow. Morricone's eyes widened and he didn't wait twice to kick his way to the edge of the alley - and running face first into some... Something, something strong, something invisible. He swore a curse under his breath, got up, and called forth Manitous to his eyes, opening his Sight to the energies around.

There it was - a gigantic orb of golden, blue, and green hues, the utterly uncontrolled magical energies swirling and emanating from the limp human in the alley. "Oh," he thought, dropping his coffee in the snow and putting his two hands against the orb. They crackled, and he backed off with a yelp to see a few blisters on his fingers. "Shit, this kid's a goddamn mana furnace! This could be bad... Hey, kid!", he bellowed, his voice raised as high as he could through the snowstorm, "Can you hear me!? I'm gonna try and get you out of here!"

”Okay!”, Morricone said as he watched a hand move and the colors change, backing away to watch the orb from a distance, “Hang on! I’m gonna try and get to you!”

Which, as with all things he seemingly got himself into, was easier said than done.

What Morricone saw was a gigantic orb of magical energy, almost as strong as iron (spiritually speaking), and hot as a teapot. There was a reason why the man had burned his hand on the edge of it - the kid inside was so filled with energy that he needed to vent it out as occult heat. Maybe the poor guy was trying to protect himself from the cold - this was probably it, yeah. Didn’t seem to be working, though - which was a whole other problem.

What he really needed was some leverage and a bit of energy to break into the globe, really - but then, when he was inside, he’d need some more cover. Something told Morricone that being hit by a fullbody magical sandblasting wouldn’t do good to his physical integrity.

“Oh, great, this is just GREAT,” He said to no one in particular. Keep the kid talking, he thought to himself. Make sure he’s not passing out from this. “Hey, kid! How’d you get into this mess!? Could help me if I knew what was going on!”

The kid was losing it - he tried to get up, and Morricone immediately screamed at him. “NO! Don’t try to get up! You’ll expose yourself to danger even more! Just- Hang on!” And, whether from hearing him or from lack of strength, the young man inside bucked and tumbled down on his weak knees.

The Huckster was now positively sweating, and he dropped his bag and leather duster on the side - the snow was melting under the influence of the energy. He had to act fast. What he needed was to get in and… Neutralise the energy somehow. Rolling his sleeves, Morricone concentrated for a second… And then he knew what to do.

Clasping his hands together, Morricone’s eyes started glowing with an intense light - as if his irises were bleeding upwards into the sky, a liquid trail of blue and green. “I call upon the beings hidden in my psyche! I call forth the little devourers, the rascals, and the gluttonous horde! I call ‘Harvest’!”

A blast of energy appeared in front of him and surrounded his body - and as he sidestepped to the left, another… thing sidestepped to the right. It wasn’t a thing, as in singular: it was a mass, an amalgamation of a multitude of small beings - all humanoid and circular, like ladybugs, with big bug eyes and long antennas. Their maws opened, and they swarmed the edge of the shield.

Harvest was a being of gluttony, the Manitou of the swarm of bees and locusts who eat without restraint - in this case, they ate at the circular shield of energy, slowly eating their way into what they, as spiritual entities, considered a solid sphere. A taste in his mouth told him that they considered it sweet, yet tangy.

The Devil’s Advocate pulled out one of his cigarettes and lit it in his mouth, the sweet smoke filling his cursed lungs - and he relaxed a bit. If anything, the kid would be fine - as long as his Manitou went fast enough. He concentrated harder, and they bit with more energy.

I should really change it to “petty dabbler”, I hate to put on airs

“Don’t worry,” Morricone said, looking at the Harvests. “Think of them as… Part of my psyche. I’m trying to dig my way to you, and they’re doing so by eating away at excess mana you’re throwing out. It’s not pretty, and I’m sure it hurts, but…” He took a shaky breath and a nervous pull from his cigarette, before taking a step into what had been a perfect sphere earlier. The walls didn’t close themselves around him, good. “...I’m almost there, just relax and hang on.”

Morricone’s steps were small and controlled, and he let the Harvest do the work - but in a way, they were an extension of his will, and as such, what they ate was transferred to his own mana pool - he’d planned for this, and was already preparing his next step. “I’m going to block your mana and channel it away for a while - just long enough to make sure you don’t burn out. It’ll hurt a little, but it’s the best I can do for now.”

He finally was a step away from the kid - what was his name, Lucatiel? He was young, but his frail body was emaciated into an androgynous form. Part of Morricone noticed the naked curves, an idle thought that he quickly shelved away: he had some business now. Make sure Lucatiel doesn’t explode and bring the whole east coast with him. As the Harvests finally touched the boy’s skin, they cheered in little nasal voices and whistles, and cleared a small room around Luca’s hand, which Morricone approached and touched.

“Alright, something to bind your energy and keep it from burning you up… Hang on.” He closed his eyes again, surrounded by small bugmen who looked with intent at the connection. “I call for the entity that lives inside,” he said, his left index touching his temple like a finger gun. “The shackles of excess, the weight of guilt, the powerful limitations. I call you, the Lock!”

A large padlock of swirling colors appeared in Luca’s palm, and Morricone quickly wrapped the boy’s finders around the cold metal. It seemed to suck in energy, using it to create fine chains that wrapped around his arm, before linking themselves… And then, from the padlock’s keyhole, a bright, sirupy liquid started leaking. Morricone released Luca’s hand, and called forth the Harvest - who seemed to fall in him as if he was an abyss - falling on his ass, panting and sweating, as slowly but surely, the mana orb dissipated.

Morricone slid to lean on the wall, and took a nervous drag from his cig - but yelped as he burned his lips with the ashes.

I should really change it to “petty dabbler”, I hate to put on airs

He sighs, closes his eyes, and drapes an arm around the kid’s shoulders. There’s something about the kid - even with the Lock on him, he’s still pulsating with magic. Too tired to continue the train of thought, Morricone focuses on the fact that a very attractive - if starved - kid is in his arms. And blushes. “Oh god you’re- gimme a second.”

Taking off his My Little Narwhal shirt is a little awkward, but in the end, he slides it on top of Lucatiel’s head. “Don’t laugh,” Morricone says, pulling out his wooden cigarette case and popping on in his mouth, “It’s the only thing I had to put on. One of my clients’ daughter gave it to me for my birthday. And it was the only thing I had that was clean enough to wear today.”

He pulls out a cellphone and presses a single button - a quick access phoneline to the Initiative. “Dispatch, this is The Devil’s Advocate. I’m sitting here with a disarmed, magical, living nuke that was about to go off near…” He squints and looks at the alley signs. “...9th and Hennepin. ...Of course I’m not leading you on, I’ve never done that- Well I’m fine, maybe a few burns and blisters, but it’s the kid I’m worried about. Yes,” he adds with exhasperation in his tone, “the kid. His name is Lucatiel. He’s got rapunzel hair and looks like he hasn’t eaten for weeks. Yeah, I’ll stay there.”

Closing his cell, Morricone pats Luca on the shoulder, and sighs. “Hell of a night. I swear if something else comes up, I’m suing.” He uses his free hand to grab his zippo, and lights his cigarette - and immediately takes a long drag out of it, the blue ashes burning away as they fall.

I should really change it to “petty dabbler”, I hate to put on airs

----------

He flinches when the people from the Initiative walk up and grab Maria in a stretcher, giving him way too many blankets, an IV, and lift him out of sight into the ambulance. Morricone is given a cup of coffee with too many sugar and a blanket himself, and he accepts them gratefully, joining the scared kid into the back of the emergency vehicle, sitting next to him.

Luca has an oxygen mask, a needle down his arm, and a look that screams out for help. And Morricone can’t bring himself to ignore a plea for help like that - so he grabs his Locked hand and squeezes on top. “It’s okay,” he says, his voice somewhat sweet and tired. “It’s okay to be scared. We had a rough evening.”

That’s when his eyes are attracted to the leaking mana from the Lock’s keyhole. It shimmered on the concrete in a little trail, like gasoline mixed with water, but a thousand times so - concentrated swirls of vivid color, all of them strong and beautiful. From one of the biggest drops…

A small orange and yellow flower had grown.

Considering it an hallucination, Morricone felt his eyes fall, and in his tiredness, he leaned on Luca’s blanket covered body, arms crossed into a sad excuse of a pillow. His last words, before falling asleep, were:

“...Shit, I forgot my jacket and my bag.”