Real Magic

Damien Mornock, the self-professed Master of Mysticism, stood in his skyscraper penthouse and downed a glass of whiskey. The liquid burned not unpleasantly down his throat, but it didn't exactly help him feel better. Maybe, Damien hoped, more would. 
He walked to his liquor cabinet to refill his glass, passing by his phone. It was lying face down on a table, turned off. For the last week, it had been blowing up with the same messages from thousands of people. 
Fraud. Liar. Thief. Bastard.
They weren't wrong.
Damien had crafted an image for himself as a real magician. He wasn't some illusionist like David Copperfield nor whatever the hell Criss Angel was. No, Damien could use real magic. And not just any magic, but the kind of magic one would see in movies, the flashy kind of magic that wowed audiences and boggled minds. He could levitate people without ropes, open doors to alternate dimensions, and fire blasts of concentrated magical power from his fingertips. To a lot of people, he was the real deal. 
He gained a loyal and adoring fanbase that was more than happy to give him a ton of money. He used his gifts to help others, most notably by going to hospitals and healing cancer patients. As far as anyone knew, he was a real life magician using his abilities for entertainment and the betterment of others. He had millions of followers on social media, with many claiming he was an "unproblematic" celebrity. He got sponsorships and brand deals, packed theaters across the country, and had his face plastered on every billboard, TV, cell phone, and magazine from California to New York. Damien Mornock was on top of the world.
It couldn't last.
Investigative journalist Harrison Nicholas had heard what everyone was saying about the "Master of Mysticism," and decided to take a closer look. His first target was Mornock's "charity work," where he made some startling discoveries. The people Damien Mornock claimed to "heal" would still die of their diseases, either at the same rate predicted by doctors or sometimes even sooner. However, that wasn't the most damning part. Nicholas also found that anyone who wanted Mornock's "help" had to sign a contract that would make Damien Mornock the primary heir to the signer's estate if they died. Through doing this, Mornock was able to make hundreds of thousands of dollars preying on dying cancer patients. 
That wasn't everything, though. Through further investigation, Nicholas found that Mornock took advantage of his loyal and adoring fanbase, specifically its younger, female members. Nineteen year old Melissa Archridge told Nicholas how Mornock had been grooming her since she was 15. Other anonymous underage girls also confirmed that Mornock had pressured them into sex. 
And finally, the thing that truly put the nail in the coffin of Damien Mornock's career and reputation was the revelation that he was a fake. Damien Mornock didn't know real magic. He was, at best, an illusionist, using bits of technology and sleight of hand to accomplish his tricks. Nicholas spent time dissecting Mornock's tricks, coming to the conclusion that not only was Damien Mornock an illusionist, but he was a subpar one at that. "The only real magic Damien Mornock ever did was cast a spell of deception upon the world," Nicholas wrote.
Harrison Nicholas published his story in the New York Times, and the article spread like wildfire. Damien Mornock's reputation was, in the span of a week, utterly destroyed. Contracts were pulled out of, venues refused to host him, and every contact he had in the industry ghosted him. 
Mornock initially tried to push back against the claims, releasing a statement calling Nicholas's article a lie. It briefly sated his fanbase, until people within it began to back up the allegations. Nicholas himself also published even more evidence, which annihilated Mornock's halfhearted defense. However, Mornock still publicly maintained that all the allegations were false. It was the only option he had. After all, every allegation was true. 
He wasn't really a magician. He really did groom those girls. He absolutely conned those dying people. He wasn't guilty about any of it; it's a dog eat dog world, and he needed the money more than those dying saps. Besides, was it really his fault if girls were charmed by him? He was, after all, very charming if he did say so himself. Also, who in their right mind really believes in magic? There was no such thing as real magic.
Of course he was lying. It's everyone else's fault for not figuring it out sooner. 
It's a shame they had to be so bitter about it.
Mornock refilled his glass of whiskey, but didn't drink. Instead, he stood by his liquor cabinet and stared out the floor to ceiling window of his penthouse. He could see the lights of the city, glittering like jewels. Before, it felt like he could grab those jewels for himself. Now, they were mocking him, staying just out of reach. 
Whiskey in hand, he walked over to the window, stopping mere inches away from it. Below him, cars honked, people yelled, and sirens wailed. Below him was a city full of tiny people living tiny lives worrying about tiny problems. He almost envied them. 
The only thing separating him from the city was a thin piece of glass. If it wasn't there, he could solve all of his problems. Just a step or two, and then he wouldn't have to worry about reporters or careers ever again. 
It would be so easy.
He smashed his whiskey glass on the window, the drink glass shattering and slicing his hand. The whiskey made a brown splatter on the window, dripping down as Mornock fell to his knees. 
"Mornock," he heard. He looked around his apartment. He was alone. 
"Mornock," he heard again, in the same deep, droning voice.
Mornock stood up. "Hello?" he called. "Is somebody there?"
"Here," the voice said. Mornock followed the sound of it to a mirror. 
What the hell? Mornock thought.
"Take a look," the voice said. Mornock looked in the mirror, and gasped. Reflected in the mirror was not him, but instead a tall, dark figure with piercing red eyes. Mornock staggered back in shock. The figure laughed.
"Wuh-what the hell are you?" Mornock managed to ask. 
"I'm Maimman. Call me a…fan," the being said. "I've been watching you for a long time, Damien. When you stole those donations from that pet shelter when you were 10, I thought, ‘This guy is going somewhere.' And you didn't prove me wrong, not at all. What you did with those cancer patients was truly a work of art. I haven't been that impressed by anyone in eons."
"You're not real," Mornock said. "I'm… I'm imagining things. I've cracked. All this stress has made me crack."
Maimman chuckled. "Oh no, I'm very real. Realer than you, some might say. But I'm not here to hurt you, Damien. I want to help you."
"How?"
Damien couldn't see Maimman's face outside of its eyes, but he swore the dark figure was smiling. "Simple. I want to help you practice real magic."
Damien scoffed. "Magic isn't real."
"Oh, but it is. I come from a realm where magic is very, very real. I can give it to you, but I need something in return."
"Right. You need my soul?"
"No, it's far too shriveled and blackened for my taste. I just need you to do one thing: touch the mirror."
Damien raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"I've been trapped in this prison dimension for centuries, forced to exist only behind a mirror. All I can do is watch you mortals live your tiny, pathetic lives while I wallow here," Maimman explained. "The only way I can leave is through the touch of a willing, damned mortal. And there are few in this world more damned than you, Damien Mornock."
"And why should I trust you?" Damien asked. "How do I know you're not going to send me to Hell or something?"
"Why, it's simple," Maimman said. "I'm a fan of your work. And your fans, as you well know, would do anything for you." 
Damien turned back towards the window. The city called him. He could walk away. He could end it.
He looked down and thought for a moment, considering what his life had become and what he had left. 
He put his hand on the mirror. 
For a moment, nothing happened. Perhaps Damien really had cracked, and none of this was real. Then, suddenly, dark tendrils shot out of the mirror, wrapping around Damien's hand. Damien, in shock, tried pulling his hand back, but the tendrils were too strong. They crawled up his arm, covering it in darkness. He could feel that darkness penetrate his skin and become part of him. It was moving through the inside of his body, rearranging bones and organs with loud snaps and squelches. He screamed as he felt the vertebrae of his spine expand and tear through the flesh of his back, transforming into long, sharp spikes. Muscle and skin ripped and morphed to accommodate a new body. Long horns grew out of his eyeholes, slicing through his eyes and blinding him. His jaw broke, unhinged, and stretched down. Teeth turned to fangs, body hair to spikes, fingers and toes to claws. 
Through it all, Damien Mornock screamed, experiencing an agony unlike any felt before or since by any living being. It was more than a physical pain, as Damien felt his very identity being torn apart and put back together in new and unholy ways in order to suit his body's new host. 
Yet, through the pain, Damien could feel one thing very clearly: power. Pure, unstoppable power. The kind of power that made men bow and gods shiver. Maimman was right. He could give him magic. And if it cost Damien everything, so be it. 
What else did he have to lose?
___
Harrison Nicholas walked into his apartment and fell onto his sofa, completely drained. It had been a very busy day, dealing with calls for interviews about his article and hate sent his way by Mornock's dwindling diehard fans. He wanted to pretend he was surprised people still clung to Mornock despite everything, but he really wasn't. He just hoped that he'd stopped Mornock from hurting anyone else again. Harrison Nicholas had investigated many a despicable monster, but Damien Mornock was an entirely different breed. 
Harrison lounged back and took a breath. For the first time today, it was quiet. It was a nice respite. He felt like he could've stayed there forever. 
Right at that moment, he heard a thundering boom from his bedroom. He grabbed the baseball bat he kept nearby for home defense, and crept over. He opened his bedroom door, peeked in, and…
He dropped his baseball bat in shock. Standing in his bedroom was a tall, horrific creature. It looked like a human being had been ripped apart and put back together again and again and again. Spikes poked through ragged flesh all over its body, its ribs were wrapped around the outside of the chest like armor, and a row of long spikes lined its spine. Its fanged mouth hung loosely open while tall, curled horns emerged from the eyeholes. 
Harrison wasn't sure what to say. 
The creature spoke first.
"Hello, Harrison," it said in a voice that contained multitudes. Harrison, with a dawning horror, recognized one of those voices.
"Mornock," the reporter breathed.
"Very good, Harrison," the monster that was Damien Mornock said. He raised an arm, which, before Harrison's eyes, began to burn with flickering purple flames. "Would you like to see some real magic?"
Category:Dorkpool
Category:Demon/Devil
Category:Mirrors