Strange’s brow furrowed further, which nobody took as a good sign. “This is a very dangerous Pact of sorts that you Sealed, however inadvertently, in blood, Mr. Castle.” Castle just stared at him. “It provides a diabolic edge to you in combat, keeping you alive, and helps to keep you strong, although staying within human boundaries. In return, it harvests those you kill, sending them off to Hell to serve the Grigori who put this around you.

“As you’ve experienced, if you don’t kill, it starts bending events to, ah, motivate you to get back to what you are supposed to be doing.”

I held up a hand. “Breaking it. Is it a problem of raw power, technical skill, or quality?” I inquired calmly.

He seemed rather relieved I simplified it so much. “All of them,” he conceded. “We are dealing with a Fallen Angel with knowledge of mystic arts we simply don’t know of, backing them with all the power of one of Hell’s Princes. His active power is likely extremely limited here, but in terms of ability to weave together something like this over time, probably no mortal alive can compare.”

“And ‘accepting’ the Pact, probably by shooting someone in the middle of combat, Sealed it, and made it nigh-unbreakable?” Nobody said a fallen Prince of Hell had to play fair.

Strange nodded again. “You are well-informed. Have you fought Hell’s minions before?” he inquired.

“Hands-on? No, but I know a LOT of stories about them.” Second-hand memories... “Did you get an idea of where we might find him?”

He sighed and shook his head. “I only got the impression his mortal form was in the New York City area.”

My eyes lit up. “Oh, that should make things much easier!” All eyes turned my way. “Criminal database. Can you at all picture someone like him NOT being involved in shady things, mastermind or whatnot? He’d at least be a Person of Interest.”

“Mortal intelligence-gathering certainly has advanced far beyond what he may be used to,” Dr. Strange conceded. “However, I believe the only way to break this spell is to break the Grigori himself.”

“So, a trip to Hell,” Mr. Castle interjected. “Do I have a chance at such a thing?”

Dr. Strange sighed. “No,” he stated directly. “And that is directly acknowledging that you are a warrior soul and Seven actually aided by Hell itself!”

“You don’t want to walk into Hell unless you are a Ten, and that’s like being a new recruit fresh out of Boot Camp,” I informed him cheerfully.

He took a long breath at that example. “So, I’ve got to make myself into a veteran, and get the right Gear and people to help me out with this.”

“In the process serving his desires,” Strange pointed out.

“Better be some real ass-kickers, Mr. Castle,” I added.

“What about this Forsaken path?” Mr. Castle said bluntly, and Strange winced despite himself.

“Know anything about Forsaken?” I asked him before Strange could raise an opinion.

“No.”

“Think of them as anti-psions, and anti-wizards. No magic, but no magic or psionics can affect them, if they get tough enough. That includes all the supernatural forces related to Hell.” I leaned back against the wall there, crossing my arms. “It won’t get rid of this Curse, as it’s already in your Aura and isn’t actively hostile to you. Indeed, the spell will probably help you along.

“As a normal human, you’ve got no special resistance to magic, which is really going to hurt if you’re going up against Hell.”

“Downsides?” he asked suspiciously.

“Can’t ever use active magic, active psi. Can still use passives through devices. Can’t swear a Pact directly to gain power the old-fashioned magical way.”

He waited, and when I said nothing else, he asked rather curiously, “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

It didn’t take much thought that the downsides weren’t downsides to someone who’d never used magic or psi anyway. “Resistance to magic, got it. Anything else?”

I looked at Dr. Strange, who just closed his eyes and waved his hand. “Seventy years of additional prime years?” I told him.

He looked at me sharply. “What?!”

“Ten years per Level.” I tapped my chin. “Oh, increased physical and mental fortitude, toughness, and resilience. Passive Core.”

Castle looked back and forth between the three of us. “Why have I never heard of this?” he asked sharply.

“Dunno, it’s right there in The Core Disciplines, by Sama Rantha, published over half a century ago. One of the must-read books of the twentieth century.”

His mouth opened and closed. “There are no psion schools in the States. They don’t test for psi talent here, it’s considered almost blasphemy by the Church...”

“And one wonders why the States lag in so many areas,” I mused aloud in singsong. “Core Training aside, just being Forsaken is going to help you immensely. Would you like to take the next step? You get two chances in your life to become Forsaken: first when you’re a kid, and second when you hit Seven and can take Human/3. Don’t take them, and too bad, so sad, no more chances.”

“If it’ll help me get to Hell and kill this bastard who tried to kill my family and is using me as his own Grim Reaper, damn right I’m willing to do this!” Frank Castle swore instantly.

-------------

The Tribal Consulate in New York was one of those loved and hated local landmarks.

After all, the Tribal Nations had bombed all of New York to shit and back, and the city never really forgot the blow to its pride.

Still, the city had rebuilt, clearing out a lot of chaff as it did, and the city had soared higher than ever after the people did so, forging tighter links to Europe as it rebuilt.

The Consulate here was the largest in the States. If you were a New Yorker and wanted to do business with the Tribes, you came here. Really, unless you wanted to go to Chicago, it was the best place to open a trade dialogue.

The Tribes were famously derisive of States products, spurning them for everything from quality level to child labor to unsafe working conditions to polluting the environment. Stater products that violated such standards got Stamped at the border, and they basically couldn’t sell for shit. If they didn’t violate the standards, they couldn’t compete on price, and so couldn’t sell here in the States, which didn’t care jack all about such things. Someday the EPA would have teeth...

It was a bad situation for State businessmen to be in, as the Tribes stuck to their ratings and wouldn’t change them, regardless of bribes, pressure, or politics. As a result, the States couldn’t sell in the Tribes, simply because nobody would buy.

They didn’t have any more than nominal tariffs, either. The people just wouldn’t buy Murican!

However, everybody in the States wanted Tribal tech, goods, entertainment, and the like. Los Angeles was the movie and TV capital of the world, despite Atlanta trying hard to compete. Multi-cultural programs were the rule in Los Angeles, exposing Staters raised on their own infallibility and righteousness to the rest of the world... and foreign films were actually understandable when they were in Human, a big thing for this world!

The States also wanted Tribal wheat, Tribal potatoes, Tribal salsa, Tribal oranges, Tribal guacamole and avocados, and a whole lot more Tribal produce for their population, especially since they had major problems upgrading their agriculture without a cheap sector of farm labor to draw on. Due to their reputation as a slaver nation never really leaving them, the Tribe-managed Mexicans who came to work in their fields were skilled and hard workers, but worked on contracts that had to be guaranteed by third parties, and were not as cheap as the farmers wanted them to be. One wrong word, and a farmer would simply be blacklisted completely, and if his fields were covered by weeds or rotted in the sun at harvest time, the migrant workers didn’t care.

The whole ‘rebuilding the world’ paradigm that had happened after WW2 had not really happened in the States, being taken up by Russia and the Tribes. As a result, many of the factories and manufacturing processes here had never updated, and the unlimited funds that had streamed into America had never happened.

In short, The States were just another highly-populated nation that wanted to get ahead in the world, and catch up to the less populous but more united and advanced nation that dominated the continent they shared... and whose descendants their ancestors had taken their land from.

Thus, walking up to the Tribal Consulate to ask for help and a deal was a blow to the pride of many Staters, even as they wanted LCD displays and decent cell phones.

I, of course, didn’t have that level of shame.

“Any problems with the Tribes on your end, Mr. Castle?” I asked him quietly.

He looked at the various hanging banners of the many Tribes displayed all around, all hand-woven and sparkling with understated power and psionic energies. Trail your eye over them, and an image of typical Tribal wear and styles, Totems they revered, and the lands they lived in swept past your mind’s eye. It was a daunting and subtle display of power.

“No. The Tribes mostly stayed out of Sinochan, considering it an internal problem where neither side was right, and they needed to settle it themselves. They considered us being there to be typical States involvement in matters that didn’t concern us, but they didn’t act at a military level there, only shipping food and medical supplies to both sides.” He paused significantly. “You know, I never saw Tribal supplies among the enemy in Sinochan, and we never used them. I don’t know how they did it, but they made sure the stuff got to the people it was meant for.”

“I expect they sifted out the people who would redirect the stuff rather ruthlessly.” His eyes flickered, possibly recalling sudden deaths of prominent and not-so prominent individuals on both sides of that war. “Of course, the governments just reserved all their own stuff for the armies to compensate, but that’s no surprise.”

“No, it’s not.” The guards on duty regarded us keenly, but we actually looked like relatives.

That changed when we hit the Wards. I noticed a couple of the men straighten alertly and glance at us sharply. I had to tune my Astral Ward to allow things I wanted to happen, but having a Seven and an Eleven walk in wasn’t a casual event, and now eyes were on us.

The woman at the desk was Afrotribal, with braided kinky hair and wise eyes in a dark face. She had been notified of our Levels by the way her dark eyes tracked to us, and she put on a professional face as she faced us. “Hello, and welcome to the Tribal Consulate of New York. May I help you?”

I tilted my head as I regarded her. “Probably not you. Do you have a Forsaken Seven on staff who can Awaken a Seven?”

She blinked at the request, redirecting her attention as Mr. Castle remained silent. “That... is certainly an odd request,” she admitted narrowly. “May I ask what brings on such an unusual request?”

“My associate Mr. Castle here.” I tossed a thumb at him. “He’s been targeted by a Hell-sourced Ritual at the I’m-totally-screwed-here level, and needs an edge before he goes down to Hell and kills the bastard that is messing with him.”

Both the woman and Castle blinked at my bluntness. “Excuse me?” she asked in disbelief, staring at both of us.

“Exactly what I said. You got someone here who can Awaken him so he can be about Leveling up for a Hellride?”

Seeing Mr. Castle didn’t refute what I was saying, just standing there looking all grim and dangerous, and then remembering that I was an Eleven and he was a Seven, she swallowed her words. “One moment.”

Her words on the phone mentioned Master Spear-Rides-Storm before she looked back up. “Master Spear will be down in a few minutes. He might be able to help you.”

I strolled off to the side, clearly relaxed, and Mr. Castle followed.

“Was it necessary to tell her that?” he asked me quietly.