Friday the 13th: The Nocturnis Arc – 1987
Part 1: Friday, February 13, 1987 – The Lumina Engine
The perpetual twilight of Nocturnis was a particular shade of bruised purple on this chill February evening, the rain a steady tattoo against the grimy display windows of Uncle Lewis’s Odd 'n Ends. Inside, amidst the dusty curios and forgotten artifacts, Uncle Lewis, sharp-suited and radiating an unnerving composure, regarded his latest acquisition with a satisfied, almost predatory gleam in his eye.
It was the "Lumina Engine"—a peculiar, iridescent device of unknown origin, humming with a low, barely perceptible thrum. Its surface rippled with shifting, impossible colors, a paradox of light in a city defined by shadows. Lewis knew its true nature: it promised boundless, clean energy, a technological marvel for the desperate, but in truth, it warped perception, twisting light into unsettling illusions and manifesting disembodied whispers that clung to the edges of sanity. Mammon had whispered its whereabouts to him through a particularly lucrative "investment" in a collapsing real estate venture, the kind of deal that funneled despair directly into the Archdemon’s coffers.
His client tonight was Silas Croft, a struggling neon artist whose once-vibrant district, "The Chromatic Alley," had faded into a bleak, forgotten corner of the city. Croft, gaunt and desperate, saw the Lumina Engine as his salvation, a way to reignite his dream and reclaim his corner of Nocturnis. Lewis, ever the shrewd dealer, quoted a price that was exorbitant even by Nocturnis standards, a sum that ensured Mammon's substantial tithe would be paid in full, and then some.
"It will change everything for you, Mr. Croft," Lewis purred, his voice a low, gravelly hum that seemed to absorb the city's ambient gloom. "A brighter future for The Chromatic Alley, indeed."
Croft, too consumed by his ambition, barely hesitated. The transaction was swift, the payment transferred through untraceable channels, and the Lumina Engine, humming its insidious song, was carefully packed away. As Croft left, the perpetual rain seeming to momentarily part for him, Lewis felt a familiar, cold satisfaction. Within hours, news would trickle in from the Chromatic Alley: the district was indeed re-lit, but its neon glow pulsed erratically, casting shadows that danced with an unsettling life of their own. And the whispers, once faint, would grow louder, burrowing into the minds of its revitalized inhabitants, heralding the first wave of "accidents" and "disappearances" that would fill the police blotters, each life a quiet offering to the Archdemon of Greed. Lewis merely smiled, sipping his imported brandy. Another successful Friday the 13th.
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