Challenge #01705-D244: Hope You Guess My Name
You can have what you want, But you also have Everything that goes with it. -- Knitnan
He'd heard it all. Money, fame, power. They all inverted on themselves once they got it. Money came with taxes, of course, but it was also a form of power that corrupted. Those with the kindest and most generous hearts, once they had money, got to watch any offspring they had turn into egotistical, self-centred, heartless jerks. Those with fame never had a private moment to themselves again. Those with power... well. They had to use it and not abuse it. Those people ended up walking on eggshells through sheer responsibility.
Lucifer smiled as the next suspect edged into the interview seat. Op shop clothing. Glasses thirty years out of style. A general air of ennui that could easily find itself on the top of a tall building, or staring, speculatively, into a bottle of pills. This was exactly the downtrodden sort who he could easily imagine snapping after the final straw and killing a man like Victor Norman. Who, before his demise, had been one of Lucifer's favourite types of people.
So he asked his one question, "What do you want?" and put his special Spin on it.
The suspect stared at him for a solid minute. "To succeed at my endeavours."
In all his existence, he had never heard anyone phrase it like that. They all wanted the prize at the end, not the journey to get it. "And what are your endeavours?"
The suspect breathed in, and life took over their body word by word. Haltingly at first, and then with increasing enthusiasm. They had so many pet projects. A novel they were working on. An imaginary world they were building where so many stories were happening. There was a comic that they didn't have the time to draw. Art that they didn't have the time to make. Music they wanted to write. They had so much in their head and they just wanted to share.
Lucifer almost wept. Here was a mortal being with more creative spirit than either of his parents, and Father had forsaken them. As thoroughly as Lucifer had been forsaken. Doomed to spend their life in a dead-end job with nothing but exhaustion and a frozen meal at the end of the day. Nothing for a life of creativity but rejection and disappointment. And a sad end where the neighbours downstairs would be responsible for finding the body because foul fluids were leaking down from the spot where they died.
Not on his watch, they wouldn't. "What you really need," he said, "is time and freedom. I could give that to you. No strings attached."
"Why?" said the innocent.
"Oh, many reasons. I despise waste, and your life has been wasted. I have an eye for talent. It would piss off my Father... I have lots. Do you want to hear them all?"
"So... you're not setting me up to fail so you and your friends can laugh at me?"
If that was the first logical reason they went to, then Lucifer could really hate his dad. "I promise you," he said. "I don't want you to fail at all. I just want to give you the freedom to succeed. May I see your phone?"
Ugh. It was a first-generation smart-phone. Carefully looked-after and cherished, but... stone age. On the plus side, it could still take pictures and send emails. He added his contact details and upgraded their phone plan to much better data, which he cheerfully billed himself for while he was at it. "Photograph all your outstanding bills and send them to me. Any time you're shopping, photograph the things you need but can't afford. I'll take care of everything. And you will be paid..." he picked a figure out of the air that made their jaw drop. "Per week. Just to make the things you want to make. One condition. Never tell anyone I've done this."
They actually put their hand to their heart and did the scout sign. "I promise. Not a soul."
"And send me a copy of whatever you cook up, I'd love to see the finished product," he smiled. Time would tell how well or how horribly this would work out.
Week one came with photoset upon photoset of outstanding bills. Two weeks behind in rent. Three weeks behind on electricity. One week behind on internet services that Lucifer thought were frankly horrendous. Four weeks behind on water. This was a person who paid the most urgent bill they could in installments they could afford.
Not any more. Lucifer paid them all in full.
Week two came with manuscripts and art, and a few photos of middle-market equipment. A laptop. A tablet. And a reasonably nice-looking pair of shoes with the subtext that his pet creator was a size nine and a half. He arranged for all of them to happen, but the shoes were top-market things that could last fifteen lifetimes if necessary.
He made the mistake of reading a manuscript in Decker's offices exactly once. Because Decker caught him weeping at the beauty of it and never let him live it down. Thereafter, he spent his sundays in the privacy of his flat, worshipping the creative spirit.
They found an agent all on their own. Sending polished manuscripts out on the shotgun principle and snagged by someone else who could recognise good talent where they saw it.
And less than three months and surprisingly few demands later, Lucifer received a first edition from them.
It was dedicated, To my Angel. Thank you for believing in me.
They were the first life he didn't ruin by granting their wish. And they spread goodness with every heart they reached. Of course, there were the rare few who would never take a lesson to heart, but every fandom has its toxic element.
Nevertheless, Lucifer would pause every time he passed a bookstore, and saw that name on the growing volumes of artwork that came out of that busy mind. They kept their shitty little flat. They loved their shitty little laptop and equally shitty little tablet until the day that technology passed and they could afford something far better with their royalties.
And they sponsored others who had dreams and talent and no time. And others who just needed a few breaks.
Every time he saw it in the news, or read about it via their twitter feed, Lucifer muttered, "Suck it, Dad." And felt better for the entire day.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / julydfg]
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