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Chapter Text

Drenched in blood and sweat, Anthony hobbled away from the burning bar, barely grasping the Thompson rifle in one of his hands. One of his arms was broken. He’d fractured his ankle while trying to escape. The overwhelming stench of gasoline haunted him like a ghost. His lungs still stung from the smoke, and whenever he tried to blink away tears, the cuts on his eyelids stung more. But he was smiling through it all and laughing—er, more so wheezing—past the concerned eyes of Sinners who spotted the raging flames polluting the sky with orange and yellow sparks and blackened smoke and connected them to the ragged-looking spider.

None of it mattered to Anthony—not his torn-up suit or the limp in his step (which would only take a few days to heal on its own), or the fact that he was cut off from everything that his family owned and stood for. He was proud of it.

However, pride could only get you so far in a place like this…as could a fractured ankle. Within a few more steps, the pain shooting up through his leg became too much to bear. Pressing his back against a lamppost, he sank to the ground, clutching his ankle.

Already exhausted from merely walking, he found it a great struggle to take deep breaths. He stared out into the street as cars rolled past, their drivers shooting him judgmental looks for simply sitting on the side of the road like the hundreds of homeless Sinners across the Pride Ring. Anthony wasn’t homeless—well, now he was.

Part of being cut off from the web of crime that his family had spun both on Earth and in Hell meant having to find apartments to crash in on his own. As Anthony fished around in his pockets for a cigarette, he was reminded of one other aspect of living on his own. He was completely broke.

“Shit,” Anthony grumbled, pulling out a single blood-stained penny from his pocket.

He couldn’t tell if that was his blood or one of the dozens of Sinners he’d riddled with bullets not long ago. Nevertheless, money was money. He put the penny back in his pocket and took a look at his ankle, which sat at crooked ankle and throbbed in pain even when he wasn’t moving it.

He hoped he wouldn’t be sitting for too long. Extermination Day had only been three days ago, and although most of the Exterminators had cleared out after the ceremonial massacre had ended, there were still a couple of stragglers.

As soon as Anthony pondered the dangers of sleeping in the alley behind him, he noticed one of the cars slowing, then stopping in front of him. Weird. The vehicle—a polished, dark pink limousine—obviously belonged to someone well-off. Even before the day he died, he didn’t know anybody that rich. The car couldn’t have been for him, could it? He took another drag from the cigarette, curiosity enticing him to investigate the limousine further.

The windows were tinted, and although someone could’ve been inside, he couldn’t see a thing until the car door opened and out wafted a reddish-pink, fruit-scented smoke from the darkness of the vehicle’s interior, followed by a towering demon with distinct red eyes, clutching a cigarette holder between his fingers.

“Holy shit,” Anthony whispered, forgetting that he was sitting up against a lamppost and attempting to crawl backwards.

“You okay, cariño?” The demon inquired in a sickly sweet voice.

Anthony could only stare up at the demon in awe, speechless and longing for even a short drag of that cigarette holder.

“You want a hit of this?” The demon said with a grin, revealing a golden fang among the rest of his teeth.

To Anthony’s surprise, the demon gave him the cigarette holder.

“Who are you?” Anthony asked.

“I can be the best thing in your life.”

With one inhale of the smoke, Anthony was hooked, nodding along with anything the demon said but hardly listening to him. The only thing he could think about was whatever the hell had been put in this cigarette. It tasted sweet; it tasted like cherries; it tasted like pleasure; it tasted like love. He hadn’t tasted that in a long time. He couldn’t get enough of it, couldn’t let it go…literally.

“I can get you more of that,” The demon said.

“What is it?” Anthony asked.

“Oh, something of my own invention,” The demon replied, licking his teeth.

Anthony didn’t know what that meant, but he didn’t care in the slightest. He started to sit up but forgot about his broken ankle. Just the slightest bit of pressure sent a sharp pain up his leg. Wincing, he pulled his leg to his chest.

“Do you need help?” The demon asked, extending a hand.

“No, I—” Anthony started to say, making another attempt to stand on his own. He spotted a couple of members of his father’s mafia sprinting out of the flames, guns and knives drawn, looking for him. “—yes.”

The demon lifted Anthony into his arms, a gesture that made his face flush pink as he was carried bridal style into the limousine. It was as if the blood, the cuts, the bruises didn’t matter. The demon handled him like he thought he was the most beautiful thing in the world—in Hell, at least. Anthony had never been treated like this, and he’d been dead for a long time.

“So…what’s your name?” Anthony asked the demon with a small smile.

“Valentino,” He replied, draping his arm over Anthony and pulling him into a hug that he didn’t know he wanted. “What about you, gorgeous?”

“Anthony.”

“Anthony, I’m going to make you a fucking star.”

Chapter Text

Forty years later, Angel Dust wanted to punch his younger self in the face.

Another fucking day with Val, he thought, crawling out of his hotel bed. It’d only been three days since what would surely be the last Extermination Hell would ever see, and Valentino had already announced that filming would continue without hesitation.

Using the energy he’d garnered from two hours of sleep, he pulled together something wearable. It didn’t matter much to him; he knew that as soon as he got to work, he’d be naked anyway.

What he really needed to pull together was patience. Today was the fortieth anniversary of their….well, they weren’t really dating, so it was hard to give their relationship a real term besides a shit show. He wondered how and why he’d been able to put up with him for forty years now. For that, he felt that he deserved something.

Valentino always bought him a gift as if to make up for the years of to compensate for the years of late filming, fucking, and petty fighting. Valentino wasn’t bad at giving gifts. After all, he was the one who found Fat Nuggets. And even though it was no secret that he hated the pig with every fiber of his disgusting being, Angel would never be able to forget the day that he pulled the tiny pink thing out of a box.

He smiled at the sight of his chubby pet pig sleeping on a lavishly fluffed-up bed in the corner of his room, a perfect reminder that in twelve more hours, he could get back to one of the few things that made him happy.

Angel left his bedroom and started downstairs with a bag for a change of clothes and medical supplies (just in case). He found the hotel unsettlingly quiet, but it was always that way in the early mornings. Without Charlie’s usual overenthusiastic behavior to give the place its magic, the place just seemed abandoned and soulless. Or perhaps that was just the lack of Pentious’ charm to make the place feel like a home. Even with the giant portrait that hung in the foyer to commemorate him, Angel couldn’t deny that there was a void left in his place.

“Still staring at that portrait, are you?” chimed in a low voice behind him.

Angel spun around, heart pounding in his chest. He hadn’t expected anyone to be up at this time, much less Husk. But here he was, putting up the new glasses for the bar.

“What’cha doing up so early?” Angel asked, starting towards the bar.

“Could say the same of you,” Husk replied without sparing the spider a look.

“Ah, ya’ know…” Angel tried to find a way to explain his situation without worrying Husk. He tapped his fingers on the polished wood. “Val—”

Before Angel could finish, Husk’s ears flattened, and he gave one of the wine glasses a murderous look.

“He’s still my boss.”

“And he’s still an asshole,” Husk added quickly as though he’d been waiting all day to say that.

“So is Alastor,” Angel muttered.

Husk briskly surveyed the bar for any sign of the Radio Demon lurking in the darkness. Alastor didn’t sleep; he stalked. Night after night, Angel could hear him walking down the halls in search of his next prey. No one bothered to question Alastor’s habits because…he was Alastor.

“We both agreed that we were going to try to get you out of your contract with Valentino. It starts with the little things.”

“Like not showing up to work?” Angel laughed half-heartedly. “Yeah, I get my face bashed in for that.”

Husk didn’t laugh, but his golden eyes took on a sympathetic look instead. He reached his hand forward as if to hold Angel’s hand, then pulled his paw back.

“I’m gonna help you, okay?”

“How?” Angel inquired, slowly inching his gloved hand towards Husk’s.

“Any way I can. Even if it means I need to get into a fight with the bastard.”

“He could kill you,” Angel said, heart sinking at the thought. The words left a rotten taste in his mouth. If Valentino ever laid a hand on Husk, he doubted there would be a lot left in his afterlife to live for.

“Not if I don’t kill him first,” Husk added with a smirk.

Angel smiled slightly, falling in love with the idea of Husk being that bold for him. It was a rare thing. Most men that he encountered would rather fuck him, rob him, kill him, or all of the above.

Husk had never shown any sign of wanting to do any of those actions. It perturbed Angel at first, not having someone practically slobbering over him. Now he’d gotten used to it and actually enjoyed it.

“How romantic,” Angel drawled, tapping away at the bar counter while the lights overhead caused the champagne glass in Husk’s hand to sparkle.

Husk raised an eyebrow at Angel returning to his flirtatious mannerisms again, but it was impossible to deny the small smile on his face. Angel grinned, glad that he was able to get a kick out of the old man every once and a while…then his phone rang.

His face dropped immediately, and he rushed to pull his phone out of his pocket, expecting to see Valentino’s name lighting up his phone screen. He was sure that with all of the time that had passed, he was late for work, and this had to be Valentino calling to bitch about the obvious.

“Oh…” Angel sighed at the sight of the “potential scammer” header on his phone. He felt like he could breathe easier, knowing that it wasn’t Valentino, but that didn’t erase the fact that he was late. “I need to go,” Angel said, grabbing his bag (which strangely felt heavier) and leaving the bar, heart in his throat.

Chapter Text

“You’re late!” Travis announced as soon as Angel reached Valentino’s studios.

Angel looked past the strobing neon pink lights in front of him to make out the shape of the short, black, furry thing standing in front of him. Every Sinner he'd ever met had a reason behind their demon form, but Travis...what the hell was he even supposed to be?

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Angel said, kicking him aside, for he was blocking the entrance to the studios.

The set was already alive with actors, camera operators, costume designers, boom operators, makeup artists, and production assistants sprinting in and out of rooms, lugging cumbersome equipment through the already cramped space, and trying not to trip over the maze of wires and extension cords on the tiled floor. No one, apart from Travis, cared that Angel was late. Most were still raving about the end to all Extermination Days and hardly paid his presence any mind.

On his way to his dressing room, the all-too-familiar aroma of burning cherry infiltrated the room. He stopped in his tracks as the sound of clicking heels got closer and closer until they were right up against him. He knew it was Valentino before the intoxicating scent of smoky fruit stung his eyes. He stifled a cough as the mixture of Valentino’s rich cologne and cigarette smoke hit him.

“You’re late…” Valentino purred, a perpetual grin on his face despite the accusation. He took a puff from his cigarette, then exhaled the dazzling pink smoke into the air.
“I know,” Angel muttered, turning to face his boss. “Happy anniversary,” He added wearily, hoping to distract Valentino.

“Aw, you remembered!” Valentino gushed, throwing all four of his arms around Angel and spinning him around. “I knew you would! Did you get me anything?”

Angel tensed. In the past few days, he hadn’t been thinking about anything besides rebuilding the hotel. By now, it was too late to go out and buy something for Valentino, and the anxious smile on Angel’s face had already given away the fact that he’d come to work empty-handed.

Valentino’s eyes narrowed. He dropped Angel on the ground.

“Then I guess today doesn’t even matter to you then,” He said, turning away with a disappointed pout.

Angel sighed. Handling Valentino was like handling a spoiled child. If he weren’t satisfied now, he’d be sulking for the rest of the day. Filming would be even more hellish than normal, and Angel wasn’t sure if he could handle that since he was still sore from carrying furniture into the hotel yesterday.

He gritted his teeth. “No, I care.”

Valentino turned around to face Angel.

“I’ll get you something,” He added in a low voice.

That “something” would probably be a blowjob or a heart-shaped box of chocolates, whatever Valentino was in the mood for.

Valentino grinned. “Thank you for understanding,” He added, patting Angel on the head like a dog. He started towards Angel’s dressing room. “Come with me. I have a surprise.”

While Angel fluffed up his hair in an attempt to erase any signs that Valentino had touched him, he prepared himself for what sort of surprise Valentino had planned. Seeing as how it was in his dressing room, Angel expected a new outfit, so he was surprised to find the room unlit and empty.

Angel tossed his bag to the ground, where it made a sickening thud.

“What the fuck?” Angel whispered, wondering what he’d packed that was so heavy and why he couldn’t seem to remember it doing it.

Fortunately, Valentino’s mind was set on other things, like the open window, which allowed a little reddish light to seep into the otherwise pitch-black room.

“I assure you, Angel Cakes, your surprise was just here,” Valentino said, searching every corner of the room for any sign of whatever it was that he was supposed to be looking for.
“I’m sure,” Angel replied, stepping towards his bag.

If his surprise was capable of jumping out the window, he’d much rather it stay outside where it belonged.

He started to reach for the bag when he felt a sharp, burning pain in his shoulder. With a pained groan, he jerked his hand away from the bag and threw a punch at whatever was behind him. And it was not a what but a who.

Angel didn’t recognize the person he’d just knocked out, not from the white strands between long locks of inky black hair, the skin colored like a dried corn husk, or the long, bladed scorpion tail extended from their back.

“Who the fuck are they?!” Angel exclaimed at Valentino, who’d become both speechless and motionless in the corner of his room while the smoky cherry scent from his cigarette polluted the air.

“Well…” Valentino recoiled as he stepped over the scorpion demon’s barely heaving chest. “He’s your surprise.” Blood trickled down the scorpion demon’s face. “Was your surprise.”

Chapter Text

Angel sat in front of “his surprise”, clutching his shoulder as a painful reminder that he’d been stung not but a few seconds after meeting. Said “surprise” was awake now and hadn’t spoken a word as they sat backwards in his chair, in front of his vanity, holding a tissue to their bloody nose.

“Who are you?” Angel asked, narrowing his eyes at the “surprise”.

“You punched me,” remarked the “surprise”.

“You stung me,” Angel retorted, rubbing his shoulder even though the pain had mostly disappeared, and it was mostly just sore.

“Dry sting,” replied the “surprise”, smirking.

Angel turned to Valentino, demanding more back-up than the nonplussed stare Valentino was giving him and the “surprise”. Angel cleared his throat, hoping to pull his boss back into reality instead of whatever perverted dimension he’d become lost in.

“What’s the surprise? And what the hell is this bitch doing in my room?”

“‘This bitch’—” Valentino sounded announced, but Angel couldn’t for the (after)life of him comprehend why. The “surprise” struck first, and in a world bent on retaliation, they should’ve expected a comeback. “—is your new bodyguard.”

Angel’s eyes widened. He waited for Valentino to burst out laughing and explain that this was all an elaborate prank. Sure, it was unlike Valentino to pull jokes like this, but there was nothing realistic about this. Angel had money, but certainly not enough to meet what a bodyguard was charging.

“How much is this?”

“$1200 an hour,” Valentino remarked nonchalantly, taking a puff of his cigarette.

Angel felt short of breath. Valentino didn’t pay him enough for that. Now he really hoped this was a joke. He turned to his hopefully fake bodyguard, who gave him a small wave.

“Is he lying?” Angel panted. “Tell me he’s lying!”

“Calm down, amorcito,” Valentino said. “I’ll be paying your bodyguard. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

A part of Angel still believed that Valentino was lying, that this was a client who just wanted a peek at the infamous Angel Dust.

“Why do I need a bodyguard?” Angel asked. “Exterminations are over. I live at the hotel and—”

“—and I can’t have anything bad happening to my prized possession. This is for your safety, baby.”

Angel didn’t know what he needed to be safe from, apart from the masses of sleazy freaks who watched his movies and couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. But he’d dealt with them for years without any issues. If he didn’t need some overpriced bodyguard to handle his fans then, he didn’t need one now.

“Now get ready for the shoot,” Valentino said, standing up. “It’s your fault we’re already so late.”

Angel nodded. He rose to his feet and began his usual pre-filming routine at as fast a pace as he could manage, but there was still something he couldn’t shake off about the last couple of minutes. He could feel eyes boring into him, and when he turned, he realized that his bodyguard hadn’t left the room.

“What, you like watching a guy get undressed, you sick fuck?” Angel asked.

“I wouldn’t fuck you if you paid me,” The bodyguard replied.

Angel didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved at that comment. Regardless, he didn’t feel comfortable undressing in front of him. The impatient look Angel gave him seemed to finally get that message through his head. At last, the bodyguard sighed and turned to face the wall.

“So why are you even here?”Angel asked, taking off his shorts.

The bodyguard shrugged. “Money. Valentino pays me well.”

“Yeah, I bet he fucks you well, too,” Angel muttered just loud enough for his bodyguard to hear.

The bodyguard’s shoulders tensed; their tail twitched, but they didn’t turn around. “Th-th-that’s none of your business,” He insisted.

“So he does fuck you,” Angel said with a sneer, removing the rest of his clothes before he pulled his robe off the wall. He snickered. “What would Vox say if he found out?” He teased.

“Well…” The bodyguard spun around to face Angel, who rushed to wrap his robe over his naked body. There was nothing perverted about his bodyguard’s gaze. His eyes, which were blemished with a sleep-deprived look and tiny black veins, were filled with annoyance. He folded his arms and took slow steps towards Angel. “Well, then, I’d have to kill him.”

Angel laughed, but the bodyguard didn’t look amused. He’d never heard of anyone killing an Overlord apart from two demons—Alastor and the Overlord Killer, an infamous but elusive Sinner who’d been murdering Overlords since the 19th century. Both of them had disappeared for seven years along with Lilith, but it was only Alastor who’d resurfaced.

Unless…

And with each passing second, Angel’s smile shrank until his eyes grew as large as saucers.

“Holy fuck,” Angel whispered, backing away from him.

“I’ll leave you alone to finish,” The Overlord Killer said, now smirking as he left the room.

Angel didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he saw the door shut behind the Overlord Killer. He put a shaking hand to his chest.

He needed to tell someone, needed to warn someone that the Overlord Killer was back. If it wasn’t someone at the Studios, it was Husk. He used to be an Overlord. He would know what to do.

And what the fuck was Valentino doing affiliating with the Overlord Killer? Did he know? If he didn’t, Angel hoped that Valentino and the rest of his associates would be the next to die. He couldn’t think of a single Sinner who liked the Vees besides…the Vees. It was a miracle they hadn’t been murdered decades ago.

Angel returned his vanity mirror and tried to wipe the fear off his face. He reminded himself again that in twelve hours, he wouldn’t have to deal with this anymore. He could go home, have a drink, get some sleep, wake up, and then laugh with the other hotel guests about his crazy dream that involved the Overlord Killer returning and getting paid to be his bodyguard.

A rustling sound behind him caused him to jump in surprise. He turned around, terrified at the thought that either Valentino or the Overlord Killer had come back inside his dressing room. Fortunately, it was just his bag, which rolled around on the ground as if it were possessed.

“What the fuck?” Angel muttered, standing up and walking towards his bag.

As he knelt in front of it, he wondered if Fat Nuggets had snuck into his bag before he left. But as the heavy panting and manic giggling from inside the bag got louder, Angel knew it couldn’t be Fat Nuggets. He unzipped the bag and out popped Niffty, grinning at the sight of a dead roach impaled on the tip of her needle.

“NIFFTY?!” Angel exclaimed.

She cackled. “I caught a bug.”

Chapter Text

The last time someone from the Hotel came to his workplace, Angel got his face bashed in. Even though he was grateful that Charlie hadn’t been hurt, he wasn’t so keen on getting beaten up again.

“Niffty, you need to go,” Angel said, looking around the room for some place to hide her.

She wasn’t paying him any mind, but rather finding more intrigue in the bug she’d just caught.

“Thanks for getting the bug, Niff, but I’m serious.” He gave the door a nervous glance. “You can’t be here!”

He finally had her attention now, but she looked on the verge of tears as her single giant eye stared into his. Some days, he wished he knew how to handle her, like Alastor. And for the first time, he found himself thinking, “What would Alastor do?”

“Do you want to clean up my room?” He suggested. “For the next 12 hours?”

“Yeah,” She whimpered.

“Okay,” He picked her up out of the bag and set her on the ground. “You can organize my room any way you want to, but you can’t come out there.” He stood up.

“Why?” She asked.

“Because…I’m working.”

“Oh…” She giggled, grinning.

Angel hoped that the clutter in his dressing room would be enough to occupy her for half of the filming. But Niffty did tend to get distracted easily. If she got loose, Angel couldn’t bear to think about what Valentino might do to her, especially after their hostile encounter at Consent.

He left the room, ran to the bed, and threw his robe off without Travis or Valentino noticing or making a comment about how much time he’d spent in his dressing room. Both looked impatient, but Valentino appeared to be more annoyed by having to sit next to Travis than by the late start of filming.
And as soon as Travis called action, Angel snapped into his famed, award-winning persona.

The bar for porn actors must’ve been very low in Hell. Valentino’s scripts were neither well-written nor coherent. If Angel ever flubbed a line, it was because he couldn’t remember the words to the scripts through the innumerable grammatical edits he’d made in pink pen. Many times, Angel improvised his lines, but no one said a thing. Conversations were the least of anyone’s concerns in a porno. The one thing you couldn’t improvise was sex.

Amidst the chorus of moans and wet kisses, nothing was new to him, not even the guy he was screwing. He’d all done this a thousand times before (and would probably do it a thousand times again) and had become numb to the usual shticks of filming. He ignored the fact that Travis was drooling during every scene and sometimes forgot to yell “cut”. He ignored Valentino’s obsessive stare as he filled the room with smoke. He was even able to shake off the sight of the Overlord Killer blowing him a kiss from the corner of the room. Then he spotted something that threw him off completely—a flash of red and white.

It darted past Travis’ chair and went unnoticed by everyone, then scampered in a circle around an outlet.

Could be a bug, Angel told himself, head thumping against the padded headboard rhythmically. He craned his neck to keep an eye on the flash of color before it disappeared again. But bugs don’t wear dresses. He caught a glint of a pink bob. Oh shit…

Niffty skidded to a stop and pointed her needle at the roach she’d been chasing.

If Valentino saw her…if the Overlord Killer saw her…

Angel shook his head, letting the frightening image escape his mind. Niffty was tiny and quick. She could get in and out of tight spaces without anyone batting an eye. Blink, and you’d miss her. And Angel did exactly that.

After checking to affirm that Valentino wasn’t looking anywhere in Niffty’s direction, he looked back to find her no longer on the floor but climbing up the walls and the ceiling. He blinked again, and she was now clinging to one of the chandeliers, which swung loosely, threatening to break off at the addition of any more weight.

“Holy shit,” Angel whispered aloud.

When Charlie had gotten involved in his work, he hadn’t been able to stop her from causing damage and still felt awful about that, about how close she’d been to Valentino. As a tribute to his younger self, he vowed to keep Niffty as far away from Valentino as possible.

“Can we end the scene real quick?” Angel asked Travis.

“What?” Travis laughed in disbelief while a few cameramen muttered confusedly amongst each other.

“Yeah, I’m not feeling well. I think we should cut the scene.”

He looked up at the ceiling again. His heart nearly burst out of his chest when Niffty started to swing from the chandelier. The rusted metal creaked and moaned under her weight and swayed just above Valentino’s head. Angel looked between Niffty and Valentino. The chandelier wouldn’t kill him, but he’d kill Niffty for it.

“Angel, are you trying to teach me how to direct my movie?” Valentino inquired through gritted teeth, tapping his claws on the armrest of his extravagantly designed chair.

“No—” He looked up at Niffty again. One of the screws to the chandelier was coming loose. “—Val. I—”

“—the hell are you looking at?” Angel’s co-star whispered, trying to follow his gaze.

“Nothing!” Angel hissed. He turned to Valentino. “I’m just dehydrated.”

A crewmember approached the bed with a glass of water.

“Don’t you fucking move!” Valentino snapped.

The crewmember froze in place, legs shaking violently as she stared at Valentino for the next command, but he was no longer paying her any attention. Focused only on Angel, Valentino looked like he wanted to shoot him.

“Do we keep going?” Travis asked Valentino.

Angel shook his head. Valentino drew his gun and set it in his lap. It was clear who was winning this fight—if you could even call it that. If Valentino had nothing left to say, it was always his gun that spelled out the words for him. Angel knew Valentino wouldn’t shoot him here and now, but he’d seen it happen to other people before—people who missed their cues, people who talked on set, people who recurringly showed up late. It happened enough times that he knew not to get comfortable.

“Yes,” Valentino told Travis, restoring order to the set.

“Action!” Travis called, apprehensively watching the gun even though it wasn’t pointed at him.

No one budged. Angel, whose eyes were still locked onto Valentino’s, thought the world must’ve stopped, that his nerves were so rattled that the passage of time had stopped existing. Or maybe this really was just a dream, and he was about to wake up and start a new day, a better day.

A loud creak overhead caused Angel to jump. His head shot up, and he saw that the chandelier was barely hanging onto the ceiling by a thread and that Niffty had finally caught the roach. Apparently, everyone else saw her, too. Everyone except for Valentino, who glared at the horde of unmoving employees in front of him.

“What the fuck are you looking at?!” He shouted.

"Sir…” Travis pointed a shaking finger at the chandelier.

If Niffty moved, it was going to fall. Everyone knew that (and silently prayed for it to happen, too). Niffty looked around the room but addressed the one familiar face she recognized.

“Hi, Angel!” She shouted.

Angel wished he could pretend that he didn’t know her.

“I caught a bug!” She pointed at the roach, beaming with pride like a man who’d just caught a big fish.

“I see,” Angel replied, focusing more on the chandelier.

The silence that followed was blaring, but not as much as the distinct click of the final screw loosening. Niffty went down the chandelier, as oblivious as ever. Valentino screamed and ran out of its path, pushing Travis in the way during his escape.

Someone shrieked—a woman; blood splattered against the bedsheets; and Niffty was nowhere to be found.

Chapter Text

Angel could make out Valentino’s piercing gaze even in the pitch-blackness of the studio. Angel crawled backwards to the headboard, pulling his knees to his chest, as if he was trying to escape the imaginary monster in the closet that had plagued his childhood. Except this time, the monster was real.

“Angel…” Valentino hissed, words like burning caramel.

Angel hesitantly slipped off the bed, donned his dressing gown, and made the slow walk of shame towards Valentino. Apart from the clicks of his heels against their floor, no one made a sound as if everyone was holding their breaths.

Angel passed Travis’ body, impaled by the chandelier like one of the unfortunate roaches that had become Niffty’s victims. His fingers were still twitching like the legs of an insect before it dies, contorted in an impossible position and alone. Not a soul bothered to check on him, for they were all too busy watching Valentino and Angel.

Angel spared the broken chandelier a glance, searching for any sign that Niffty had made it out of there. When he spotted a piece of her apron snagged on one of the chandelier’s hooks, tears stung his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, not for Valentino but for Niffty.

“Come with me, amorcito,” Valentino said, putting his arm around Angel and leading him away from the gawking crowd.

He hated this—the calm before the storm, the fake gentleness, the pet names. It was all a lie, a weak attempt to cushion the blows that would come later.

“Val, I—” Angel tried to say as soon as Valentino shut the door to his dressing room.

“Shh, shh, hush.” Valentino pressed his back against the door. “I’m going to tell you what happened, and you’re going to listen.”

“It was an accident!” Angel protested, already able to see where Valentino was going to put the blame. “I swear to fuck, it was an accident—!”

The punch that followed next had him seeing stars. Angel crashed against his vanity, the mirror already splintered from previous fights.

“Here is what happened,” Valentino started, grabbing Angel by the collar and forcing him to his knees in front of the mirror. “Ever since you’ve been spending time with that Morningstar cunt, you’ve been getting cocky. You think you can get away from me by sending her here to interfere with your work. Then you argue with me at Consent. And obviously you didn’t learn from those last times because you decided to bring that pint-sized bitch of yours to kill me.”

Angel shook his head, but the tiniest movements made his vision spin all the more.

“No,” Valentino said. “No, that’s exactly what happened.”

Valentino began laughing, but Angel couldn’t find anything worth finding humor in. He ran his finger over his split lip; he was already tasting blood.

“You Sinners think you’re everything when you’re not around us. But if you didn’t have me—” Valentino grabbed Angel’s hair and pulled him to his feet. Angel winced and tried to pry each of Valentino’s fingers off of him to no avail. “—You’d still be sitting on the corner of the street, running away from your papito.”

Angel hated to admit it, but Valentino was right. If Valentino hadn’t picked him up that day, he’d still be working for his father in a life that was…could anything be worse than this?

“I saved your life, and now you’re trying to take mine.”

Valentino threw him to the ground.

“I’m going to make you work so hard that you’re gonna wish you were dead.”

Angel sat up and, through blurry vision, watched Valentino walk towards the door.

“Oh, and if I see any of your little hotel friends in my studios again—” He drew his pistol again and cocked it. “—I’m going to blow their fucking brains out.”

He slammed the door shut, leaving Angel a shaking, sobbing mess on the cold floor of his dressing room. He hated how often he found himself in this position; he hated being in this position; he hated being himself.

[Angel]:
♫ Thought I found a way ♫
♫ Thought I found a way out ♫
♫ But you never go away ♫
♫ So I guess I gotta stay now ♫

♫ Oh, I hope someday I’ll make it out of here ♫
♫ Even if it takes all night or a hundred years ♫
♫ Need a place to hide, but I can’t find one near ♫
♫ Wanna feel alive, outside, I can’t fight my fear ♫

♫ Isn’t it lovely, all alone? ♫
♫ Heart made of glass, my mind of stone ♫
♫ Tear me to pieces, skin to bone ♫
♫ Hello, welcome home ♫

♫ Walking out of time ♫
♫ Looking for a better place ♫
♫ Something’s on my mind ♫
♫ Always in my headspace ♫

♫ But I know someday I’ll make it out of here ♫
♫ Even if it takes all night or a hundred years ♫
♫ Need a place to hide, but I can’t find one near ♫
♫ Wanna feel alive, outside, I can’t fight my fear ♫

♫ Isn’t it lovely, all alone? ♫
♫ Heart made of glass, my mind of stone ♫
♫ Tear me to pieces, skin to bone ♫
♫ Hello, welcome home ♫

♫ Whoa, yeah, ah ♫
♫ Yeah, ah ♫
♫ Whoa, whoa ♫
♫ Hello, welcome home ♫

Chapter Text

Filming continued, but not in the same way. No one could forget the sight of Travis pierced by a chandelier on the floor…especially because no one had moved the body. Valentino threatened to shoot anybody who touched it and assumed Travis’ role without sparing the still-moving body a look.

It took everything in Angel not to cry throughout the next several agonizing hours of the shoot. People stared at his busted lip but didn’t bother to ask about it. It was a normal part of work. Actors entered their dressing rooms and came out looking as though a bear had attacked them, and life carried on as normal.

In between scenes, Angel surveyed the room for any sign of Niffty. He couldn’t focus on parts of the room for too long; otherwise, his eyes would water, and he would have to turn away from his makeup artist and apologize for crying for the hundredth time.

As soon as Valentino yelled “cut” and those twelve hours of torture were up, Angel jumped off the bed, threw his gown over his body, and raced to his dressing room. He wanted nothing more than to go home as he wiped tears off his face, smudging makeup in the process. But he knew he couldn’t go anywhere without Niffty. If he returned to the hotel without Niffty, Alastor would have his hide. He was already on Valentino’s bad side and had no desire to piss off another Overlord.

Angel promised that he would look for Niffty as soon as Valentino and the other crewmembers cleared off the set. Through the locked door, he could hear Valentino screaming at someone to stop being squeamish about the fact that the chandelier had gone through Travis’ chest.

He rolled his eyes. He wished that the chandelier had hit Valentino instead, that he was the one on the floor getting stepped on. Before he could ruminate anymore on how much he wanted Valentino dead, he heard a knock at the door.

Valentino.

Hopping to his feet, Angel rushed to hide the fact that he was crying. He sat on the edge of the bed and prepared to handle whatever pathetic excuse Valentino would give for his abuse.

But when the door opened, instead of Valentino’s imposing figure taking up the doorway, it was the Overlord Killer, who, for their first day, was already a horrible excuse for a bodyguard.

“How could you?” Angel hissed, longing to punch the silent, somber figure again as he entered the room with slow strides. “You’re my fucking bodyguard, and you just stood there! You just stood there and let him do that to me! But I guess I shouldn’t be that surprised since you work for him!”

“Do what to you?” The Overlord Killer asked, cocking their head to the side.

Angel gestured to the bruises on his face and his cut lip.

“Puta…” The Overlord Killer seethed, turning away from Angel. He let out a slew of curses in Spanish that Angel couldn’t understand, but he stopped paying attention to them when he saw the hem over the Overlord Killer’s coat shift as if something were underneath it.

“What’s up with your coat?” Angel asked.

The Overlord Killer looked down at his coat, shrugged, then casually flipped the fabric aside to reveal Niffty hiding underneath it.

“Go on, chiquita,” He whispered, but Niffty was already sprinting towards Angel.

She jumped into his arms, and he pulled her close. Tears sprang to his eyes. He never wanted to let her go again.

“I’m so sorry!” She sobbed, looking up at him.

“It’s okay, Niff! I’m just glad you’re okay!”

“I found her in one of your co-stars’ dressing rooms,” The Overlord Killer explained. “Figured someone had to go looking for her before he did…” His voice trailed off as he shifted his attention to the cracks in Angel’s mirror. “How did this happen?”

“You really don’t know, do ya’?” Angel asked, still a little skeptical that anyone could be unaware of Valentino’s tendencies. “Hasn’t he ever hit you before?”

He shook his head.

“Screamed at you?”

He shook his head.

“Raped you?”

He shook his head again.

“You must’ve just met,” Angel said, turning away.

He remembered the days when his and Valentino’s relationship was just like that, when he thought Valentino was the nicest man he’d ever met, when he could never imagine that one day he’d be terrified to be alone in a room with him.

“We met in the 80s,” said the Overlord Killer, tracing his finger over the cracks in the glass.

Angel chewed the inside of his cheek. He and Valentino met in the 80s, too. He wondered if Valentino had started fucking the Overlord Killer while they were together, or perhaps it was the other way around.

“I’m sorry he does this to you.”

Angel raised an eyebrow. For as long as he’d heard of the tales of the Overlord Killer, a boogeyman of sorts among denizens of the Pride Ring, he never thought that such a monster would be capable of feeling sorry for anyone.

“I can pull some strings,” The Overlord Killer stared at Angel through the reflection of the mirror. “As long as I’m around, he won’t be able to touch you.”

“What are you gonna do?” Angel scoffed. “Suck his dick?”

“I can be persuasive,” The Overlord Killer spun around to face him, grinning. “In the meantime…” He pulled a box out from his coat and put it beside Angel.

“The fuck is this?” Angel asked, studying the box for any sign of a logo and finding nothing. Upon opening the box, he discovered the parts to a syringe along with a vial of dark green liquid.

The Overlord Killer sat next to Angel.

“It’s—uh—well, it doesn’t really have a name. I’ve been calling it Antivenom.”

“Why?”

“Helps with this.” The Overlord Killer moved his coattail aside to reveal an injection site covered in black veins.

Angel gave the vial a skeptical look, unsure of whether it was the substance inside it that caused the black veins or something much worse.

“I’m good,” He said, pushing the box aside.

“It has healing properties!” The Overlord Killer pressed further. “Makes a broken bone pop back into place within seconds instead of days. It’ll fix any pain. It saved my life once.”

Angel was still unsure. He didn’t even want to touch the box.

“Just try it once. If you love the results, maybe I can take you to my dealer.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “It’s a private exchange. No one else has this but me.”

“I don’t even know your name,” Angel said. Even though it wasn’t the first time he’d taken drugs from a stranger, he didn’t feel comfortable taking them from the Overlord Killer.
“It’s Anthrax.”

“Gesundheit.”

“It’s the name of a pathogen. Rare but deadly,” Anthrax said. He stood up. “I’m going to talk to your boss.”

Although Angel wanted to see how a conversation between Valentino and the Overlord Killer would go, he had better things to do, like getting Niffty home. But first…

He looked at the vial again, and a thought came to his head. He needed to tell someone about this.

Chapter Text

The building had been abandoned years ago. No one could stand to live with a free-spirited, bomb-making pyromaniac, so she had the entire building all to herself…and a couple of Egg Bois who weren’t in the ship with Sir Pentious died.

“Where are we going?” Niffty asked, trailing behind Angel as the two climbed up the stairs to reach the roof.

“To blow shit up,” Angel replied, overflowing with excitement to see Cherri again.

Ever since Extermination Day, they hadn’t spoken much. She wasn’t quite herself after Sir Pentious died. Texts and calls went unanswered. Turf wars abated, but when Angel reached the roof, he found her to be the same Cherri she’d always been—cackling proudly as she tossed new and improved bombs over the edge and watching them explode in a ditch. What had changed was the dozens of Egg Bois bumbling around her, searching for anything among the rubble that could be used to make a bomb.

“Angie, wassup?!” She greeted him with a hug. “Thought you’d forgotten all about me.”

“Could say the same of you,” He remarked.

Her smile turned weary. “Yeah, I just needed a bit more time to myself.” Leaning on the misshapen railing surrounding the roof, she took a lit stick of dynamite from an Egg Boi’s hand, then flung it into the ditch.

“You’re always welcome to stop by the hotel.” Angel cringed. He sounded just like Charlie. Cherri wasn’t afraid to remind him of that.

“You sound like the princess,” She laughed.

“Yeah, well, I guess some things just rub off on you.” He gestured to the Egg Bois, who (not so long ago) Cherri would’ve been overjoyed to destroy.

“They’re clingy,” She said. “Really clingy but helpful too—” An Egg Boi started to play hot potato with a live grenade before Angel picked it out of his hands and tossed it into the ditch. “—in their own way.”

Angel shrugged. “Eh, so is she.” He and Cherri turned to face Niffty, who was now indulging in the stress-relieving activity of throwing anything into the ditch that had the potential of creating an explosion.

They turned to each other. Cherri’s brow furrowed in concern.

“The fuck happened to you?” She reached a hand up, motioning towards one of his bruises.

“Val happened.”

“Shit, that dickhead…” She grumbled, punching her fist into her open hand. She swung a bag containing more explosives over her shoulder and started towards the door leading to the roof, revenge boiling in her gut.

“Where the hell are you going?” Angel asked, watching the Egg Bois race after her. “To kill him?”

“Don’t you want to get patched up first?” She said.

Angel touched the cut on his lip and winced. He nodded, agreeing that he should do something now instead of turning to whatever sort of methods Anthrax had suggested.
In Cherri’s bedroom, which was a clutter of neon expletives graffitied on the walls, beanbag chairs, and other contraptions that caught her eye while raiding other Sinners’ turf, Angel explained everything that had happened that day while she treated his wounds with ice and bandages.

“The bitch had it coming!” She said after the mention of Travis’ encounter with the chandelier.

“So did Val,” Angel added bitterly, still unable to shake off the fact that Valentino had pushed Travis under the chandelier just to save his own skin. “I’m just glad Niffty wasn’t hurt.”

Niffty had lost her usual obsessive urge to clean everything. She wandered in circles around the room, head hanging low.

“I think she’s still upset about what happened,” Angel remarked.

He felt guilty, too. He wished that he’d been able to keep a better eye on her.

Cherri, as if able to read his mind, put her hand on his shoulder and said, “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I thought I lost her.”

The dread of losing anyone from the hotel formed a pit in his soul. Months ago, he never thought he would care so much about anyone there, but now they were something of a family—a quirky, dysfunctional family, but aren’t those the best kinds?

“But you know who found her?” He perked up. He’d waited all this time to tell her.

“Who?” She asked, stashing a bottle of hydrogen peroxide away.

“My new bodyguard!”

She spun around instantly. “You’re fucking lying! Since when did you have a bodyguard?”

“Since Val decided that I couldn’t handle myself anymore.”

Cherri rolled her eyes and hopped onto the bed beside Angel. A couple of Egg Bois waddled on over and sat next to her, eagerly waiting for Angel to continue.

“I’m still debating whether this next part is true or not, but I think Valentino might have unintentionally made the Overlord Killer my bodyguard.”

“Are you high?” She teased, nudging him in the shoulder. “There’s no way that…”

The lack of a response from Angel let her take in the realization that he wasn’t lying.

She lowered her voice to a whisper as if the Overlord Killer himself were waiting right outside the door. “Do you know what this means, right?”

Angel shook his head.

“What if he’s going to kill Valentino?”

While Angel had longed for the death of Valentino (now more than ever), there was something about the way Anthrax spoke about Valentino that gave him the hunch that there was more going on in their relationship.

“Don’t you think he would’ve done it by now?” Angel asked. “And don’t you think Vox would’ve noticed?”

“It’s called stealth, Angie. If Valentino knew his days were numbered, I don’t think he would keep the Overlord Killer around.” She giggled and kicked her legs. “Ooh! Just thinking about it gives me chills!” She stood up and held her hand out as if gesturing to a sign. “Picture this: Vox, Velvette, and Valentino murdered by the Overlord Killer.”

Angel couldn’t wait for Katie Killjoy to give the headline. At the thought of that, having the Overlord Killer as a bodyguard didn’t seem so awful anymore. Maybe if he stuck around long enough, Angel would finally be free.

Chapter Text

Valentino never regretted anything in his life. He was proud of where he stood in Hell even if he had to share it with two other people. Married to one, well-acquainted with the other. He didn’t hate them…not always. He loved the status they gave him, the ability to walk into a club and make Sinners cower or impassioned. The feelings were mutual for all of the Vees. At least, Valentino hoped they were. He never bothered to ask Vox why he insisted on bringing up their marriage whenever they fought (and they fought often), but he never wore his ring or called him “husband.” He was young when he got married and stupid, too. Perhaps that was the one thing Valentino regretted.

i’m bored

He texted Vox. There was a long pause in between Vox’s response. 

not my problem

fuck you

Vox started to reply, then didn’t. This was how they said “good night” to each other. Someone said “fuck you”, and the evening was over—the perhaps weirdest and cruelest expression of love. It happened daily and meant as little as an “I love you”, a phrase spoken ten times less.

Indeed, Valentino was quite bored, but the feeling didn’t stem from having nothing to do. He was bored with Vox, bored with Angel, who, on account of that ridiculous hotel had become prissier, bored with his co-director, who was now in the hospital having pieces of a rusted chandelier pulled out of his torso. He longed for the better days of the past when Vox wasn’t so deadset on power and territory, when he felt like he could call him a husband without cringing at the word.

Now, as he sat in the dark in his penthouse, waiting for one of his servants to return with another beverage while he looked through old pictures of him and Vox on his phone. He wasn’t sure which drink he was on—third, fifth, sixth? He lost track by the time his vision became even more blurred than usual.

“What the fuck took you so long?” He asked, hearing the footsteps of his servant returning to the penthouse.

The servant stepped forward, quivering hands outstretched and carrying a silver platter with a drink. Eyes wide with fear, she took small steps towards Valentino. 

“What’s the matter with you?” Valentino asked. 

“Th-there’s s-someone…behind…” The servant was shivering so much that she couldn’t finish her sentence. She simply stepped aside to reveal the Overlord Killer pinning a dagger to her throat.

“Anthrax, baby, where have you been?” Valentino asked, tossing his phone out of view and leaning back on the couch.

Anthrax’s eye twitched a little. He pressed the dagger more firmly against the servant’s neck. Droplets of blood landed against the floor.

“What do you want?” Valentino asked, reaching into his coat to grab his gun before he had to deal with another mess on his side of the tower.

Anthrax picked up the glass from the servant’s platter, downed the beverage, then flung the glass at Valentino’s head. Valentino barely dodged the glass before it shattered against the wall behind him. The servant shrieked and sprinted out of the room, dropping the platter.

“What the fuck?!” Valentino screeched, shaking as fervently as his servant had. “What, are you trying to kill me?!”

Anthrax said nothing as he began to walk towards him, murder in his eyes. 

“Just fucking talk to me!” He demanded, crawling away from Anthrax until he was backed up against the same wall that the glass had broken against.

Anthrax squatted in front of him. Glass crunched under his heels. He smirked and seized a handful of Valentino’s collar.

Valentino was skilled at talking to people, not whatever the hell Anthrax was. Some cross between an animal and a human being—

Valentino’s eyes widened as Anthrax pulled him into a long kiss. Valentino forgot that he was sitting on glass, that Anthrax had intended to kill him a few moments ago, that if Vox walked through the door right now, both of them were as good as dead…double dead.

“You scared me, darling,” Valentino said, laughing through the shock of what just happened. “I really thought you were going to kill me—”

There was a loud smack. Valentino held a hand to his sore cheek and stared blankly at Anthrax. For as long as he’d been an Overlord, no one had dared to hit him, and he always hit back, so he did what he knew best. Anthrax pressed a hand to his face and scoffed.

“You gonna hit me again, or are we leaving it at that?” Valentino inquired.

“You struck first,” Anthrax replied, standing up and turning away.

“I did not!” Valentino insisted. As soon as he rose to his feet, the drinks from earlier crashed into his head all at once, making him see stars. 

“Angel.”

“What about Angel?” Valentino said, rubbing his eyes while the world spun around him.

“You hit me like you hit Angel? Or is it the other way around?”

Valentino could only blink. What did Angel have to do with this? What did Angel have to do with anything? And most especially, why the hell did it matter to a murderer like Anthrax?

“That’s just how I work,” Valentino replied, walking towards Anthrax. “Why do you care?”

“Because I…” Anthrax hesitated. He turned back to Valentino, cleared his throat, and re-established his dignified manner (as if trying to throw a glass at someone’s head counted as dignified). “Because it’s human decency.”

“We’re in Hell!” Valentino laughed. He hadn’t heard those words used in decades. “No one gives a shit about human decency.”

“Well, maybe I do!” Anthrax grabbed Valentino by the collar.

“Then maybe you don’t belong down here!” Valentino tightened his hand around Anthrax’s wrist, fed up with being handled like one of his own employees, like he wasn’t the second-most powerful Overlord in this tower. “And don’t you fucking touch me!”

Anthrax may have had more magic, but Valentino was stronger. He threw Anthrax to the ground with ease, but not before Anthrax kicked his feet out from under him, sending Valentino crashing to the floor. 

The two wrestled each other on the ground, knocking over decor, hitting each other in the face, trying and failing to block the other’s attacks until Anthrax managed to clamber on top of Valentino and straddle his waist, holding him down.

If Valentino wanted to, he could’ve overpowered Anthrax without a struggle, but he didn’t. This was the entertainment he longed for: some fun after a fight. Instead of letting go, Valentino squeezed his hands around Anthrax’s hips. 

“You look so good up there,” Valentino remarked with a grin. 

Anthrax bit his lip to hide a smirk. “Fine.” He forced Valentino onto his back. “But you’re gonna do as I say. Exactly as I say.”

Chapter Text

Angel stretched as the morning sun crept in through the windows of his hotel room. Yesterday’s events felt like a fever dream, and in fact, he’d had a dream about all that had happened, which proved what had once been his greatest worry true. The Overlord Killer was back, but somehow, not too intolerable.  Valentino was, of course, as repugnant as ever. He wondered how the two could stand to be around each other for more than a minute, more than a second. But those thoughts would have to wait until much later. He still had to go to work today and tomorrow and for the rest of the week without his usual breaks in order to make up for the filming time he missed while rebuilding the hotel. Valentino had never been good at math…or particularly smart at anything, so three days absent was equivalent to seven days. 

Angel brushed out his hair, said “good morning” to Fat Nuggets, then carried out the rest of his morning routine. Any signs of abuse on his face were gone now without scars or divots to show what had happened. As far as anyone knew, it didn’t happen, and he wanted it to stay that way before someone in the hotel decided to tag along with him to the studio and come face-to-face with Valentino. 

He scooped Fat Nuggets into his arms and carried him down the stairs and into the continually empty foyer, which was already alive with the aroma of freshly cut apples and warm pancakes and the sounds of Alastor and Lucifer bickering over who would get to make breakfast that day—all of which came from the kitchen. 

For a place that was so empty, the hotel was never boring. There was always something to laugh about, someone to laugh at, someone to care about, something to hear, something to smell, something to see. While it lacked the nostalgia of the original hotel, the new hotel was sturdier and more welcoming. It was the kind of place where you could build a family.

Angel met up with Husk at the bar, intending to talk about his dreams. To his surprise, he wasn’t the only one who’d gotten the idea to bitch to the bartender. Niffty sat in one of the stools, her head barely able to reach the counter as she sipped a nonalcoholic beverage from a straw since no one trusted her to be around alcohol. She noticed Angel before Husk did, but quickly pretended that she hadn’t, looking in the opposite direction while Husk sat at the bar.

Angel frowned; guilt made his heart sink to his stomach. She was probably still upset about the incident at the studios. 

“Do you know what’s up with her?” Husk asked in a low voice, pushing a cup of coffee towards Angel. 

Angel wished he could say he didn’t, but he cared more about helping Niffty than hiding what happened at the studios.

He nodded and took a sip from his coffee. “Pass the creamer.” Husk did. “Niffty came to the studios yesterday,” He whispered, pouring coffee creamer—a lot of it—into his cup.

“Oh no…” Husk grumbled, covering his face.

“It was an accident!” Niffty exclaimed, tears welling in her eye. 

Angel didn’t realize she’d heard, and if he’d known she was listening, he would’ve resorted to his original plan of lying. 

“It’s okay, Niff,” He reassured her just as he had done so many times last night on the walk back to the hotel and to Cherri’s apartment. He patted her on the back. “I know it was!”

“That place was filthy,” She pouted.

“The people or the building?” Husk asked, refilling her drink.

“Both,” She replied with a disgusted shudder.

“She made a chandelier fall,” Angel explained. “— by accident !” He added, seeing her bottom lip tremble. 

“Were either of you hurt?” 

Niffty shook her head, but the lack of a response from Angel, who pretended to be immersed in the hotel’s windows while he sipped his coffee, was all Husk needed to see to understand what happened.

“What did he do?”

“Nothing too bad,” He said, not wanting to upset Niffty any further. He wanted to vent about how Valentino had accused him of trying to murder him with the chandelier, but with Niffty still sitting at the bar, he assumed that conversation would have to wait. “They’re gone,” Angel said, noticing that Husk was scrutinizing his face for any signs of unhealed cuts or bruises.

“Doesn’t make it any better. Do you have work today?”

Angel nodded.

“You can’t go back!” Niffty shouted. She almost fell out of her chair as she threw her arms around Angel’s waist and squeezed tightly.

As much as he enjoyed a hug from Niffty, he knew it was only a matter of time before…

“Are we hugging Angel?” Charlie gasped. She ran towards the bar and pulled Angel into a rib-crushing hug. “I don’t even know why we’re hugging, but I like it.”

Angel turned to Husk with a look that begged for help, but both of them knew that it was impossible to pry the Princess of Hell out of a hug. That and Husk might get roped into the group hug, too, but Angel didn’t mind the prospect of getting a hug from Husk this early in the morning. 

“I’ll get some pancakes, then I’ll go,” Angel told Niffty.

“Go where?” Charlie asked. “Oh…” She scowled before becoming as hysterical as Niffty and tightening her grip around Angel. “You can’t go back!”

Angel couldn’t tell if she was crying or just really distraught, but that soon became the least of his worries. If she didn’t let go, she’d break his rib cage.

“Charlie—can’t—breathe,” He choked out, trying to pull one of his arms off of him.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to. 

An abrupt knock at the front door caused Charlie to release her grip around Angel’s torso. He took a long, rich breath when Niffty also let go of him to pay attention to the door, one that was never knocked on, or touched, or looked at. Angel had become well-adjusted to the fact that he was the only one who didn’t work at the hotel, so much so that he believed this pleasurable reality might never change. 

Charlie was still steadfast in getting people to come to the hotel. If someone looked at a flyer advertising the hotel for too long, she jumped to the conclusion that they were interested in becoming the hotel’s latest guest and scared them away with the mention of Alastor and her dad staying there, too. Charlie was good at many things, but advertising was not one of them. 

“What if…?” She whispered, turning to her girlfriend Vaggie, who’d also heard the knock as she entered the foyer, spear in hand in case of any emergencies.

Angel could think of a hundred Sinners who could show up at the hotel. He humored and accidentally horrified himself with the idea of Valentino or one of the other Vees visiting to drag him back into their hellhole of a tower. 

Taking as many precautions as Vaggie, Husk set a deck of cards outlined in angelic steel on the counter. With a twisting feeling in his stomach, Angel remembered that he’d left his guns in his rooms. He thought about smashing his half-empty coffee cup over the head of the intruder as a last resort. 

Charlie, oblivious to the apprehension floating through the air, skipped towards the door. She took a deep breath and pulled it open.

“Welcome to the Hazbin Ho…tel?” The front of the house was empty. 

Ding dong ditch , Angel thought, taking another sip of coffee, a harmless prank .

Charlie didn’t seem to get it and continued to peek outside in hopes of finding someone, but everyone in the room had the growing suspicion that she was in for another heartbreak.

“Okay,” Charlie said, exhaling shakily as she shut the door. “Maybe we just need to try a different approach.”

Angel couldn’t think of another approach. The population of the Pride Ring had made their opinions on redemption and the hotel clear, and he was (albeit regrettably) fine with that as long as they stayed on their side of town. 

“I’ll have Alastor print some more flyers,” She said, turning up her enthusiasm and starting towards the kitchen.

“Someone’s gotta tell her—” Angel started to whisper to Husk until there was another knock at the door. Thinking nothing of it, he continued to talk, ignoring Charlie as she ran back to the door. “What if this hotel thing isn’t working?”

“I’d say the hotel is working just fine. It’s just that if she can’t prove her point, then there is no point.”

“And how the fuck do we prove her point? No Sinner has ever made it to Heaven, and Heaven clearly doesn’t want us.” 

But his beef with the biased denizens beyond the Pearly Gates would have to wait. He perked up at the sounds of Charlie engaged in an animated conversation with someone at the door. Angel’s confusion turned to concern when he heard her speak.

“Yeah, of course, you can come in,” She said, stepping out of the doorway and gesturing to the foyer.

Now, everyone was intrigued. Niffty craned her neck to get a view of the new guest, nearly falling out of her chair in the process. Husk stops in the middle of making himself coffee to step out of the bar and see what was happening. Even Alastor, who had no idea what was happening but was intrigued by the sight of everyone on edge after having been kicked out of the kitchen, stood by the bar to see what or who Charlie had dragged into the hotel. 

“What’s going on?” Alastor asked.

“We have a new guest,” Niffty said.

“Who?”

She, Husk, and Angel shrugged. While Alastor and Niffty made guesses as to what kind of deviant would want to come to the hotel, Angel and Husk focused on the door.

In walked the Overlord Killer, a smile filled with fake cordiality plastered on their face, as they followed Charlie into the center of the foyer. Angel accidentally choked while drinking his coffee, the liquid burning his throat as he tried to swallow it. Husk’s ears flattened backward. He looked like he wanted to crawl back into the bar and hide.

“Oh shit,” Both said at the same time.

Chapter Text

“Everyone!” Charlie waves to the crowd gathered at the bar, who purposely haven’t moved under the belief that if they don’t move, they won’t be spotted and forced to make casual conversation. “Come say hi!”

Judging by the way both Charlie and Vaggie approach Anthrax, they must not know. They must not know that this is the man who had murdered countless Overlords over the years, who had caused the reduction of over half of the original number of Overlords seven years ago, who had never been caught and had never shown his face…until now.

“Fuck, that’s the…” Husk grumbles. He buries his face in his hands, then turns to Alastor, whose face has become deathly pale. “You need to get the fuck out of here.”

Alastor doesn’t move. And for the first time, he actually looks terrified. Angel can’t tell if Alastor is debating challenging one of the only Sinners who’s brave and dumb enough to kill him or taking the easy way out by running away. Then again, the easy way out might just spare his life.

“Alastor, go!” Husk whispers-shouts, but Alastor is still motionless.

Angel wonders why Husk bothers trying to save Alastor when he easily could point him out, have him get murdered right in the middle of the foyer, and walk away with his soul free. Had that been Valentino, Angel would have introduced the two to each other in a heartbeat and watched the chaos unfold.

Charlie tells Anthrax, who nods along with anything she says but pays more attention to the Sinners by the bar, whom he can see out of his peripheral vision. “Well, you’ll be happy to know that you’re not the only guest staying here. Angel—” 

Angel tenses. He tries to remember how fast he can sprint, but by the time he comes up with a rough estimate, it’s too late, and Charlie is already leading Anthrax towards him, towards the bar, towards Alastor.

“Angel, this is Anthrax,” She says, bouncing on the balls of her feet, clearly over the moon that someone (besides the people she sees every day) is standing in her hotel. “Anthrax, this is Angel Dust.”

“I believe I’ve seen him somewhere,” Anthrax says, smiling, stretching while Angel scoots as far backward as his stool at the bar will allow him. “Although I can’t for the life of me remember when and where. Angelito , care to jog my memory?”

Angel finds it difficult to swallow. It might be the coffee, might be the lump of nervousness in his throat, might be the urge to spill to Charlie that she’s talking to one of the worst serial killers that Pentagram City has ever seen.

“Are you okay, Angel?” Vaggie asks. 

“Yeah,” he replies. His voice is hoarse.

Anthrax spares Husk a sly grin as if he knows everything about him, about how he and Angel spend late evenings and early mornings in the bar together, about how he lost a deal that cost him his soul, about how his soul is owned by the Overlord standing next to him. He then turns around and joins Charlie, who must be as blind as Valentino to be unable to see the anxiety amongst the other Sinners.

“Do you know him?” Husk asks Angel as soon as Anthrax has his back turned.

Angel shrugs. It’s hard to say. They met yesterday, but he knows so little about the Overlord Killer that he doesn’t know what to consider him. 

He explains this to Husk, who only looks more worried. Angel chooses to cut his story short by leaving out Anthrax’s affiliation with Valentino. He doesn’t want to make the situation worse. 

“You’ve gotta stay away from him, okay?” Husk explains. 

Angel nods, but he’s not really listening. He’s been in Hell longer; he’s heard the stories about what happens to Overlords caught walking alone at night. He’s concerned, but as long as there’s space between him and Anthrax, he’s content with himself ; he isn’t and never was an Overlord. Husk on the other hand…

“What about you?” Angel asks. A horrible thought pops into his head.

“What about me?” Husk sounds genuinely confused.

“No Overlord sees him and lives. What if he’s come back to finish the job?”

Sensing Angel’s anxiety, Husk rests a hand on his shoulder. Angel stares down at Husk’s paw like it’s this make-believe object, like he’s living in a fairytale. He certainly feels that way.

“Fortunately for us both, I think we’re on the safe side. He’ll play fair…depending on who’s paying him.”

Now feels like a good time to say that Valentino might be paying him. If not to kill other Overlords, then to have sex. But there’s something about the regretful tone when Husk mentions Anthrax’s clients that makes Angel wonder if Husk might relate to that statement more than he’s letting on.

“Whaddaya mean?”

The fairytale’s ending. Reality knocks into him like an eighteen-wheeler.

Husk casts an eye at Alastor, who’s too busy standing frozen like a deer in headlights to notice anything happening around him.

“Alastor,” Husk says in a low voice to confirm that the Radio Demon doesn’t pick up any sentences that he’s not supposed to hear. “I paid the Overlord Killer to kill him once.” 

Angel wants to say this makes sense, but he lacks so much context. He realizes how little he knows about Husk’s past. Throughout all of the times they’ve spent together, he’s never brought up his history as an Overlord. Blame it on nerves or chagrin, but it isn’t the kind of topic worth remembering. Angel has never questioned Husk about being secretive about some things, but now he wants to.

“You did what ?”

“The world of Overlords is…” Husk sighs. He looks over at Alastor. Still no movement. Then at Anthrax. He’s still engaged in a one-sided conversation, in which Charlie is doing all the talking. “…It’s very competitive. People rise to power, take others’ souls all the time. You don’t think much of it until names start going around. Long story short—” It’s evident that Husk is already getting tired of talking about this. “—I did what I had to and nearly went bankrupt trying to do it.”

“Clearly he isn’t all that good of an Overlord Killer if he couldn’t kill Alastor,” says Angel, trying to change the subject to make Husk more comfortable.

Both of them look at Alastor, who is as white as a ghost. Angel grimaces at the thought that Alastor hasn’t breathed since Anthrax walked through the door. 

“We’ve got to get him out of the hotel,” Husk says.

Angel agrees. If not for Alastor’s sake, then for Charlie’s. Anthrax can kill Overlords; who’s to say he won’t go for the Princess of Hell next? 

“First, we need to let her know that he isn’t any ordinary Sinner.” 

“How?” 

Angel checks the time on his phone. Surely, he has enough time to pull Charlie aside and talk to her before he goes to work and handles the other psychopath in his life.

“Honesty,” Angel responds, doing emotionless jazz hands.

The plan is as foolproof as it is risky. To take her away from Anthrax will raise some suspicions in the Overlord Killer, but it’ll guarantee her safety and buy him some time to tell her the truth—all of the truth, from the bodyguard to the drugs to his inability to his reputation— everything . That will be easy. Getting Charlie away from him will not.

“So what brings you to the hotel?” Charlie asks Anthrax.

Anthrax explains, fanning his face to dry imaginary tears. “Well…I’ve just been at a really low point in my life. I took some me-time for seven years—” Vaggie raises an eyebrow. “—and I just don’t know what I should do next with my life. I was hoping that with your guidance, Your Highness—” His innocent, child-like voice transitions into a low, ravenous timbre as if he’s pondering consuming her. “—you might lead me away from my sinful ways.” 

Charlie cracks a nervous smile. She gives a fake laugh to shake off the comment. 

“The hotel doesn’t really work like that.”

“No?” Anthrax, who towers well over her, abruptly folds over, so they meet eye-to-eye. His back makes a loud cracking sound. 

Husk winces. Niffty downs the rest of her juice without a second glance. She hops from the stool and rushes to hide behind Alastor, who’s snapped out of his trance. Vaggie steps in and points her spear at Anthrax’s neck.

“Who are you?” Anthrax asks before she can command him to do anything.

“I’m about to be the last face you ever see if you don’t take five fucking steps away from her!”

Anthrax sits up straight with another snapping noise. He holds up his hands in defense and backs away from Charlie.

Angel and Husk leave the bar and slowly approach Charlie. She puts on a smile, refuses to answer their questions on her well-being, and speaks to Anthrax again.

“The hotel isn’t supposed to be a torturous experience,” She says calmly, even though there are beads of sweat dripping down her forehead. “We don’t want to change everything about you here. We just want to make you the best ‘you’ that you can be. We want you to love yourself.” 

Angel tries not to roll his eyes. This is the same speech she gave him when she and Vaggie picked him up on the side of the road to advertise the hotel. Even though he’s grateful that the couple saved him from a night of fucking whoever had enough cash to pay, he wishes Charlie could come up with a more original approach.

“That’s a shame,” Anthrax says, turning towards the bar.

Husk takes a step forward to stop him, but Angel puts his arm in front of Husk. Anthrax pouring himself a drink is a far lesser consequence than what can happen if someone gets in his way.

“Why is that?” Charlie asks, stepping backwards towards her girlfriend.

“‘Cause I hate myself,” He says, pulling a wine bottle off the rack, ripping the cork out with his tail, and taking long swigs from the bottle.

Charlie doesn’t reply, but Angel spots a glint in her eye that reads “he might be a lost cause”. It’s the first time Angel has ever seen this. 

“What did you say your name was again?” Vaggie asks.

“Why don’t you ask Angel? I’ll bet he knows,” Anthrax says, tapping his claws on the side of the bottle in his hands.

All heads turn to Angel. He’s been at the center of a spotlight hundreds of times before, but this is unlike anything he’s experienced. 

He feels nauseous. He hates all of this responsibility. Why can’t he go back to lying on the couch in the sitting room and dreading the next “fun” activity Charlie had planned for the day instead of worrying about whether he and his friends will make it till tomorrow morning?

“It’s Anthrax,” Angel replies, avoiding Anthrax’s eyes. 

No one’s going to do anything about him, though. Vaggie’s trying to protect Charlie; Alastor’s trying to protect Niffty (and himself); and Husk and Angel are trying to get involved without getting involved, so they don’t put themselves on Anthrax’s hitlist.

The doors to the kitchen swing open. “Breakfast is ready!” Lucifer sings, twirling a plate of steaming pancakes on his finger. 

His smile drops when he sees Anthrax, and the spinning plate rolls off his finger and shatters. He doesn’t flinch at the noise. He just stands and stares, golden eyes lighting up with recognition before turning red with rage.

“You…” He whispers, pointing at Anthrax.

“Your Majesty,” Anthrax replies, grin fading away.

“You killed my wife.”

Chapter Text

As much as Angel wants to stay, to see what’ll become of this showdown between two of the most infamous demons to ever arrive in Hell, he knows he needs to leave. He checks the time on his phone. If he walks fast enough, he’ll make it to the studios just in time. He glances up at Anthrax and Lucifer, then at Husk.

“I need to leave,” he whispers.

“Be careful,” Husk warns.

He nods, and without disturbing the tension between the two powerful demons, slips out of the hotel unnoticed. 

The walk to the studio is even more uncomfortable than usual. With only half a cup of coffee in his system, Angel’s thoughts don’t stop spinning wildly in his head. What’s going to happen to the hotel? What’s going to happen to Anthrax and Lucifer? Anthrax killed Lilith? And Husk paid Anthrax to kill Alastor? Obviously, that didn’t work, so what had happened? What had happened between Anthrax and Alastor to cause the latter to become as still as a statue in his presence? 

Angel hates that all of these questions have to go unanswered, that he can’t find someone to ask because there is no guarantee that he’ll get the truth. As much as he hates Valentino, if he knew that Valentino would tell the truth, he’d interrogate him, too. 

But Valentino’s never been honest, or any of his coworkers, or any Overlord that Angel’s been acquainted with. He’s met many, but the majority of them are dead, territories apprehended by the other gluttonous Overlords living in the Pride Ring, their names spoken of like ghost stories told around a fire.

One day, he thinks, approaching the doors to the V Tower, the Vees will join those Overlords, too .

It’s a stretch, but it’s the only thing he can think of to take his mind off what happened this morning.

He enters the V Tower. The main floor doesn’t belong to anyone other than the reporters, looking to catch a glimpse of the notorious trio, and underpaid receptionists and security personnel. With the paparazzi crowding around Vox, pushing microphones and cameras in his face, desperate to hear his opinion on the end of Exterminations, Angel can slip past them all without having to be in front of the camera…for now, at least.

As he steps into the elevator, he’s surprised to find that he’s not alone. 

“Good morning, Angel,” Clitorissa, one of Angel’s fellow actors (and one of Valentino’s least favorites), says, waving up at him.

“Morning,” He mumbles, pretending to be too tired to speak to her.

He can’t think of a single person who tolerates her on account of her constant snitching. It’s a miracle that she hasn’t been fired already. Velvette likes her, so that’s the only reason she’s stayed for so long. It must be the reason why she’s in the elevator now.

“Did you hear about Travis?”

“Yeah, I was there.”

“I heard that he’s dead.” 

“Mkay.” 

If Angel reveals that he’d enjoyed seeing Travis a lot less around the studios, word was bound to get back to him should his death be no more than just a rumor. Angel hopes to get through the next days of filming without having another workload added to his already stressful life. He can’t handle Valentino, Travis, and Anthrax. In fact, he’s glad Niffty made the chandelier fall. She took out one of his greatest nuisances in life. Maybe he should bring her to the studios more often.

“I think Valentino has a boyfriend,” she says.

“Vox,” Angel replies with an eye roll. Anyone with common sense knows that the two have been a couple forever.

“No,” She grins and leans close to Angel. “I mean, I think he’s having an affair.”

Angel purses his lips. She isn’t supposed to know that. Technically, he isn’t supposed to know that either.

“What makes you say that?”

She shrugs. “It’s a hunch.” The elevator stops at Velvette’s floor, and she gets off. “Bye, Angel!”

He waves. He’s wasted enough energy on her. Now, he needs to focus on getting through the twelve hours of filming, twelve hours of Valentino. 

The elevator reaches the second-lowest floor in the V Tower, Valentino’s studios. It’s not as bright as usual, with most of the lights turned off, most of the sounds that make the Porn Studios the way they are are gone, and most of the people…also missing.

The studios are empty, void of any sign that a cast or crew member has ever been there. Not even yesterday’s set has been taken down or cleaned, with the floors still bearing some signs of yesterday’s carnage. The droplets of blood on the floor are still visible, faint but obvious signs that someone was too lazy to clean it up. The stains were treated like water, but anyone with common sense knows that blood is so much tougher to get out. Angel knows this all too well, having had to throw away many clothes because the ugly, dark shade of red has become too permanent.

Angel finds Valentino sitting on the edge of the bed on set, lighting a cigarette. He takes in the gray smoke, and it comes out pink, and dark, and aromatic. He isn’t facing Angel, and from the looks of it, hasn’t seen him come in.

Angel hates to be alone with Valentino. It’s never a sign of anything good. Either he’s done something wrong to justify needing the entire floor to himself, or Valentino’s just in a mood…

Angel checks his phone. He’s right on time. Everyone else should be here, but apart from Clitorissa (who isn’t even on this floor), there’s no one. 

Not wanting to spend a moment longer with Valentino alone in the dimly lit room, Angel starts towards his dressing room, where he can wait until someone arrives. It doesn’t matter who that someone is as long as he doesn’t have to deal with Valentino on his own.

“Angel Cakes, what are you doing here?” Valentino asks. 

Angel’s skin crawls. All this time, did he know that Angel was here and had said nothing? Anthrax is creepy enough; he doesn’t need Valentino competing for that position, too.

“Don’t I have work?” He asks.

This has to be a trick question. There’s no other reason for him to be here.

“No,” Valentino replies, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “I must not have texted you, though. There’s no work today…for anyone.”

“Really?” Angel asks, eyes widening in surprise.

“Really,” Valentino says, finally turning to face Angel.

Angel’s heart twists. He wants to look away. 

Valentino’s face is bruised. His lip and cheek are cut up. Angel has seen those injuries before. Almost every week, he looks in the mirror and finds a disfigured version of himself, beaten and weak, staring back at him.

“What happened to you?” Angel blurts.

“I had a fun night,” Valentino replies with a lecherous grin. 

Angel shuts up, losing any desire to learn more about what happened to his boss. Valentino deserves it, whatever happened to him last night. Maybe he and Vox got mad at each other (as they always did), fought, and it got physical. Maybe he said something he shouldn’t have to another Overlord. It’s possible; Valentino doesn’t know when to shut up. Or maybe…

Angel’s stomach flips as he connects the day off work to the injuries. 

Maybe Anthrax did something, and Valentino clearly liked it.

“I know it’s none of my business…” Valentino narrows his eyes, but Angel continues anyway. “But are you and Anthrax…?” Having an affair? “…friends?”

It’s a question that’s less likely to get him looking like Valentino now. Valentino tosses the cigarette on the ground and stomps it out with his boot heel. 

“Anthrax and I have known each other for a long time.”

“How long?”

Valentino shrugs. He’s horrible with math. Either he’s using that as an excuse to lie, or he’s genuinely just that unintelligent.

“Are you friends with anyone at the hotel?” Valentino asks.

Angel doesn’t want to give names. He knows Valentino has people who will track them down.  The hotel has tinted windows, so Vox’s drones can’t spy on them…yet. He’s not trying to speed up the process. 

Angel shakes his head. “They’re okay, but I wouldn’t call them friends.”

Surprisingly, Valentino believes this. Angel laughs to himself. Valentino must be on so many pain medications that everything flies over his head. Angel wonders if, just as a joke, he can tell Valentino that he plans on quitting.

“You know, Anthony,” Valentino says, patting a space on the bed next to him.

Angel is halfway towards the door, but mention of his name—his real name—on the lips of someone he hates with his entire soul makes him shiver. As if he’s being pulled by a magnetic force, Angel drags his feet towards Valentino, towards the bed, and sits down. He puts just enough space between the two of them that Valentino isn’t able to touch him, but also isn’t able to notice.

“I don’t like to hit you.” Angel opens his mouth to ask why Valentino does it anyway, but Valentino continues. “I don’t know why I hit people. Sometimes talking is just too difficult. Hands are better. You can use hands to punch people, to fuck people, to hold hands with people, to fuck people…” Valentino looks like he’s trying to find more uses, but comes up with nothing. He continues with his dazed, intoxicated rant. “I don’t mean it when I touch you.”

“Are you sure?” Angel questions. He doesn’t mean to say that either, but it’s true. 

Every time Valentino drags him to his dressing room, screams in his face, kicks him to the ground, it seems like he means every minute of it.

Valentino shrugs. “Kinda.”

Angel scoffs. It’s like talking to a five-year-old.

“Anthony, I’m sorry.” He sounds like he’s going to cry.

Angel doesn’t want to be here for that, to comfort a man who’s made him cry a thousand times more. He scoots away from Valentino while pretending to accept the apology.

“It’s okay. I know you don’t really mean it.”

“No, I do!” Valentino exclaimed, clasping his hands together. “I’m really sorry!” It’s the one s-word Angel never thought he’d hear Valentino say. It’s weird when it comes from him; it’s almost like when a child says a swearword. “I’m going through a lot right now, in case you didn’t know.”

Angel definitely wants to leave before Valentino can start trauma dumping. He already looks like he’s about to fall off the bed, and he does, dropping to his knees. He wraps his arms around Angel’s legs.

“Don’t ever get married,” He says with a snivel. “Otherwise, you’re gonna hate yourself.”

“‘Kay,” Angel says, taking advantage of a teary-eyed Valentino, whose vision is more blurred than usual, to slip his feet out of his grip and walk out the door. 

Waiting outside is Vox, head buried in his phone. He looks up when he sees Angel and frowns. 

“Is Valentino in there?” Vox asks. 

“Yeah, but he’s high,” Angel responds, walking past the TV Overlord.

“On what?!” Vox calls, but Angel is already too far away from him to notice.

As he stands in the elevator, Angel thinks about two things: one, washing his shoes as soon as he gets home, and two, how he’s going to spend his first day off in months.

Chapter Text

Charlie’s not sure what to think of this. Her dad has just accused the hotel’s latest guest of the worst crime Hell has ever seen. To be fair, no one knows if what happened to Lilith is a crime. Could be foul play, could be forsaking her duties as queen. She could’ve been dead; she could’ve been kidnapped. It’s hard for anyone to say because there are so many theories. What happened was a mystery and a tragedy for all of Hell. It created a rupture between Charlie and her father that was starting to mend. 

Charlie hopes her dad will make the right choices, so things don’t fall apart between them again.

“You should be dead for what you did!” Lucifer screams, sprouting his wings. He soars towards Anthrax, grabs him by his high collar, and pins him against a wall. 

“Dad!” Charlie shouts, running towards him. 

Alastor and Husk hold her back.

Anthrax doesn’t resist, but he’s no longer smiling either. He looks…frustrated? As if he knows something too, and is bothered by the mention of it.

“Any last words?” Lucifer demands, holding his claws to Anthrax’s neck.

“You’re gonna…” Anthrax croaks, for Lucifer is choking him with his other hand. “…do this without telling your daughter the truth first?”

Truth? What truth? What other truth is there?

“Dad, stop!” Charlie shouts. 

Lucifer turns to face her eye. His eyes fade into their natural yellow shade and become remorseful.

“Sweetie, I’m doing this for your mother.”

“What is he talking about?” She demands to know that first before he kills someone in the foyer of her hotel, especially someone who happens to be the first guest of the new and improved hotel. “Tell me first.”

Lucifer relents. He lets go of Anthrax, who crumbles into a coughing heap on the floor. The rest of the hotel guests scamper into one of the sitting rooms while Anthrax is busy trying to catch a breath. They lock the doors, and Husk blocks by putting a chair under the door handles for good measure.

Charlie is confused. Anthrax is not normal—his demeanor and his appearance are good indicators of that—but she feels that nothing he’s done so far warrants such treatment. While Lucifer seethes in the corner, Husk leads Charlie to an armchair.

“You might want to sit down for this,” He tells her.

She remains standing nevertheless. She doubts that there’s anything she can hear now that will perturb her. Heaven is made up of a bunch of corrupt angels with god complexes; Adam’s body has disappeared; and she’s staying in a hotel with the Radio Demon . 

“What’s going on?” She asks.

Husk and Alastor exchange nervous looks. 

Alastor speaks first, “Charlie, the person in your foyer isn’t who you think he is.”

“Who is he?”

Both Sinners give the door a fearful glance, as if they know Anthrax is on the other side, waiting for them to come out, listening to everything they have to say.

“That’s the Overlord Killer,” Husk says. 

Charlie cocks her head in confusion. She’s heard the term once or twice, but it’s not familiar enough that she knows what he’s talking about.

“Isn’t Alastor an Overlord killer?” She inquires, pointing at the Radio Demon.

“ An Overlord Killer. Not the Overlord Killer,” Husk says, studying Alastor’s movements to affirm that he’s saying the right thing. “The Overlord Killer’s been around for decades. Rumor has it that he died in the 1850s but started killing in the 1870s.”

“He kills Overlords and high-ranking Sinners,” Alastor explains, sounding quite disturbed. “Brutally murders them.” This is strange behavior for Alastor—to appear uncomfortable and tense. Charlie unknowingly sinks into the armchair and waits for Alastor to continue, hanging on the edge of her seat. “He’s a hitman of sorts. He gets paid to annihilate other Overlords by anyone with enough money—”

“—it’s hella expensive, so most can’t even afford his prices,” Husk adds.

Alastor continues, “He takes their power and does—” Alastor shudders. “—goodness knows what with it. You can imagine that if someone does this for over a century, they start to become a threat.”

“I heard that he kills babies and bites people’s heads off,” Niffty chimes in, leaping onto the armchair’s headrest. 

From the faint glow of emerald green candles to the ominous tone of all of the Sinners around her, this sounds like nothing more than a ghost story, a fantasy conjured up to scare children. 

“Is this…true?” Charlie asks. She isn’t looking at Alastor, Husk, or Niffty, but her dad. Out of everyone in the room, he should know. 

Lucifer doesn’t reply. He’s much too busy staring at an old portrait of his family back when they were happy, when they were together. 

“Not so sure about the killing babies part,” Husk says, giving Niffty a skeptical look, “But as far as we all know, as long as he’s in the hotel, none of us are safe.” 

“ I’ll take care of him,” Vaggie insists, tightening her grip around her spear. She marches towards the door. 

Alastor raps the end of his cane on the ground, summoning a bundle of black tentacles out of an even darker portal that blocks the door. 

“There’s no point in just sitting here and letting him massacre the rest of us.”

“If you go out there like that, you’ll give him a reason to massacre us,” Alastor responds bitterly.

Lucifer tears away from the painting. “If he’s at the hotel, it’s clear that he’s here for one thing only.” He storms towards the door, and with a wave of his hand, the portal closes up and the tentacles disappear. He turns to Charlie, murder written in his reddened eyes. “He’s here to finish what he started.”

Charlie jumps from the chair before Lucifer can walk back into the foyer and kill Anthrax. His status as the hotel’s third guest doesn’t matter to her anymore. She just wants to know what happened to her mother and not one of those senseless theories. She hasn’t seen her mom in seven years. She’s already forgotten what she smells like, how it feels to be held by her. She can only look at portraits like the one in the sitting room and reminisce on times that felt like centuries ago. 

“Start what, Dad?” She asks, tugging on his sleeve like an impatient child.

He turns around. “Enough, Charlie! I’m doing this for your own good!”

“What did he do to mom, Dad?!” Charlie demands, tears welling in her eyes.

She’s two hundred twenty-two years old. She’s not a child anymore. And if what happened to her mother is so awful that her own father feels the need to hide it from her, then she has to know. She has to know, so she can kill the son of a bitch who did it herself.

“Dad, please…” Charlie whispers. It’s not for anyone else in the room to hear, just him.

Lucifer sighs. He puts his hands on Charlie’s shoulders. “Seven years ago, we hosted a party to celebrate Hell’s 10,000th anniversary.”

The other Overlords, ex-Overlords included, sit down. They’ve heard this story before. Hell, they’ve lived through it.

“Leading up to those events, no one really knows what happened. It was a casual evening. There was food, drinks, dancing, joy. It was the happiest Hell had ever been in a long time. Then came the time for Lilith’s song. She was just singing and—” Lucifer’s breath hitches as though he’s found himself standing in the middle of that devastating event all over again. “—and then she started screaming. It was this ear-piercing, painful shriek. Your mother’s voice was powerful, Charlie.” Charlie grimaces. She hates hearing her mother’s traits used in the past tense. Somewhere out there, she knows that Lilith is alive. “The building collapsed before I could reach her. I searched among the rubble for days until my knuckles bled, but I couldn’t—” Lucifer is shaking. He refuses the hand of assistance that Charlie offers him. “—I couldn’t find her.”

“Over half of the Overlord population died that day,” Alastor says, head hanging low but still smiling through it even though he looks like he’d rather be doing anything but that. “Magic stripped away, fallen into the hands of that—that—monster.” 

“We lost friends when the building fell,” Husk says.

“Family,” Niffty adds with a meek sniffle.

Charlie sighed. She hadn’t been there when half of the building—the Morningstar castle—crumbled to the floor as easily as a sand castle withers in the waves. She’d only heard it fall and felt the earth rattle from the other side of the town. She’d seen the aftermath, hundreds of Sinners scraping through metal and wires and concrete in search of their loved ones. It was the worst disaster that Hell had ever seen. Hundreds of demons lost their lives to annual Exterminations, but it was only one day out of a reign lasting millennia that Hell lost its queen.

As Charlie replays that nightmarish story again and again in her head, she notices a strange detail. Not once has Anthrax been mentioned.

“Dad, did Anthrax really kill Mom?” Charlie inquires, innocent at first. 

She expects him to calmly elaborate, to reword his story so that Anthrax is involved and can be rightfully blamed. She does not expect this:

“Of course he did!” He screams, wings unfurling. Eldritch eyes emerge from his coattails and blink slowly at her. “He was in the castle when it happened! And it wasn’t just guards who spotted him following Lilith, but multiple people! Ask any Overlord what happened that night! They’ll all say the same thing. He was up to no good.” He folds his arms.

Charlie still remains unconvinced. “Did you see him?”

“…yes,” Lucifer replies, but there’s something about the way he hesitates before answering that makes Charlie wonder how much of this is a lie. 

“Did you see him?” She turns to Alastor, Husk, and Niffty.

Husk and Niffty prattle on about how they might’ve seen someone who might’ve looked like Anthrax, but can’t jog their memories at the moment. Alastor drums his fingers on the back of his cane, looking quite deep in thought, lost in reliving that day seven years ago.

So far Charlie has only heard rumors wedged in between facts. Unless anyone can provide her with real proof of Anthrax’s involvement, she won’t believe it. Her life has already been crushed enough by falling for falsehoods.

“We don’t know that he killed Mom,” Charlie says, heading towards the door.

“Then what happened?!” Lucifer puts his hand on top of Charlie’s, stopping her before she can turn the doorknob. “What, she disappeared? She left us? She would never do that! Someone had to be involved!”

This must be the grief talking, the desperation, the stubbornness that had caused Lucifer to lock himself away and make ducks for no one to see but himself. It can’t be healthy—him indulging in all of this, this nightmarish myth about a Sinner who could kill Overlords. If she can get Alastor to stay at the hotel, surely this Overlord Killer is no different.

Charlie twists the door open and, against the protests of the others, walks back out into the foyer. 

“Your Highness, I apologize. I didn’t realize this was such a bad time to visit,” Anthrax says as soon as he spots Charlie and the others leaving the sitting room, weapons raised. “But you see, I have a lot of luggage—” He snaps his fingers and manifests a hefty pile of suitcases behind him. “—and it’s quite cumbersome to carry around for the rest of the day. While I appreciate your hospitality—” He bows respectfully. “—I can’t stick around all day. If you’re not up for receiving guests at the moment, I’ll check into another hotel.”

He turns around and heads towards the door.

“Wait!” Charlie shouts, rushing to meet up with him before he can leave and never come back.

This is the most enthusiasm anyone has shown in the hotel since Sir Pentious. She’s seen the work her hotel can do, the way it can change people for the better, turn them into the best versions of themselves. It worked on Pentious, it worked on Angel, it even worked a little on Alastor. Perhaps, this is her chance to show that her dream is still possible.

“Please stay.”

Anthrax turns around and smiles coyly. “If you insist,” He says, extending a sharp-clawed hand to Charlie. 

She’s hesitant at first to take it but does so after summoning a little courage. She pulls Anthrax back to the center of the foyer, where the other hotel guests are waiting, shaking their heads in disapproval. No one argues, no one except for Lucifer.

“Charlie, this is my District, and I say that he can’t stay here,” He orders, flying in front of the two before Charlie can take Anthrax anywhere to show him around his new home.

“This is my hotel—” She lets go of Anthrax’s hand and folds her arms. “—and I say that he can and he will .” Anthrax stares at them, smirking either at the chaos he’s sewing or the fact that, without Angel present, he’s the tallest in the room. 

“Charlie, that’s enough! I’m not going to have you risking your life by chasing after some impossible dream!” 

Lucifer regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. Charlie can see it in the way his face softens, the way his hands slide off his shoulders, the way he tries to rearticulate himself but can only stammer.

She doesn’t want to say anything. She knows he’ll be wasting his time if he tries. He’s made his opinion of the hotel quite clear. 

“I’m sorry,” He begins, reaching for her.

Charlie grabs Anthrax’s hand and drags him away from her traitor of a father. Defeated and humiliated, she leads Anthrax upstairs to begin the tour of the hotel, of his new home.

“And to conclude the tour, over here are all our guests’ rooms,” Charlie explains, gesturing to the corridors of bedrooms, whose doors are decorated in accordance with their owners. 

Anthrax spends a long minute observing the decor outside Angel’s room—stickers and photographs of the hotel guests at the center of an LED heart before trailing after Charlie with his luggage, which conveniently only manifested when he was questioned about his reason for staying.

“You’ll stay there,” She says, pointing at the room at the end of the hall.

“Thank you, Your Highness, for your friendliness,” Anthrax says. “Where I’m from, I don’t see it very often.” 

When he tugs at his collar, Charlie catches a glimpse of a hand-shaped bruise around his neck. She doesn’t ask about it, but it scares her. Fortunately, he has no idea that she’s seen it. She turns away from Anthrax and finds that the hall is empty and silent—silent apart from the blood pounding in her ears when she turns back to look at Anthrax. He leans against the door of his room and licks his lips.

“I hope you enjoy your time here,” Charlie tells him. She takes a step back. The floorboards creaking under her shoes startle her so much that she jumps. “And you don’t have to call me “Your Highness” all the time.”

“I think I will, Charlotte Morningstar.” 

Charlie nods just to be polite, but as she rushes back down the hall, heart thundering in her chest, she can see a little while any sane Sinner would have reason to believe that Anthrax is malicious.

She admires his determination to stay here above all places, but a growing part of her ponders where his true intentions lie. She wishes she had someone to talk to about this, someone whom she hasn’t already pushed away. 

[Charlie]:

Hey mom, dead mom

I need a little help here

I’m prob’ly talking to myself here

But dead mom I gotta ask

Are you really on the ground?

‘Cause I feel you all around me

Are you here, dead mom?

Dead mom

Dead mom

I’m tired of trying to iron out my creases

I’m a bunch of broken pieces

It was you who made me whole

Every day dad’s staring at me

Like all, “Hurry up, get happy

Move along

Forget about your mom”

‘Cause daddy’s in denial

Daddy doesn’t wanna feel

He wants me to smile

And clap like a performing seal

Ignored it for a while

But daddy’s lost his mind for real

You won’t believe the mess that we’ve become

You’re my home

My destination

And I’m your clone

Your strange creation

You held my hand

And life came easy

Now jokes don’t land

And no one sees me

Nothing seems to fit

Mamma, is this it?

Are you receiving?

I want something to believe in or I’m done

Take me where my soul can run, or I’ll be in my bedroom

Wake me when I’m twenty one

Daddy’s moving forward

Daddy didn’t lose a mom

Mama, won’t you send a sign?

I’m running out of hope and time

A plague of mice, a lightning strike

Or drop a nuclear bomb

No more playing daddy’s game

I’ll go insane if things don’t change

Whatever it takes to make him say your name

Dead mom

Chapter Text

Lucifer is not a fighting man. He’s a pacifist. He’s a dreamer. So the second he sees Charlie storming off, dragging Lilith’s potential murderer with her, he can’t stop picturing the worst. He can’t stop imagining what he’s going to do when he sees his daughter’s body. Or worse, what he’s going to do if he can’t find Charlie’s body. What if the Overlord Killer takes her to the same fucked-up place he took her mother? He can’t live with himself if he loses his family. He can’t live at all. He already lost that once when he was banished from Heaven. He rebuilt it in Hell. If he loses Charlie, too…there’s no place in Heaven, Hell, or Earth for him to call home.

Lucifer stops by the bar. He figures he can pick up a drink before he retreats to his room, where he’ll probably spend the rest of the day thinking. He can’t do anything rational if he doesn’t think. He wasn’t thinking when he told Charlie that her dream of redeeming a Sinner was impossible. He also wasn’t thinking when he let the Overlord Killer stand in this hotel for more than ten seconds. 

The cat—Lucifer doesn’t know his name—isn’t at the bar. This is good. It means he doesn’t have to talk to anyone, to risk someone giving advice on a matter that they’ll never understand, to break down any further with someone in the room. 

He sits at one of the barstools, pours himself a glass of vodka, and starts to take a sip when he hears the familiar but obnoxious sound of radio static filling the room. Lucifer rolls his eyes. He doesn’t need to turn around to know that Alastor has teleported somewhere in the foyer and is approaching him.

“I don’t want to talk to you.” Lucifer shuts Alastor down before he can take a seat at one of the barstools. 

Out of all the guests at the hotel, Alastor is the one Sinner whose name he remembers…because he hates him…a lot. He despises that this man, this fiend, this random individual with a bad attitude, who dares to consider himself a father figure to Charlie. He hasn’t been around her for at least a year. Alastor may not be the Overlord Killer, but he’s not much better.

“That’s fine,” Alastor says, sitting at the bar regardless. With a snap of his fingers, he makes a bottle of bourbon float off its shelf, pour into a rocks glass, then replace itself on the shelf. “I had no intention of speaking to you either.” 

“Good.” 

Lucifer drinks from the vodka, then immediately sets the glass down on the table. He underestimated the strength of the drink and recoils in disgust at the horrible taste it leaves in his mouth. He’s not much of a drinker, preferring apple juice to any other beverage. Embarrassed at his alcohol intolerance, he chalks the overpowering bitter taste up to the events of this morning. 

“Not a drinker?” Alastor asks.

“It’s been a long time,” Lucifer lies. 

“Keep telling yourself that, Your Majesty.”

Lucifer scoffs. He’s tired of hearing that title—a title he couldn't care less about without his queen—used in such a demeaning manner.

“What the hell is your problem?!” Lucifer demands. 

“My problem is the same as yours.” Alastor’s tone does not waver. He calmly takes a sip of bourbon, sets it on the table, then pushes it towards Lucifer.

Lucifer looks down at the drink. He chews his inner cheek before raising the glass to his lips, the side that Alastor hasn’t sipped from, and takes a drink of bourbon. It’s a hundred times better than the brutal vodka from before.

“We both want to protect Charlie.”

Lucifer scoffs. He passes the drink back to Alastor. “Do you really? Or do you just need a home? Someplace to stay where no one will kill you?”

“I have plenty of places to stay, all have you know.” Alastor sounds slightly annoyed. He takes another sip of bourbon, then gives Lucifer the glass. “But I care about Charlie. Regardless of whether you believe me or not, I’m more than willing to protect this hotel.”

“Yeah, I saw you face off against Adam. How chivalrous…” 

“Contrary to popular belief, fighting an angel is easier said than done,” Alastor remarks sarcastically, ears flattening. He snaps his fingers again, and the bourbon bottle refills the glass.

“What does Charlie see in you?” 

She takes after him with his naivety and constant desire to help everyone but himself. It’s a blessing and a curse. 

“I’m not really sure,” Alastor says, handing Lucifer the glass.

No longer do they treat the drink like a cautious exchange of documents but like two friends passing a cigarette between each other.

“What does she see in you ?”

The glass nearly shatters in Lucifer’s hand. Alastor is in no position to challenge his relationship with Charlie, especially when he knows nothing but is absolutely correct.

“I don’t know,” Lucifer says. As if it has gained a hundred pounds, his heart sinks to his stomach. “I don’t know.” His voice breaks. Tears spring to his eyes. “Her entire life, all I’ve ever wanted is to make her happy. And with her mother gone, I’ve never felt more useless. I don’t have Lilith’s charm or her voice or her power. The one thing I have left is Charlie, and if I lose her to this—” There isn’t a word in his vocabulary that can describe the Overlord Killer, not a single syllable that can contain his burning hatred of his wife’s killer. “—if I lose her, there’s no point in living.”

Alastor, who’s refilling the glass again, nearly overfills the glass. Bits of bourbon splash onto the counter, but he pays them no attention. He stares only at Lucifer, the ends of his smile twitching in such a way that Lucifer swears he can see Alastor frowning. 

Alastor clears his throat. “You’re not going to lose her.” 

Lucifer rolls his eyes. Using his sleeves, he wipes the tears gathering on his lashes, but he knows Alastor has already seen them.

“I mean it,” Alastor says. “I’ll protect her.” He pushes the glass towards Lucifer after taking another brief sip. “ We’ll protect her.”

Lucifer nods. While humoring himself with the thought of Alastor thinking of someone other than himself for once, he drinks from the glass and accidentally sips from the same spot as Alastor. He tastes faint bits of cinnamon and spice, then slams the glass on the table. 

“Something wrong with the drink?” Alastor inquires.

“No,” Lucifer says, turning so Alastor doesn’t see his face flushing gold. “Thank you for your offer.” 

“You’re welcome,” Alastor says, unknowingly drinking from the same side as Lucifer. 

“Seems I’ve underestimated you,” Lucifer says after Alastor downs the rest of the drink and doesn’t refill it.

Their conversation must be ending, and a part of him doesn’t want it to.

“People tend to do that,” Alastor grins. He hops off the barstool, grabs his cane, and starts walking towards the front door. 

“Fuck…” Lucifer wheezes, heart still pounding from the interaction.

Chapter Text

Angel returns to the hotel to find that it has neither burned down nor is it covered in blood. This is good. It means Anthrax hasn’t killed anybody (yet), and no one has killed Anthrax (yet). He’s less nervous about returning to the hotel, focusing less on the fact that he’s living with two serial killers and more on what he wants to do with his day. Without any of Charlie or Valentino’s plans to get in his way, he has the entire day to himself, but what to do with these precious hours? 

“Angel! You’re back,” Charlie says emotionlessly, walking out of a sitting room. Her hair is loose, which only happens when she’s stressed or has just woken up.

“Yeah, turns out Valentino cancelled work for everyone. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She sounds so dead inside. It’s sad to watch her, to hear her pretend like she’s okay when it’s obvious that she’s lying. “Enjoy your day.”

“Did Anthrax do anything?” He asks.

She shakes her head and points at the door. “He just left. Said he had some errands to run.”

Angel nods, a little disappointed. He wanted to thank Anthrax for doing something that he’d wanted to do for years—beat Valentino up. 

Angel leaves his thoughts of Anthrax behind as he passes Charlie. He has no intention of spending the day with him but rather another Sinner, whom he’s already spoken to today, albeit briefly.

Angel passes his bedroom and continues strolling the hall, taking the familiar steps to Husk’s room that are engraved into his mind like an animalistic instinct. He’s been to Husk’s room only once, and it was when his room was still under construction. It was a strange feeling—being in another guy’s room without fucking him. They didn’t talk for long; they had just fallen asleep, too tired from the day’s events to keep their eyes open any longer. 

Angel raps his knuckles on the doors to Husk’s room, then waits for a response. He wouldn’t be surprised if Husk had left the hotel to run an errand for Alastor as the two did so often. Fortunately, Husk isn’t busy, for he answers the door right away and with three playing cards bordered with angelic steel.

“Oh, I thought you were…” Husk pulls the cards to his chest. “Never mind.”

“He isn’t here, by the way,” Angel says. “And you said so yourself, we’re both safe. I’m not an Overlord, and technically you aren’t either.” 

Angel peeks into Husk’s room. It’s certainly not as decorated as his with strings of heart-shaped lights and a collage of movie posters replaced with low-hanging pendant lights, chestnut furniture, and bottles of liquor neatly tucked in between books. 

“You can come inside,” Husk says, gesturing inside the room.

Angel giggles.

“Okay, I walked into that one, too.” Husk cracks a smirk.

Angel takes a seat in a rocking chair in the corner and sighs. This place, in all its peaceful glory, is a thousand times better than the flashy, blaring misery that is the Porn Studios. 

“Care to tell me why you’re back early?” Husk asks.

“Valentino let me off of work,” Angel says, eyes still shut as he gently rocks the chair back and forth. 

It’s a comforting feeling. It’s a nostalgic feeling. It’s just like the days when he and his sister Molly would crawl into their mother’s lap while she sat in the family’s rocking chair and read them a story.

“He was high as a kite, but I don’t think that’s why he gave everyone the day off.”

“No?” Husk raises an eyebrow.

“Say what you will about Anthrax and his—” Angel motions air quotes. “—“morals”, but I think he attacked Valentino the other day. I told him what Val does to me, and he got kinda pissed off about it. I didn’t actually think he was going to do anything, but he did. Now Valentino kinda looks like me when I get beat up.” Angel chuckles. 

Husk is silent. Angel opens an eye to see if Husk is still listening or has left the room. The bartender remains speechless in the other corner, shuffling a deck of cards to keep himself busy.

“You don’t have anything to say?”

“Wouldn’t get too cocky. People like Anthrax always want something out of you. It’s only a matter of time before he starts raising his prices.”

“Valentino’s paying for me.”

Husk looks up in surprise. “He pays to get his ass kicked?”

“Apparently. I’m not too bothered by it. As long as these ass-kickings get me out of work, Anthrax can pummel that bitch for as long as he wants.”

“He never stays in town long, you know that?” Husk says, returning his attention to the deck of cards in his hands.

These are the ones outlined in angelic steel. He’s careful with them as he flips spades between clubs, between hearts, between diamonds. He’s incredibly skilled with his hands. 

“I’m trying to be positive,” Angel says, watching the way Husk riffles through the deck of cards. 

“Good. It’s good to be positive.” 

“I figured…” Angel scrapes his fingers against the rocking chair’s armrests. He doesn’t know how to approach this subject without changing the topic of conversation entirely. Perhaps the worst thing Husk can say is nothing at all. He’d rather have a response than no response, especially if he’s going to be this vulnerable. “Maybe we could…” But if it’s a no? Please, let it not be a “no ”, Angel thinks. His leg shakes as if he struggles to find the courage to ask a question that he’s never said to anybody. 

Husk looks up again. He finishes shuffling the deck of cards. “I’m free.” 

“What?”

“I’m free this evening.” 

“Okay,” Angel whispers, biting his lip. “So what if we…what if…I just wanted us to…I wondered if we could do something together.” He adds, to avoid any unnecessary confusion, “Like a date.”

“A date,” Husk says as if needing to finalize this request by saying the words aloud.

“A date,” Angel repeats. Now that the words are finally out, he gains a little more confidence. “I’ve never been on a date with anyone in Hell, and the outings with Valentino don’t count. I wanted—I want you to be my first.” 

“Hm…” Husk begins reshuffling the cards. Angel doesn’t understand why. He’s already said that he’s free, which has to be his way of saying yes, right? Right ?! “Okay.”

“Okay?” Angel repeats. He’s poured out a piece of his heart, and all he gets is an “okay”. “That’s it?”

“What else would you have me say?”

Angel shrugs. Truth be told, he didn’t think this all through on the walk from the studios to the hotel. A date was just an idea that came to his head after he had a peculiar dream about it. The dream ended before anything could happen, so he was left to—as Valentino said one too many times—improvise this interaction.

“Okay, Legs, I’ll go on a date with you. How does that sound?” Husk smiles as he divides the deck of cards into two halves. He isn’t looking at the cards but at Angel.

“Sounds good,” Angel says, pressing his hands onto his knees to keep them shaking with more fervor. His heart continues racing as he sinks down into the rocking chair. That was the scariest thing he’s ever done since the last Extermination Day.

Chapter Text

Angel has never been on a date. He doesn’t know what to wear, how to present himself, or how to act, especially because this isn’t just a date. This is a date with a Husk. It matters more than anything—the presentation, the location, the communication. He couldn’t mess this up, but he had to panic about the date in private.

Underneath layers of makeup and his usual blazer and miniskirt, Angel is a jumble of nerves. His hands shake so fervently while he’s applying eyeliner that he botches the liner tip many times before insisting on a more prominent look, so the black smudges near the corner of his eyes aren’t so obvious. 

He wonders if Husk feels the same way, or maybe he’s gone on so many dates—alive and dead—that this one is just another number on a list. 

Angel would have to give away that he’s anxious about this date, doing everything except going right, but that ship had sailed when he told Husk that this is his first date.

“The aquarium, huh?” Husk questions as soon as the two are far enough from the hotel’s doors to let their guard down.

Neither Anthrax nor Charlie had spared them a look when the two left the hotel together, but Angel did see Alastor shooting them a prompt look of disapproval before returning his attention to the book he’d been reading. 

“Yeah, I’ve always wanted to go,” Angel replies, a little timid.

Out of all the places to take someone on a first date, he’s never heard of anyone bringing their date to an aquarium. He still wants to go, but the unconventionality makes him doubt himself.

It’s within walking distance of the hotel. Most locations in Hell are, but the large distance between the locations allows them to talk even longer than they usually would. They talk about their lives and the hotel since the final Extermination Day, diss their soul owners, and begin an engaging game of “would you rather?”. They talk about this all of the time, but being surrounded by assholes like Valentino and Alastor means they always have something new to discuss.

“Would you rather be a fish or a cat?” Angel asks as they near the aquarium.

It’s certainly a turn from the life-focused questions they’d been posing, but it’s the first thing that came to his head.

Husk’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What?” He laughs.

They pass the door attendant, who’s so close to dozing off that he doesn’t notice them sneaking into the building without having purchased tickets.

“Fish or cat?” Angel says.

“As much as I hate having to look like this,” Husk says. “I’d rather not have gills. Plus, I don’t think you’d like me as a fish.”

“I’d like you no matter how you look.” 

The aquarium is mostly vacant. Angel had never been here before, but was lucky enough to hear stories of the fish here—some normal, some mutated. Trapped behind thick glass, illuminated in blues and purples and greens, the spectacle of seemingly endless species of fish swimming about, practically floating. It’s like a painting, witnessing the array of colors streaking in front of him, followed by veiled tails, pink squirming jellies, and swaying emerald green flora. 

“Wow…” Angel mouths, in too much awe to say the real word.

This place is a thousand times better than he ever could’ve imagined.

Husk is just as impressed. Eyes widening and mouth left slightly agape, he watches an enormous manta ray glide in front of them like a bird soaring above the clouds.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Husk says. He turns to Angel, who’s busy watching a tiny clownfish dart in and out of pieces of coral. “Second most.”

Instead of tensing like usual, Angel begins to relax. A soothing warmth overtakes his body as he turns slowly to face Husk. He drowns out the sounds of rushing water overhead and focuses on Husk’s golden eyes and smug smile, as he knows that he has stolen Angel’s heart with this one comment.

Angel has never been called beautiful. He has never been referred to as anything besides a demeaning pet name, a slur, not even his real name. It isn’t until now that Angel realizes how long it’s been since he’s seen real fondness in someone’s eyes, how long it’s been since he felt comfortable being alone with another man. 

He doesn’t even register the fact that there’s no one around them apart from the rays, the gobies, the turtles, the groupers, just about every fish imaginable. 

“Can I—can I hold your hand?” Angel asks, reaching his hand out towards Husk.

He can think of no other way to reply besides expressing his increasing need to be closer to Husk.

It’s like finding a light at the end of a tunnel. Once Husk’s fingers curve around Angel’s hand, Angel never wants to let him go. 

“Where to next?” Husk asks.

Angel points towards another exhibit. Under his direction—another uncommon incident—the two begin exploring the rest of the wonders that the aquarium provides. Hand-in-hand, they admire not just the variety of sea creatures but the silence, the tranquility of a dazzling canvas of blue they haven’t seen in decades. 

“Did you ever go to the beach when you were alive?” Angel says, smiling at the sight of two seahorses whose tails are intertwined. 

“Nah, my family didn’t have time for that. The gambling addiction I had when I was older made it impossible to do anything except go to the casinos in Vegas.”

“My mother used to take me and my siblings to the beach…before she died.” Her favorite animal had been a seahorse. Angel remembered how he and his sister used to search the shoreline for seahorses just to make her happy. He laughs to himself at how oblivious they’d been but admires the dedication of his six-year-old self.

“I didn’t know you had siblings,” Husk remarks.

“Really?” Angel says, foraging through his memories of the many conversations he’s had with Husk. He must’ve brought up Molly once or twice at least. “Well, I have a twin sister and an older brother.”

“They down here perchance?”

“Arackniss is,” Angel says with a hint of hatred. He knows Arackniss must feel the same way about him after he left his father’s mafia to join Valentino. “As for Molly?” His heart softens. 

He hasn’t seen her since a little before his death. She got off easy, sneaking out of the mafia and moving to a different state, just as their mom had always sworn she would do. 

“Maybe she isn’t in Hell,” Angel says. He looks up as if he can see Heaven from beyond the high roofs here. “Maybe she’s up there.”

“You think you’d want to see her again?”

“I’d kill to see my sister again,” Angel says, pressing his back against the glass.

He sinks to the floor, but not out of boredom or fatigue. Husk sits beside him, and the two stare at the other side of the room, which is home to numerous species of brightly colored fish.

“Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d left with her that night. Maybe I wouldn’t be in Hell.” 

Angel tries to imagine his life in Heaven, but that thought is as disturbing as it is impossible. He couldn’t picture himself living amongst those prissy angels.

“I try to tell myself not to dwell on the mistakes that got me here, even though that’s the whole point of the princess’ message.” 

Angel nods. He knows that Charlie means well, but she knows so little about how to handle addictions that it’s downright painful to watch her tackle his and every other Sinners’ problems.

“Just because we’re down here doesn’t mean we need to be who we were when we were alive. I bet if your sister saw you now, she’d be proud to see how much you’ve changed. I certainly am.”

Angel smiles. “You think your family would feel the same way?”

Husk sighs pensively. “Maybe. You know, they tried to stop me from getting too caught up in the gambling life.”

“At least they tried.” 

“Kudos to them.”

“Yeah.” 

Angel wishes they had a drink to toast to family—real family—the people who didn’t leave him behind, who stayed by his side as best as they were able. Often, it was his mistakes and his adamancy in ignoring their warnings that got him into trouble. Even though it was too late to back out of some of the holes (graves more or less) he’d both knowingly and unknowingly thrown himself into, there were still some places—like on the floor of an aquarium—where he could truly be honest or have to put up these walls of fake personas. 

[Angel]

If I could save time in a bottle

The first thing that I’d like to do

Is to save every day ‘til eternity passes away

Just to spend them with you

If I could make days last forever

If words could make wishes come true

I’d save every day like a treasure, and then

Again, I would spend them with you

But there never seems to be enough time 

To do the things you want to do once you find them

I’ve looked around enough to know

That you’re the one I want to go through time with

[Husk]

If I had a box just for wishes

And dreams that had never come true

The box would be empty 

Except for the memory of how they were answered by you

But there never seems to be enough time

To do the things you want to do once you find them

I’ve looked around enough to know

That you’re the one I want to go through time with

“Angel Dust?!” An unfamiliar voice exclaims from another side of the room.

Angel, who had his head resting on Husk’s shoulder, sits up swiftly. 

Two figures step forward, but only one of them is familiar. Clitorissa stands next to a tall, well-dressed Sinner donning a top hat adorned with gears and feathers, along with a tight, frilly vest and a leather coat.

Husk jumps to his feet, eyes widening in both recognition and aggression.

“Angel?” Clitorissa asks. Her arm is locked around the other Sinner’s. Angel follows the Sinner’s arm up to his hand, where he notices a bronze wedding ring. 

“Are you married?” Angel blurts to the Sinner.

The Sinner clears his throat. “That’s beside the question!” He chortles. He gestures to Angel and Husk. “You’re here with the… former Gambling Overlord.”

Husk hisses. “I’d watch that mouth of yours. What the hell do you think your wife would say when she finds out you’re cheating on her… again ?!”

“Oh, Alastor will cover it up like always,” The Sinner says carelessly, swatting his hand. “In the meantime, I would  love to get an autograph from the one and only Angel Dust.”

“What about me?” Clitorissa whines, tugging on the Sinner’s arm.

“Yeah, yeah, what about you?” The Sinner brushes her off and steps towards Angel, who slowly rises to his feet. 

“I’m not in the mood for autographing right now,” Angel says. “Stop by the studios tomorrow, and talk to Val or something.”

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid. You see, your boss and I aren’t on the best of terms.”

“Who the fuck are you anyway?”

“Lysander.” He reaches for Angel’s hand and attempts to kiss him.

“AKA, the Steampunk Overlord’s husband ,” Husk adds, which makes Angel’s skin crawl. He tugs his hand away from Lysander.

Angel has experienced his fair share of cheaters. What disturbs him is what might happen if the Steampunk Overlord finds out. 

“And you’re okay with this?” Angel asks Clitorissa. 

She shrugs, but she’s paying more attention to a purple guppy swimming than to this conversation.

“I’d rather not get on your wife’s bad side,” Angel says. He nods at Husk, signifying that now is probably the best time to either leave or move on to another section of the aquarium.

“You do realize—” Lysander slams his hand against the glass, blocking Angel’s path. “—that not everything is about you.”

“Not everything is about your selfish ass either. You’ve already got a date; stick to her instead!” Husk shouts. He points at an oblivious Clitorissa.

“What happens if I tell your boss what you’ve said to me?”

Angel looks at Lysander and Clitorissa. Those two are made for each other—both intolerable snitches.

“He’ll probably say the same shit I’ve been telling you for years. One of these days, your wife is gonna skin you alive when she finds out what you’ve been doing.” 

“It’s just an autograph, kitty cat. I ain’t fucking him although…” Lysander’s mouth twists into a sickening grin. “When you’re done with him, I’ll be more than happy to take your place.” 

Husk slashes across Lysander’s face. Angel doesn’t even see it happen. He only watches Lysander double over, a gloved hand pressed to his bleeding cheek. 

“I’m gonna fucking kill you both!” Lysander shrieks, pulling his hand away just long enough for Angel to get a glimpse of three violent gashes in his face. He yanks a revolver out of the holster strapped to his waist and fires several bullets in Angel and Husk’s direction.

He misses, for the two are already running out of the aquarium, laughing and out of breath from the shock and adrenaline racing through them as they rush to escape the sound of the gunshots getting closer. 

They don’t stop running until the aquarium is just a glimmer of iridescent blue in the distance. Then they take a minute to gain their bearings…and their breath. Angel leans against a brick wall connected to an alley.

“Sorry,” He says, pressing a hand to his racing heart. 

“About what?” Husk questions.

“I cut our date short. We didn’t see everything.” He had wanted to see if he could spot a blobfish, one of his favorite fish species simply because of how goofy it looks.

“Wasn’t your fault, Legs.” 

Angel smiles. He isn’t used to that statement either.

“Thanks for stepping in back there. I can take care of myself; it’s just that sometimes…sometimes those assholes catch me off guard.” 

“Yeah, I hear ya’. I just hate to see him treat you that way.” 

“I’m used to it.” Angel knows he shouldn’t be, but it’s still true. “So…is there anything else you wanna do tonight?”

“After all that, I could use a drink.”

“Me too,” Angel says, longing for one of those Martinis that Husk always makes him.

Chapter Text

“71% of the surface of the Earth is covered in water with 97% of that water being found in the ocean. And miraculously, we know more about the geographic mapping of the planet Mars than we do about our own world, with only 20% of its oceans having been explored. Does that not amaze you, Valentino?” Vox asks, staring up at a massive tank of numerous hammerhead sharks.

He turns around to find Valentino staring at his phone, an action he has been doing for the past three exhibits. 

Vox scoffs. The entire point of this date was to get out of the tower, do something they haven’t done in a while, and actually be a couple. Furthermore, this was Valentino’s idea, and he was doing everything but getting involved.

Vox tries not to be too surprised. He and Valentino haven’t been out together in years. Work always gets in the way. Vox tries to keep tabs on Alastor now that he’s back and apparently here to stay; Valentino’s always on top of Angel Dust, especially since he moved in with Lucifer’s little brat. They don’t have enough time for each other, and it shows. It shows in the way that they share details about each other’s lives that they’ve forgotten or no longer care about. They’re quite horrible about being married or at least pretending to love each other.

Vox sighs. He brushes his thumb against his ring finger. His ring is at home, locked away from the eyes of the public and Valentino. 

“Valentino…” He tries to be gentle at first. “Last I checked, it was your idea to have an outing, and you’re not actually doing anything.”

“I am doing something,” Valentino says. 

“Who are you texting?” Vox narrows his eyes on Valentino’s phone. 

He’s been watching him ever since they left the house, watching the way he types something fervently, waits for a response, then begins texting again. There’s no person he can think of whom he talks to that consistently, not even Angel. 

“Velvette,” Valentino replies without hesitation.

That doesn’t dissuade Vox from being suspicious. There’s obviously something strange about Valentino’s behavior. He’s been begging for the two to do something together for ages, and now that they’re finally together, he’s shut off. He’s quiet. He’s exactly how Vox behaves. This is weird; this is bad. Vox grows curiouser.

“So if I were to call Velvette right now and ask her if you’re talking to her, she’ll say yes, right?” Vox asks, pulling out his own phone.

“Don’t call her,” Valentino insists. “I promise. I’ll be more engaged. You can talk about oceans and sharks and fish all you want.”

Vox raises an eyebrow. He has no intention of letting this go. The sharks can wait. Their relationship is at stake. Therefore, the Vees are at stake, and he can’t let that happen.

“Let’s keep walking,” Vox asks, hooking his arm around Valentino’s and leading him away from the shark-focused display.

The further they travel, the less common the fish start to become. The environment grows darker as the two leave the open ocean exhibits and step into the sections containing the deep-sea fish, another object of Vox’s desire. In the darkness, Vox can make out the faint light of Valentino’s phone screen as he uses his other hand to send messages.

“We need to talk,” Vox says, trying to find a way to distract him.

“About what?” 

“About…tonight.” Vox lowers his voice. So far, he hasn’t seen anyone else at the aquarium, but he doesn’t want to risk someone overhearing them. “Is he ready?”

“Should be. I mean, it’s been seven years, but that doesn’t mean he’s lost his skill.”

“We can’t be too sure.”

“Oh, have faith,” Valentino teases, pinching the edge of Vox’s screen before stepping aside, attention still glued to his phone.

“I have faith in Anthrax,” Vox says. He makes no effort to stop Valentino from walking away from him. If he tries to get him back, it’ll be like wrangling a puppy. 

The statement is a lie. Ever since Valentino dragged Anthrax back to the V Tower, claiming that he was the Overlord Killer, Vox had always doubted Anthrax’s capabilities. The Overlord Killer was an enigma, a monster who hides in the closet or your bed, a creature as obscure as some of the bioluminescent fish swimming in front of Vox’s face now. And now he’s living part-time with the Vees, promising to carry out his plans, and pissing him off to no end.

“Are we sure he’s the Overlord Killer?”

“Well, don’t you think I would’ve known if I brought a copycat home, hm?” 

Vox says nothing. His answer to the question, however, is “no”.

“Look on the bright side—” Valentino reassures him. Vox stiffens at the feeling of Valentino’s hands resting on his shoulders. “—as long as he keeps Angel and that Morningstar pendeja from getting involved, what does it matter, hm?”

“It matters that we have to pay extra to keep up with this bodyguard service. What the hell does he even use that money for anyway?”

“As long as it keeps him around.”

Vox shakes his head. Money is precious. It can’t go to waste by falling into the hands of an individual who doesn’t even know how to use it, an individual whom he considers to be no more than a parasite, albeit an attractive one.

“Why do you care so much about him?”

“Imagine if every night you slept with a loaded shotgun over your head. That’s exactly what it feels like.”

Vox knows that the sleep deprivation, the nightmares, the worries that the Vees will be murdered in their sleep as punishment for their gullibility are not something to ignore. These are genuine fears. They’re growing anxieties that make him consider whether Anthrax really is the Overlord Killer.

“I’ve never felt that way,” Valentino remarks, pressing his thumbs against Vox’s shoulder blades.

“If you love him so much, why don’t you fuck him?” Vox jokes.

He hates the way Valentino becomes silent after the comment.

“I’d never,” Valentino says after a long, deafening silence. “I’d fuck a lot of people, but not him.”

“Good,” Vox says. “I’d hate to have to fire him so soon into his employment.” 

While Valentino continues to massage his shoulders, he looks up at an angler fish that’s barely visible in the dim lighting. He watches the creature float about in the sea of blackness. It looks like it’s floating, like it’s dead. 

“It’s hideous,” Valentino says.

“If you think that’s bad, wait till you see what they look like washed up on shore.” 

Valentino grimaces. “Why can’t we go back to the sharks?”

“We have sharks at home,” Vox says with a grin at the sight of a large-eyed, fanged fish that looks to have come straight out of a horror movie. He snickers. He adores how disturbing the ocean is. Beneath the clear, dazzling blue waters that society associates it with, it truly is just a house of horrors. “This…you don’t see this every day.” 

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Valentino says, scrutinizing a fish with a wide mouth but thin body.

“You know, I haven’t been seeing you every day either,” Vox adds, turning to Valentino. He removes one of his clawed hands from his shoulder and presses a kiss against the back of his hand.

“Maybe that’s also a good thing,” Valentino responds, sounding weary.

Vox tightens his grip around Valentino’s hand. “We may be married, but we don’t have to hate it. You don’t have to hate it.”

“Never said I did.” Valentino tries to let go of Vox’s hand, but Vox refuses to let him leave. 

He slams him against the glass tank. “I will kill whoever else you’re fucking that you think is more important than me.” 

“Since when were you so possessive? I thought you only had eyes for Alastor.” Valentino cocks his head to the side and smirks, waiting for the response now that the trigger word has been used.

“Fuck you,” Vox replies, meaning it with every wire, every fiber in his being. He means it more than the texts he sends to Valentino out of annoyance, more than the scowls he gives him whenever he sees him talking with Angel or Anthrax. Maybe even more than Alastor, he hates when anyone takes Valentino’s attention away from him.

“Why don’t you do it yourself if you’re so cocky?” Valentino replies, tugging at Vox’s lapels. 

Vox grips Valentino’s wrists. They’re already bruised and bare indentations of being previously tied up, which drives Vox’s rage further as he forces Valentino into a heated, livid kiss. 

[Vox]

Got a big plan, this mindset, maybe it’s right

At the right place and right time, maybe tonight

And the whisper or handshake, sending a sign

Wanna make out and kiss hard? Wait never mind

Late night in passing, mentioned it flipped

To her best friend, it’s nothing, maybe it’s slipped

But the slip turns to terror and a crush to like

Then she walked in, he froze up, believe it’s the fright

It’s cute in a way ‘til you cannot speak

And you leave to have a cigarette and knees get week

Escape was just a nod and a casual wave

Obsessed about it heavy for the next two days

It’s only just a crush it’ll go away

Or maybe this is the danger, and he just don’t know

You pray it all away, but it continues to grow

I want to hold you close, skin pressed against me tight

Lie still, close your eyes girl

So lovely, it feels so right

I want to hold you close, soft breath, beating heart

As I whisper in your ear, “I want to fucking tear you apart”

[Valentino]

Then he walked up and told her, thinking maybe it’s passed

And they talked and looked away a lot, doing the dance

Her hand brushed up against his, she left it there

Told him how she felt, and then they locked in a stare

They took a step back, thought about it, what should they do?

‘Cause there’s always repercussions when you’re dating in school

But their lips met, and reservations started to pass

Whether this was just an evening or a thing that would last

Either way, he wanted her and this was bad

Wanted to do things to her, it was making him crazy

Now a little crushed turned into a like

And now he wants to grab her by the hair and tell her

I want to hold you close, skin pressed against me tight

Lie still, close your eyes girl

So lovely, it feels so right

I want to hold you close, soft breath, beating heart

As I whisper in your ear, “I want to fucking tear you apart”

[Vox, Valentino]

I want to hold you close, skin pressed against me tight

Lie still, close your eyes, girl

So lovely, it feels so right

I want to hold you close, soft breath, beating heart

As I whisper in your ear, “I want to fucking tear you apart”

I want to hold you close, skin pressed against me tight

Lie still, close your eyes, girl

So lovely, it feels so right

I want to hold you close, soft breath, beating heart

As I whisper in your ear, “I want to fucking tear you apart”

Chapter Text

Angel is on cloud nine. Yesterday’s events play in his head again and again like a never-ending movie with the happiest ending possible. He registers that no one can know about this, and there’s something about the successful secrecy of their date that heightens his giddiness, makes him wonder if this is what it’s truly like to fall in love. If so, he can understand why so many people chase after this feeling. It’s like a drug, but he doesn’t feel bad about using it. He relishes the moment and finds himself wanting to do something about it. 

Fat Nuggets seems to pick up on Angel’s excitement and greets him by the door with a similarly cheerful squeak.

“You’ll never guess what I did yesterday, Nuggsy?” Angel says, extending his hands to the little piglet who leapt into his arms. “I went on a date!”

Angel believes that Fat Nuggets must understand him, for he gives a joyous oink at the mention of last night’s outing as though he’d been waiting for years to see this day come.

“Maybe it’ll be the first of many,” Angel suggests in a low voice, only for him and Fat Nuggets to hear. 

Angel catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His appearance is unkempt from all of the tossing and turning he did in his sleep. He looks ridiculous, and he must sound ridiculous, speaking about love and relationships like a madman. If this is the case, he loves sounding like a madman.

Angel fixes his appearance, configuring himself to look like the famous pornstar depicted in the posters scattered across his room and Valentino’s studios. Even though yesterday was a freebie, he’s sure that Valentino won’t be so lenient. Pain meds do run out, and by the time whatever Valentino was on yesterday morning wore off, he was probably pissed that he let all his employees go. 

Angel rushes out of his room, Fat Nuggets tucked in his arms, to get a quick breakfast before he goes to work. The hotel is mostly normal. There is, however, a subtle atmosphere of discomfort. Angel sees it in the way Charlie speaks to everyone except for her father, and how Alastor occasionally looks over his newspaper like he’s keeping an eye out for something. 

“Hi, Angel!” Charlie exclaims, stepping in front of his path to the bar. 

Just like yesterday morning, Husk is there, fixing Niffty another non-alcoholic drink. 

“Morning, Charlie.” He looks away from Husk and down at the princess, who bounces on her heels, near to bursting with excitement about something . “What do you want?” He asks, already aware that she’s about to ask him to do a favor.

“I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind waking Anthrax up. We’re taking breakfast orders.” She gestures to the kitchen. 

Angel nods. He debates whether now is the time to question what’s going on between her and Lucifer, but she intercepts him before he can speak.

“Now is preferable. My dad has a meeting in Heaven later today.”

Impatience is not Charlie’s style. Something must really be off. Angel spares the kitchen doors another glance. When he sees no sign of Lucifer, he nods again and follows Charlie’s direction by turning around and walking up the stairs and back down the faintly illuminated bedroom halls. Without the usual hotel guests to add life, the corridors are dreary, soundless, and eerie. 

Fat Nuggets squirms a little in Angel’s arms as if trying to escape.

“You and me both, Nuggs,” Angel whispers, scratching Fat Nuggets behind the ears to calm him down.

Angel stops outside Anthrax’s door. He knocks softly. It feels like he’s poking a sleeping bear with a stick.

“Um…Anthrax?” Angel calls.

He hears faint snoring coming from the inside of the room, followed by a rustling of sheets. 

“What?” Anthrax’s voice replies, groggy and muffled.

“Charlie wants to know if you’re coming down for breakfast.” Angel presses his back against the door. Distracted by the mere adorable presence of Fat Nuggets, he says everything Charlie told him to say but puts more focus into calming his anxious pig. “We have pancakes, and Husk makes really good coffee.” 

Angel waits for a response—an “okay” or an “I’ll be there soon”, but there’s nothing except for more snoring. 

“Anthrax?” Angel says a bit louder than his initial tone. 

“Yeah, yeah, coffee and cakes, I heard you,” Anthrax says after gasping loudly. 

Angel rolls his eyes and laughs. Heartless psychopath or not, Angel can sympathize with any late sleeper. His favorite filming days—not that any of them are enjoyable—are the ones scheduled for the afternoon, allowing Angel to sleep late into the morning after enduring a long night of drinking and sex.

“Late night?” Angel asks, entering Anthrax’s room.

He’s made himself quite at home with the conveniently appearing luggage neatly tucked into shelves, clothes hung up, and decor in the form of glittering candles, mesh curtains, and a wall of weapons kept in pristine condition.

Anthrax slips out of bed, hair looking more like a bird’s nest than its usual wavy style. 

“You could say,” Anthrax mumbles. He slaps his hand over his eyes when Angel turns on the light. “What are you doing?” He asks, looking at Angel between his fingers.

“Waking you up,” Angel says, watching Anthrax stumble over his feet like a drunk man towards a dresser.

“No, I mean, why are you dressed? You don’t have work today. You don’t have work for the rest of the week.” 

The whole world drowns out around him. No work? For a week? This news doesn’t come as exciting anymore, but it raises concerns. A rational side to him tackles the optimistic personality he’d woken up with. A week without work means more filming to handle later in the future. Valentino hates any interruptions to his work, so how can he let this slide? How can he be okay with this? Unless Anthrax has killed Valentino and replaced him with a fake, a copy who looks and speaks exactly the same, but has more humanity. 

“What did you do to him?” Angel asks, trying not to squeeze Fat Nuggets too tight.

Anthrax rakes a brush through his tangled mane. “Nothing too awful. I didn’t kill him if you were wondering.” 

Angel shakes his head in disbelief. Anthrax must be a talented liar, because there’s no way in Hell that Valentino will allow him to take an entire week off of work. There’s no way Vox will allow this either.

“We’ve been fucking for years, and there’s nothing I’ve ever done to get him to do this,” Angel says. “So I say this again…what did you do?” He’s not asking. He demands an answer, a real one.

Anthrax doesn’t appear pleased by the sudden shift in tone. He turns around slowly and silently, tail arched over his head. 

“I got you a week away from him. The least you could do is show some appreciation for my sacrifice.” 

“You don’t have to do it,” Angel says, taking a step to the side. He watches, heart thundering in his chest, as Anthrax’s tail follows his movements no matter where in the room he steps. He backs towards the door as soon as Anthrax’s back is turned. 

“I know you want me to,” Anthrax says, resuming the act of brushing his hair. “As long as I’m around, he’ll keep his hands off of you, understand?” 

Angel nods. This feels less like a promise and more like a rule, an order that Angel himself needs to obey rather than Valentino.

“What happens when you’re not around?” Angel inquires, curiosity getting the better of him. “Do things go back to the way they were?”

“Hopefully that doesn’t happen,” Anthrax answers after some hesitation. “I’ll try to limit my absences. You’ll have to excuse me today, though. Something came up.” 

He turns around and sets his brush atop his dresser. Anthrax approaches Angel, claws held outwards as though he’s preparing to hold the most delicate thing in the world. Angel’s stomach twists at the sight of what he swears is blood-stained under Anthrax’s nails. What was he doing last night ? Angel wonders, tugging his head away from Anthrax’s bony fingers. 

Anthrax cups his hands around Angel’s face and spends a few seconds analyzing his features for any sign of maltreatment. 

“He didn’t do anything besides cry on my feet,” Angel says. It’s uncomfortable to have Anthrax’s hands touching his face, not just because Anthrax is still a complete stranger to him, but because his hands are cold and sharp. 

“Yeah, I’ve been known to make men do that,” Anthrax says nonchalantly, tilting Angel’s face to examine his side profile with more ease.

“I only saw him once yesterday.” Angel tugs Anthrax’s hands off of his face with his upper pair of hands while his lower arms hold Fat Nuggets close like a stuffed animal. “He didn’t hurt me.”

“What’d you do with your day off?” Anthrax asks. 

“I went—” Angel bites his lip hard as punishment for almost disclosing what he did with Husk yesterday. Anthrax especially can’t find out. Anyone who works for Valentino can never know. He comes up with a quick lie. “I went out to a club, got some booze.”

Anthrax laughs. Angel catches a glimmer in his eye that reads that Anthrax knows the truth, but he blames it on a trick of the light to put himself at ease. Angel clears his throat. He’s spent long enough in this room. Now everything puts him off—the crimson candles, the gleaming knives of varying lengths hanging on the walls, and what looks to be a pile of blood-stained clothes in the corner of the room.

“Tell la princesa that I’ll skip breakfast. I have somewhere to be, and it can’t wait. I’ll be down shortly, pay my respects, and head out.”

Angel nods. He doubts that anyone will miss him at the breakfast table. Fat Nuggets gives a timid oink, and before Anthrax can question the presence of the pig in his arms, Angel speed-walks out of the room. 

He vows to never be alone in a room with Anthrax—the Overlord Killer again, especially not with Fat Nuggets. He maintains a brisk pace down the hall until he reaches the stairs. He intends to summarize the conversation with Anthrax for Charlie, but to explain everything to Husk, from the week off to the bloody clothes. 

Everyone in the hotel is gathered in the living room in front of the television, huddled close and speechless. The tension in the air grows as if a natural disaster has just occurred in the time Angel spent upstairs, and without his knowledge. Perturbed, he rushes to join the crowd around the TV, which even Alastor has joined, although he stands in the very back with Niffty sitting on his shoulder. 

“What’s going on?” Angel asks. 

He receives no response, no matter whom he looks at. Everyone has their eyes glued to the television. Vaggie reaches for the remote and raises the volume while the headline in a blaring, blood red glares at them, reading: SPOUSE OF STEAMPUNK OVERLORD FOUND DEAD.

Chapter Text

Katie Killjoy begins the announcement with her usual twisted, toothy grin of enthusiasm, no matter what the topic. Angel never bothers to devote any of his time to her, even though she’s Pride’s only news anchor. But he is unable to tug away from the bewitching pull of the television. It’s not Vox’s doing but the effects of morbid curiosity, a need to know more before he can set foot anywhere else.

“Good morning, you sick fuckers!” Katie Killjoy announces, hands folded on top of the table. “Today we have some news that’ll have you shaking in your seat. And if you don’t have a seat, then you better buckle up and sit the fuck down !” She tilts her head at an angle, an impossible angle that makes a cracking sound not so different from the snapping sound that came from Anthrax’s back when he folded over. 

Tom Trench carries on, folding papers to make himself seem more astute, “Just this morning the body of the Steampunk Overlord’s husband was found skinned alive—” 

The screen cuts away from the two news anchors to depict the silhouette of Lysander’s body dangling from a street light. The video taken is choppy, and the camera is a great distance from the body. From this perspective alone, it would be safe to assume that this isn’t Lysander, that some other Sinner has met a much unfortunate, gruesome end (as one often does in the Pride Ring). Thoughts such as these filter through Angel’s head in a futile attempt to calm his nerves. 

“—on a lamppost just outside the Steampunk District. The Steampunk Overlord—” The screen cuts to a woman, the Steampunk Overlord, blocking the swarm of reporters who chased after her like flies following a corpse. “—refuses to comment at this time.” 

Katie Killjoy adds as the screen cuts back to her and her co-host. Her neck is no longer pointed at a right angle. “Do you know what this means, Tom?”

Tom Trench shakes his head. 

“This means that the one and only Overlord Killer might have come back from the dead. To those who don’t know, the Overlord Killer is a merciless Overlord-targeting killing machine.” The television displays footage of a section of the Morningstar Castle falling to the ground with dust, brick, and mortar erupting into the air like ash from a volcano. Lucifer tenses and turns away from the screen. He heads back into the kitchen without a word. “And now that they’re back, we’re all fucking doomed!”

Katie Killjoy sounds peculiarly overjoyed. Her co-host picks up her statement as per usual in a deeper, dour tone. 

“For all you Overlords watching, don’t forget to follow the safety protocols from 7 years ago.”

Katie Killjoy elaborates, fluffing up her blonde bob, “Lock your doors; lock your windows; and if they somehow make it into your room…” She finishes touching up her hair with a sinister chuckle. She narrows her eyes on the screen as if she knows that everyone in the hotel is watching her broadcast right now. “The best thing you can do is hope you didn't forget how to pray because that's about the only thing you can do when they've already found you.”

Then, as if the prior announcement hadn’t happened at all, the pair starts on a new topic of conversation—the weather. 

The room is still after Vaggie cuts the television off. The space is empty yet filled with clenched jaws, gnawing of lips, and digging at hangnails. The silence is disquieting. It feels like there needs to be noise to fill the vacuous void in the foyer. With Pentious gone, there is a hole—unnoticeable if one tries their hardest, but painful. With a murder amongst the Pride Ring’s hierarchy and the culprit dwelling no more than a few feet from their own beds, the empty space has grown significantly. It’s not hard to fall into it, to become lost in paranoid panic and forget how to breathe.

Angel has already tripped and fallen into this vacuum of terror. He is the first to turn around, triggered by the startled squeal that comes out of Fat Nuggets.

Anthrax is on the stairs, watching the small crowd as if he expects to see a tumult come out of it.

Angel says nothing. If he opens his mouth, he’ll puke. He feels sick, not because Lysander is dead but because of the circumstances surrounding his death. Last night, Anthrax skinned him alive, and just this morning, Angel had spotted the bloody clothes, possibly the only evidence that could tie Anthrax to Lysander’s murder. 

“What did you do?” Charlie asks in a timorous voice.

“My job,” Anthrax says, eyeing Angel. He looks like he’s asking for back-up, but Angel doesn’t give him anything.

“You skinned him alive,” Charlie chokes.

“Be that as it may—” Anthrax continues down the steps and towards the front door. The hotel guests clear out of his path, refusing to be touched by any part of him like he’s infected with a deadly disease. “—I’m doing the Pride Ring a favor. I’m sure some of us know this better than others.” 

Charlie takes a step forward to intercept Anthrax before he can slip out of the hotel, unpunished. Vaggie grabs her girlfriend’s arm and pulls her back, a wise decision.

Vaggie shakes her head. “We need to talk,” She says loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.

Angel feels the same way, but he doesn’t need a public discussion to reiterate the obvious. Anthrax has to go—that much is clear—but there isn’t a soul in this hotel who’s willing to kick him out.

Husk grumbles a slew of swearwords under his breath after noticing that Alastor has frozen up in fear again. He heads back to the bar. Angel follows him, holding Fat Nuggets close. Angel takes a seat at the bar, watches Alastor for any signs of him breaking out of trance, and at last starts to get comfortable. Husk pushes a cup of steaming coffee towards him. They speak in hushed voices, not about last night’s aquarium date like they were supposed to, but about survival and whether the hotel—the closest a location in Hell has ever gotten to home—is safe anymore.

“Do you think he knows?” Angel asks, swatting away from the steam rising from the cup. “What happened between us and Lysander?”

“I hope not. If he was spying on us last night…” Husk lowers his voice. He reaches overhead and grabs a bottle of whiskey. “Be casual. No one knows about last night.” 

Angel nods. The secretiveness stops feeling like a game and more like trying not to tread over a tripwire. 

“Doesn’t make sense for him to go after the husband, though,” Husk says, tapping his claws against the table. 

“He wasn’t an Overlord?” Angel asks, cocking his head to the side.

He doesn’t understand how Overlord titles work and, for the most part, hopes that he’ll never have to. 

“Not technically.” Husk shrugs. He takes a swig of whiskey. “It’s not like royalty. You can’t marry someone and become an Overlord. It’s an exchange of souls, not just titles. That’s not to say that Lysander didn’t have power.” 

“Maybe he’s rusty and forgot how to kill Overlords. Seven years is a long time,” Angel suggests. He believes that his coffee is cool enough to drink now and takes a sip. 

“Either way, this is bad. He’ll probably go for the Steampunk Overlord herself, and then who’s next? Zestial? Carmine?” Husk sweeps crumbs off the bar counter with his paw. “Alastor.” 

“Valentino,” Angel adds as a joke. It’s a dream that he’d love to see, that he’s been thinking about for years now. If the chandelier didn’t kill Valentino, maybe something else would.

At that, an idea jumps into his head. What was once an impossible task for four decades suddenly comes across as possible. Dots are connecting, missing pieces of the puzzle fit perfectly together to depict a promising future. Angel perks up, eyes widened in astonishment at this fantastic idea that needs to be shared with someone .

“Oh no,” Husk says. “What’s on your mind?”

“Hear me out,” Angel smiles nervously. He finds that this is the worst way to start his sentence since Husk gives him a skeptical look. “What if we kept Anthrax around for a little while?”

Husk continues drinking, narrowing his eyes at Angel and expecting him to continue.

“You said you paid him once to kill Alastor. So what if we did something similar? What if we paid him to kill Valentino?”

Husk chokes on the next swig of whiskey.

“What?” He coughs, voice strained and gruffer than usual. 

“I want to do it, and I’m going regardless of whether you want to help me or not.”

Angel isn’t stupid. He knows that breaking off deals with Overlord isn’t easy. It’s the reason why many Sinners die trying, but he’d rather die after putting effort into his escape than doing nothing at all. 

There are only three (known) ways to end a deal with an Overlord. One, the Overlord willingly surrenders a victim’s soul. Two, another Overlord buys the victim’s soul. Three, the Overlord dies. Every option is a rare occurrence, but it’s only the latter that bears the most reality.

There are no other avenues. It’s this or risk spending another forty years entrapped in Valentino’s claws. 

“It’s the best—it’s the only chance I’ve got,” Angel says. “I might as well use him while he’s still around.”

Husk nods. His ears are still pointed backward, which makes Angel hesitant to believe anything he has to say completely.

“Fine,” Husk growls, slamming the whiskey bottle on the table. “I’ll help, but I’ll tell you one thing—” He points an admonitory claw at Angel. “He ain’t cheap.”

Angel nods; he knows this. (Not really. But being free and broke is a much better outcome than getting beaten up and screwed every day.)

“I’ll pay it.”

“So will I,” Husk adds. To demonstrate, he pulls out a drawer behind the bar, revealing thick stacks of cash. 

“Where’d you get this?!”

“Couple of odd jobs here and there.” Husk glances at Alastor. He’s moving now and entering the kitchen. Even though he’s not facing them, Husk hides the money and pushes the drawer back in. He pushes the whiskey bottle aside—thirst turned off after momentarily choking on the beverage. 

“All of my money is at the Studios,” Angel says. “And I’m not even going there today because I have the week off.”

“ How ?!”

Angel shrugs. He’s glad that he’s not the only one who feels uncomfortable about this. All in all, he’s glad that he’s not alone in this.

“Thanks for doing this for me,” Ange says. He’s not used to thanking anyone, much less having feelings for anyone. The words feel familiar but bizarre, right and wrong.

“Everyone in this hotel wants you to be free, and I’ll stop at nothing to get it for you.”

“You could free yourself, too,” Angel says. His gloved fingers slink towards Husk’s hand in a slow but apparent movement.

“I don’t think there’s anything that could get Alastor to die.” Husk’s hand brushes across the table towards Angel’s.

“Don’t be so sure, kitty cat.” Angel winks. At last, his fingers find home on top of Husk’s paw.

Chapter Text

Charlie can’t take her eyes off the television. She knows it can’t be a good idea. Vaggie has warned her enough times about the consequences that’ll stem from her actions if Vox finds out how often they tune into his prime media format. However, it’s only the TV that provides any updates on the case of the Steampunk Overlord’s husband. She’s not familiar with Overlords or the hierarchy that regulates them, but she knows about loss. She knows what it’s like to have the person you love leave abruptly. From the little footage of the Steampunk Overlord displayed, Charlie can see that she always looks depressed beneath her lacy veil. She longs to do something, to find some way to comfort her, but how?

“Why the long face?” Alastor inquires.

She turns around to face the grinning Radio Demon.

“Hey, Alastor…” Charlie says, voice dreary from exhausting her mind on all of the potential ways she can make the Steampunk Overlord’s life better during this dark time.

Alastor, instead of his usual red, is clad in a black suit. A black blazer is draped over his arm.

Charlie lifts her head. She points at him. “What’s that about?”

“Oh, this old thing?” He slips the blazer onto his shoulders. “This is for Lysander’s funeral. Madame Arabella has expressed her wishes to get the ceremony over with, so she can get back to her duties without fail.”

“Can I go with you?”

Alastor’s eyebrows draw together. “Um…Charlie…” He reaches out to touch her shoulder, thinks better about it, and retracts his arm. “I’d rather you not.”

“Why not?”

“Funerals tend to be private occasions, and I don’t believe Madame Arabella would appreciate your arrival.” This is the most polite way Alastor can think to dissuade Charlie from following him. 

“I feel like I owe her something,” Charlie protests. “I know what it’s like to lose someone close to you. I just want to do the right thing.” 

Alastor sighs with frustration. “Fine,” He replies through his teeth. He points his cane at the stairs. “But you'd better change quickly. Put on something black.” 

Before Charlie can object to the dress code (she hasn’t worn anything black since one brief emo phase in her teenagehood), Alastor adds nastily, “It’s mandatory .”

She salutes, then hurries up the stairs to her room. Even without Vaggie or her father here to stop her, she can picture both of them disapproving of this idea. And for what? Her safety? She knows that her credulity tends to show when meeting new people, but that doesn’t mean she can’t take care of herself, and she has Alastor to accompany her. What’s the worst that can happen?

Charlie throws on the old black dress she’d worn to her mother’s memorial. For years, it had been locked away in her closet, and now it has a purpose again. The dress should fit well, but the emotions that come with wearing it make the fabric feel heavy. The sleeves chafe her arms; the collar tightens around her neck like a noose.

She spares the clock hanging above her and Vaggie’s headboard a look. It’s already been too long. Alastor’s either still waiting downstairs or has left without her. While she hopes the latter option hasn’t happened, she’s known Alastor long enough to expect that behavior from him.

She ignores the discomfort that the dress brings her and races back into the foyer to find Alastor, fortunately still waiting for her. 

They leave shortly, with Alastor moving at a brisker pace than usual instead of stopping to admire the nature of Hell. She struggles to catch up to him. 

“We mustn’t be late, Charlie,” Alastor says. “Madame Arabella appreciates punctuality.”

She nods and picks up her pace. “Are you and Madame Arabella friends?”

“Acquaintances,” Alastor replies without hesitation. “I’ve done a couple of favors for her and vice versa.”

This is surprising news to Charlie. Up until meeting Mimzy and Rosie, she neither knew nor suspected that Alastor was capable of making friends. 

“Did you know her husband?”

He hums in disappointment. “Unfortunately, yes, but I made little effort to speak with him. He was not a loyal fellow if you know what I mean.” 

“Yeah, I do.” 

She starts to feel less sympathy for Madame Arabella’s husband. Then again, coming to the funeral isn’t about him or celebrating his life. It’s about committing to her duty as the princess of Hell to monitor the well-being of her citizens. It’s about making sure that no one other Sinner has to endure loss in a traumatic way like she did. She forces herself not to mention or even think about the hotel when they reach the border of the Steampunk District, which is just on the other side of Cannibal Town. 

A large crowd has already formed that consists of the cannibals as well as the inhabitants of the Steampunk District—cyborgs dressed in Victorian fashion whose steam-powered mechanical systems are so advanced and dominant that they hardly look human. 

The District is accentuated with the smoky stench of burning coal and metals. Charlie tries not to cough upon crossing the barrier into the polluted domain. She worries that the gesture will be rude, especially since no one is focused on the unsanitary conditions. 

The crowd is made up solely of gloomy faces who trudge through the streets in somewhat of a single-file line. 

[ Sinners ]

Let’s say goodbye with a smile, dear

Just for a while dear, we must part

Don’t let this parting upset you

I’ll not forget you, sweetheart

We’ll meet again

Don’t know where

Don’t know when

But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day

Keep smiling through

Just like you always do

‘Til the blue skies chase those dark clouds far away

And I will just say hello to the folks that you know

Tell them you won’t be long 

They’ll be happy to know

That as I saw you go

You were singing this song

[ Alastor, Sinners ]

We’ll meet again

Don’t know where

Don’t know when

But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day

And I will just say hello to the folks that you know

Tell them you won’t be long 

They’ll be happy to know

That as I saw you go

You were singing this song

We’ll meet again

Don’t know where

Don’t know when

But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day

The procession ends when the crowd gathers around a cobblestone town square, but the mood has not changed, nor has the environment. Surrounding the square are massive buildings made up of burning orange furnaces, ticking clocks, polished brass, and steel. The city is a jumble of parts, but there’s an obvious order. It gives off vibes that are not so different from Pentious’ gadgets, leaving Charlie to wonder if he lived here.

“Oh, Alastor!” Rosie’s voice sticks out among the multitude of mourners. “Charlie!”

She pushes past the Sinners to reach the two. Both are greeted with a warm embrace.

“I was looking for you in the crowd, Al. I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“Apologies, dear friend. We arrived on the late side.” His red eyes glance at Charlie. “We had some tagalongs,” he mutters.

“Is Madame Arabella okay with this?” Rosie frowns. She cups her hand around Alastor’s ear and whispers, “You remember how she felt about Lilith, right?”

Neither of the two is are good whisperer.

“What does she think of my mom?” Charlie asks.

“Oh, it’s nothing, sweetie.” Rosie’s smile returns as she gives Charlie an unencouraging pat on the shoulder.

“Feels like it’s something I should know—”

A speaker shaped like a phonograph squeaks to life from the top of a lamppost, and a scratchy disembodied voice announces, “And now, the arrival of Madame Arabella!”

Instinctively, the crowd members bow, Alastor and Rosie included. 

“You should probably bow,” Alastor tells Charlie, still folded at the waist.

“Why?” 

“It’d be awkward if you didn’t.” 

Charlie looks around. Everyone is bowing except for her. Alastor is not wrong about the awkwardness of the situation. Against all that she has been taught about royals never bowing for anyone besides another royal or an angel, Charlie bows.

From within another tall building powered by clockwork mechanisms exits six Sinners carrying a casket followed by a stone-faced Madame Arabella. The streets are silent when she walks out. Awe and trepidation intertwine with the steam in the air. 

Charlie’s eyes widen. She has never seen any other Overlords besides Alastor, the Vees, Rosie, and a few of the ones who died seven years ago. She never fails to be impressed by how unique each of them looks, formed in a way that connects to their life on Earth. 

Madame Arabella snaps her fingers, and the pallbearers set the casket on top of a platform at the center of the town square. 

“Open it,” She orders. Her voice is deep, brutal, and anything but melancholy. One of the pallbearers marches up to the casket, unfastens a couple of hooks on the side, then pulls it open. “Rise.” 

The crowd stops bowing. Charlie rubs her sore back; she hopes never to do that again.

“Look upon their work.” She presses a prosthetic hand made of brass on the rim of the casket. When no one tears their eyes off the ground, she screams, “LOOK AT IT!”

That gets a few heads to turn, Charlie’s included. Right away, she regrets looking up. 

Charlie is not unused to viewing dead bodies. It’s Hell; violence is common. Getting stabbed in the middle of the street is common; cars running people over because there are little to no traffic laws is common; turf wars that cost the lives of hundreds over the smallest portion of territory are common. A body being crudely skinned like an animal prepared for slaughter by an inexperienced butcher has never, not in her 222 years of living, been seen. 

Charlie’s stomach churns. She feels as though she is going to vomit.

“You don’t have to look if you don’t want to,” Alastor whispers to her.

She nods and takes up his offer by watching the stones closest to Madame Arabell’s feet instead.

“My husband, Lord Lysander, was murdered last night, hung from this very lamppost.” She points at the one that the speaker is attached to. “I’m sure you wanted me to say some sweet words, give some advice, tell you what I thought of my husband. I have nothing to say, for he was a cheater. A no-good, lying son of a bitch who made my life fucking miserable with every chance she got!”

“I thought they were married,” Charlie says to Alastor.

“When Overlords marry, nine times out of ten it’s for power, not because they love each other,” Alastor replies.

Her gut winds itself into a knot. She hopes that her parents’ reasoning for marrying was not out of a desperate power grab, either. 

“But I refuse to be made fun of. I will not be a laughingstock. That Overlord Killer is a coward. They can stalk us Overlords all they want, but I’ll tell you something about them. They’re WEAK! They couldn’t even kill me; they went after him .” The index finger of her prosthetic hand comes so close to Lysander’s face that she nearly grazes his flesh while pointing accusatively at him. “He couldn’t even kill me seven years ago, but you know who he could kill? Lilith.” 

Charlie gasps. She didn’t think anyone else knew about those allegations, and now that it’s clear that the rumors are public, she feels more embarrassed than anything.

Madame Arabella continues, rage boiling inside of her, “15 Overlords massacred that day and one queen. Pathetic. If I were queen, I would never be befelled by some demon with more balls than sense!”

A couple of members of the crowd shoot out exclamations of approval. This only riles up Madame Arabella more and awakens a monster of hatred in Charlie.

“Maybe we should go,” Rosie suggests.

“We all know that her husband can’t rule for shit either!”

Her dad may not be on top of everything, but Charlie draws the line at anyone describing him as incapable. For thousands of years, he and Lilith have been the only things keeping all of Hell from splitting into even more of a chaotic mess than what it already is, and they’ve done an impressive job of it. 

Alastor’s eyes narrow. “That’s it. We’re going.” He tugs on Charlie’s arm to get her to leave with him.

She doesn’t move. She stands firmly, feet planted on the ground, chest heaving with anger. She wishes that in the blink of an eye, Lysander and Madame Arabella would swap places. And after watching Madame Arabella’s rant about the incompetence of the royal family for long enough, she prepares to stuff Madame Arabella in that casket herself.

“What good is this Ring if the people running it can’t even function properly?!” The other Sinners cheer. “Why not let us Overlords rule if the queen is pathetic, the king doesn’t know his ass from his elbow, and the fucking princess is a mentally challenged lesbian—!”

“—you know fucking well that we can run this Ring better than your sorry, widowed ass!” Charlie shouts, yanking her arm out of Alastor and Rosie’s clutches. She shoves past the crowd and into the clearing in the town square.

The cheers fall silent. Madame Arabella’s broad shoulders tense, but she doesn’t look shocked or worried about what Charlie will do to her for defamation. She smirks, overflowing with pride in herself.

“Well, well, well,” She says, bending over with her hands on her knees in the way you speak to a child. “Look what we have here. Speak of the devil.”

“Why do you hate her so much?”

“Your parents screwed us over when they gave that decree for those fucking Exorcists to massacre anyone they pleased, just to keep us under control. They killed my son, the only thing from my life that I actually cared about. So admit it, stupid girl. They had no idea what they were doing and needed to rely on those fuckers upstairs to do their job for them.”

“Good afternoon, Madame Arabella!” Alastor exclaims. He sounds enthusiastic, which perturbs Charlie since he looked like he wanted to kill Madame Arabella, too, when she insulted Lucifer.

“Is this one yours?” She sneers.

“She’s just a little lost.” Alastor puts his hand on Charlie’s shoulder.

“How dare you take her to my District.”

“In all fairness, when the Overlord Killer returns to finish you off, too, it won’t be your District anymore.” Alastor finishes his sentence with a contented chuckle while Madame Arabella’s face contorts into a scowl. “Come along now, Charlie, dear. We’ve spent enough time in this hellhole.” 

Alastor starts to pull Charlie in the opposite direction.

“Take back everything you said, and I’ll think about sparing your life,” Charlie says, clenching her hand into a fist. She doesn’t have her trident on her, but she’s sure an angry punch to the face will snap something into Madame Arabella’s consciousness…or knock her unconscious.

“My mother told me to never tell a lie.” Her breath through the veil that partially obscures her face is putrid. Madame Arabella stands up and places a hand on her hip. “Too bad yours didn’t.” 

“My mom is twice the leader that you will ever be.” 

“Why don’t you bring her back from the dead and prove it?”

She isn’t dead , Charlie tells herself. It started off as a whisper, a comforting mantra that occasionally reminds her of the greater good in the world. It’s a phrase that calmed her down ever since the memorial, and it resurfaced when Lucifer accused Anthrax of killing her. Now, those three words reverberate through her skull, blare again and again like a siren. It’s not a warning of the danger to come; it’s a scream that drives every one of Charlie’s actions further.

Her trident manifests in her hand. She tightens her fist around the handle, then goes for the kill, driving each of the angelic steel-enforced prongs into Madame Arabella’s chest. Blood sprays from the wound, thick, dark, and scarlet. She pushes the trident past the mechanical inner workings of the Overlord, through muscle and tissue, and pierces her heart in the same way that Charlie’s heart is already broken.

She knows that Lilith isn’t dead. She has to believe. She has to believe it in order for her to see her mom again, to return to the hotel and lay eyes upon all of the work that she’s done, to be proud of her, and to complete her family. 

Charlie sees red…literally. Some of the blood splotches her eye, staining her vision red. She awakens from her murderous trance to find blood all over her hands, her dress, and the sidewalk where it spreads out like a visceral soup. The trident slips out of her hands and collides with the cobblestone with a metallic rattle.

Breathing heavily, she stands up. The crowd watches her with unease; they stare at her the way one watches a rabid animal. A few Sinners take a step back. No one runs, but that’s the rule of nature. Never run from a dangerous predator.

Charlie looks over her shoulder to find that Alastor and Rosie are still behind her albeit pressed up against each other, mouths agape, and eyes as large as saucers. Alastor is the first to budge. He hooks his arm around Charlie’s and pulls her out of the town square with Rosie not far behind. Charlie is grateful that Alastor made the first move; otherwise, she never would’ve left the District. 

No words are spoken. The truth is too hard to accept. Madame Arabella is dead. Charlie has just killed an Overlord.

Chapter Text

Anthrax meanders through the streets of Hell without a care in the world. Although there is somewhere he needs to be, he is in no rush to get there and has every intention of staying as his schedule allows him. He knows it’ll be some time before he gets to wander like this. 

He takes pleasure in the casualness of it all. He passes Sinners of all kinds going about their merry, menial, daily tasks without paying him any attention. Without a doubt, they know his name but not his face. This is good. He regrets allowing so many people to learn his identity and live, but it’s a distant complaint that resurfaces every once in a while. He trusts that they won’t tell anyone, that moving into the hotel really is a good idea. Anything to placate Vox because a happy Vox means a larger paycheck, and who doesn’t love a large paycheck?

The promise of money drives him forward almost every day, but not right now. Now, all Anthrax wants is to see an old friend.

He enters the Doomsday District, a shell of the thriving city that used to be made up of abandoned buildings, raging fires, and other weakening structures. After combining with the Poison District of the northern region of the Pride Ring seven years ago, there’s an additional charm of chemical run-off, rotting catacombs, and Sinners infected with so many toxins that some can’t even be looked at. As soon as he crawls through a hole in the barbed wire fence lining the District, Anthrax feels a wave of nostalgia wash over.

He takes the familiar path towards the towering castle at the heart of the District while being wary of the turf wars around him. While some Sinners chase after each other with blowtorches, crowbars, machetes, and just about anything they can get their hands on, others are hunched under the ruins of apartment complexes, rummaging through trash for any sign of the drugs that the former owner of their soul hooked them on. Both citizens differ in backgrounds, but they all have three things in common. They are hungry, in dire need of a bath, and will kill just about anything to get what they want.

The place has certainly gotten worse over the years. Then again, Hell never gets better. Anthrax can confirm that; he’s lived here for 166 years. There are few things that bring him joy, but one of them is setting foot in this castle again. It’s one of the only standing structures, and it always brings him joy to know that the place he’d call home for as long as he’d been dead is still standing tall. He just hopes that its owner is as active.

“Anthrax?” A raspy voice calls behind him.

He turns around. There is a small Imp standing in the doorway. 

“Carlisle?” Anthrax’s eyes widen in recognition. 

He used to speak to this Imp whenever his boss was giving him a hard time. Hell has no therapy, so this was the closest thing he’d had to a therapist. Whereas Anthrax expects the two to be friendly, especially after all they’d been through, Carlisle looks like he wants nothing to do with him.

“Since when did you return?” 

“Since…a month ago,” Anthrax says, reading the fearful expression in Carlisle’s eyes in the candlelight. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Carlisle mutters.

“Where is he?” Anthrax abandons trying to be cordial. Carlisle already knows that he’s the Overlord Killer and will do just about anything he’s asked to if it means that his life is spared. 

“Throne room,” Carlisle answers. He holds up the oil lamp in his hand to light the way in the dim, dank, stony corridor that takes them from the foyer to the throne room. 

Anthrax would’ve liked to make simple conversation, but Carlisle sounds like he’s about to throw up with every word he speaks, and he prefers to avoid handling that. 

“Zestial,” Carlisle calls into the throne room. 

The spider-like demon is waiting at the center of the room with his back turned to Carlisle and Anthrax. 

“He’s back.”

Zestial looks over his shoulder, and his eyes widen, emitting a lime green glow that pierces the darkness in the room. Anthrax smiles. Tears bud on his eyelids. Zestial looks just the same; this castle looks just the same. This is home.

“Carlisle, prithee depart,” Zestial says. 

Carlisle doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s already darting out of the room without a second thought.

Zestial and Anthrax approach each other. Neither are afraid despite knowing the other’s reputation to the fullest extent. They’ve heard horror stories about the murders the other has committed, the lives they’ve ruined, the hearts they’ve ripped (literally and metaphorically). It doesn’t change the way they see each other—as friends, as family.

Anthrax throws himself into Zestial’s arms. The tears sting his eyes—an amalgamation of the rancid chemicals floating through the air and the pain of having to be away from him so long. 

“I missed you so much,” Anthrax weeps. 

Zestial sighs. He wipes the tears from Anthrax’s face. “‘Tis most joyous to behold thee once more!”

Anthrax rests his hand on top of Zestial’s and smiles. In the month since being hired by the Vees, this is the happiest that he’s felt. He never wants this feeling to go away.

“What dost thou here?”

“I just had to see you again,” Anthrax explains. “I can exist 166 years down here, but a month without you is torture.” 

Zestial chuckles. “Indeed. Come hither with me. I have much to show thee.” 

Anthrax follows Zestial through the halls and into the library, his favorite room out of the hundreds of spaces in the castle. 

“Pray, tell me. What hast thou been about since last we didst meet?” Zestial inquires, manifesting a fresh batch of tea with his hands.

Anthrax strides in between the massive bookshelves contained in the library, in search of a book that he’s never read or forgotten to finish. He reminisces about the days when he had all the time in the world to read and study as much as he pleased. 

“The usual,” Anthrax remarks, pulling a book—an English to Greek dictionary—off the shelf. He swipes dust off the cover. “I worked on some of my languages, though.” Deciding it wouldn’t be the worst to add Greek to the list of languages that he’s fluent in, he tucks the book under his arm and leaves the sweet, crisp smell of centuries-old literature to join Zestial at a table for teatime, just like the old days.

“Which ones?” Zestial asks.

“French, Portuguese—” Anthrax puts a bunch of blueberry scones onto his plate. He’s glad he skipped breakfast; otherwise he wouldn’t have the appetite to eat all of this. That and Antivenom makes him really nauseous. “—Mandarin. So what about you? How’s the territory?”

“Vast. Carmilla doth strive to have me take more under my wing. As of this moment, I strive to lessen the toxicity in the air. Cydani hath left his District a wasteland, and now must we gather up the pieces.” Zestial sounds irritated by the mention of Anthrax’s old boss.

“I can’t thank you enough for helping me get rid of him,” Anthrax says, removing the tea bag from the floral China cup in front of him. “Even if it meant that so many people had to die.” 

“Thy soul is free. That is all that matters.”

Anthrax nods, but there’s still a sour taste in his mouth. It’s not the tea. It’s the way Lucifer looked at him after accusing him of killing Lilith. He tries to wash the taste down with more tea and scones.

“I knoweth wherefore thou art hither,” Zestial says after some awkward silence. He puts his teacup on the table. 

Anthrax leans back in his chair. He was afraid of this. He sought to evade this outcome as best as he was able, but the genuine reason for his being here is too important to ignore. He just thought he might get more time to live in ignorant bliss before the real problem arose.

“I ran out…of the Antivenom,” Anthrax admits. 

Zestial’s face twists into a look of disappointment.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t think I was going to be out that fast.” 

“Thou need’st be wary. These substances are not to be jested with. Thou art not giving them unto any man, correct?” 

Anthrax raises the cup to his lips and takes slow sips. He shakes his head, trying not to think of Angel Dust and whatever that spider has done with one of the weekly batches that he should’ve taken but was generous enough to hand out.

“It’s getting worse, Zestial,” Anthrax reveals. 

“Show me.”

Anthrax stands up. He undoes his coat and slips the fabric off of his arms to reveal the damage. The blackened veins have extended a little past his wrists. His hands feel like they’re enveloped in a glove with needles on the inside. His legs aren’t too affected apart from the injection site of the Antivenom. 

“I don’t know if you noticed, but—”

“—the white streaks in thy hair,” Zestial finishes.

Anthrax nods. He was about to address that. He tugs his hair aside to show where it’s most prominent. 

“How bad is it?” Anthrax says.

Zestial’s mouth stretches into a thin line. He stands. There’s no response.

“Bad,” Anthrax mutters, grabbing his coat. He pulls it over his body, over the flaws in his appearance.

“It’s nothing we can’t fix with a little patience and moderation .” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Anthrax has heard this warning many times. Although his line of work inhibits him from following these rules perfectly, he’s proud that his self-preservation has allowed him to last this long. 

Zestial tugs on a lever disguised as a bulky sci-fi novel on the shelf. The bookshelf splits in half to reveal a hidden laboratory. It’s possibly the cleanest room in the castle and in the Doomsday District overall. 

“Dost thou?” Zestial inquires, smoothly gliding across the floor towards the set of untouched vials and beakers resting on top of a foldable table. “Truly?” 

“Yes,” Anthrax responds, avoiding Zestial’s penetrative gaze of pessimism. He searches the shelves for the recipe book that his book used when developing poisons.

The book weighs heavily in his hands like a brick. It’s hard to hold but not compiled of many pages. (His old boss’ experiments were hardly successful, just excuses to push the physical and psychological limits to the very precipice of sanity.) The emotions of seeing his old boss’ handwriting, touching where his fingerprints used to press into the leather, weigh his soul down. The air leaves his lungs shakily. He’s eager to hand the book to Zestial and dusts off the memories, the nightmares, the trauma, and the lint off his hands.

One by one, Zestial follows each of the steps that go into making the Antivenom. 

Despite the absurd amount of lethal chemicals Cydani surrounded himself with (which turned him insane), he was not an idiot. The Antivenom—a solution to the burden of wielding magic, the capacity of one’s body that additionally could heal any life-threatening injuries—was his greatest invention. Anthrax cannot forget that, nor can he deny the process that goes into making more batches of it is very satisfying to watch.

“I knowest ‘twas thou who slew Lysander.”

Anthrax nods. He doesn’t regret his actions. He never paid attention to the Steampunk Overlord or her husband to begin with, and is impartial to the fact that he’ll be going after her next to finish off the rest of the family.

“It’s my job.” 

“Thou art endangering thyself.”  Zestial removes the cork from a test tube, containing a fluorescent purple liquid that bears the consistency of honey. 

“I have nothing left if I don’t kill people,” Anthrax says, hoisting himself onto the table. He kicks his leg as he watches Zestial measure out some of the purple liquid into a much larger beaker. “I’ve been “The Overlord Killer” for 150 years. If I give up now, what will I do with my life?”

“Thou couldst spend the remnant of thy days reading. The mind is the finest muscle.” 

Any thought of a peaceful state of retirement is swallowed up by the remembrance of his infamy, how empty his life will be because Zestial can only garner a finite number of books, and the dozens of debts he needs to pay off in order to ensure that his identity stays hidden. Then, there’s the knowledge that the Antivenom isn’t ending his suffering, only putting it off just long enough for him to function. He has no idea what the consequences of absorbing Overlords’ magic over the centuries will do to him, what it will turn him into if he lives long enough to see that day. 

“I can’t,” Anthrax says, resting his chin on his knees. “I’ll die anyway.”

“Not so swift unless thou continuest upon this path. Prithee, venom.” 

Anthrax draws his tail, an appendage layered with silver spines. At the center is the stinger, a needle-like structure that contains highly potent venom. Anthrax avoids cutting himself by flattening the spines that make up his tail, then twists the tail to release the venom into the beaker. 

“Who art thy current employers?” 

“No one. I killed Lysander for the fun of it,” Anthrax lies, watching the last droplets of the semi-transparent liquid seep from the barb of his tail and into the half-finished concoction before him.

“Art thou certain?”

“Yes,” Anthrax whispers. He presses his jaws together tightly.

“Thou must depart from this master of thine with haste. They shall kill thee if thou continuest in such reckless fashion.” 

“I’ll fucking suffer no matter who pays me!” Anthrax snaps, raking his tail out of his hands. He slices the skin on his palms. “I have Lilith’s magic. I have Cydani’s magic. I have the magic of fifteen Overlords, whose names I didn’t even know until I saw their fucking wanted posters, coursing through my veins! I’m as good as dead, Zestial!” 

Zestial’s face unwinds into a look of sympathy. He gives a tired sigh, holds his hand over the beaker, and slices it open with a scalpel on the table. The drops of red that pour from his hand turn the mixture a deep shade of green, the final stage in making the Antivenom. 

The pain in Anthrax’s own hands sets in not long after. He looks down and watches the blood filter down his sleeves and out of sight.

“I wish thou didst prize thy safety as dearly as I do. I would counsel thee to take thy dosage once a week, rather than once a month as is thy custom.” Zestial adds a cork to the beaker, then passes it to Anthrax, who rushes to hide the injuries on his hands from Zestial. “Just because Cydani owneth not thy soul, it behoveth thee not to fulfil the legacy he hath thrust upon thee.” 

“This isn’t for Cydani,” Anthrax admits. “And if I finish this job—” (AKA if the Vees pay him as they say they will.) “—then I’ll be able to retire…for good.”

“Dost thou swear?”

Anthrax nods. He sets the beaker of Antivenom aside and gives Zestial a hug. He swears on his soul.

Chapter Text

Lucifer hates meetings. He hates meetings between the 7 Princes. He hates meetings disguised as galas and luncheons, and tea parties. Most of all, he hates meetings in Heaven because these are the only ones that he is mandated to attend. Threatened that his reign will have to be monitored by a Seraphim unless he shows up, Lucifer jumps the annual hurdle of defying his core belief and journeys to Heaven to hear Sera ramble for two hours while the other archangels, Seraphims, and Cherubims huddle around the round table and pretend to be interested.

When Lucifer arrives in Heaven, he detects that something is off. The other angels always behave peculiarly when he’s around, but this is a different kind of peculiar. Instead of looking afraid, they glare at him as though he’s brought about some plight to Heaven with his presence. He ignores the gawking at the front doors when he enters his former home, a land that is just as uppity and happy-go-lucky as when he left it. He imagines that the people there haven’t changed either, and he is right.

Gathered around the round table in one of the meeting rooms in Heaven’s palace, Lucifer is met with the familiar scowling faces of his old roommates, the brothers and sisters he’d grown up with, angels whom he used to call friends. No one has aged a bit. (They can’t). But their permanent scowls make them look much older than Lucifer.

“I called this meeting earlier in the year because there are some important issues we need to discuss,” Sera announces, taking a seat at the head of the table. To her left is her younger companion, Emily. To her right is Lute.

Lucifer narrows his eyes on the lieutenant of the Exorcists. He should’ve killed her when he had the chance. 

“Recently, there has been an…incident we shall call it.”

Lute slams her pale fist on the table. She rises to her feet. “It wasn’t an incident! It was murder!”

“Lute, please sit down,” Sera retorts.

Lute obeys, folding her arm…arm.

“As I was saying, something happened in Hell, Lucifer. Something that we have hundreds of witnesses to.”

“You’re talking about the Extermination,” Lucifer says. He couldn't care less. He doesn’t understand why he’s here and would much rather be anywhere else than this awful place. Still, he’s more than willing to take the fall for all that went down that day instead of letting the angels blame Charlie.

“Five days ago, your daughter led an assault against the Exorcists, killing hundreds of our soldiers, who—in case you didn’t know—do more than just fix the overpopulation problem in your domain. And not only that, but she killed the leader of our Exorcist Army, Adam.” 

“May I add something to that?” Lucifer asks, raising his hand.

Sera nods. 

“First of all, your “Exorcists”—Lucifer exaggerates every syllable in the word. “—aren’t solving the overpopulation problem in Hell. What you’re doing is glorified genocide and—”

“ —Need I remind you who permitted us to give that order?” The leader of the Thrones questions.

“Lilith and I were pressured into making that decision. You —” He isn’t specifically referring to the leader of the Thrones but all of the angels in this room. “—didn’t give us much of a choice.” 

“But at the end of the day, it was your choice. Don’t go around blaming us for something that you and your wife agreed on.” 

Lucifer scowls and drags his nails through the table. This tangent has steered him off course long enough. He veers back on topic: removing Charlie from being the sole reason behind Adam’s death.

“You’re not fixing the problem and praising your soldiers for being murderers, damn well isn’t helping us either.” The leader of the Thrones opens his mouth to object, so Lucifer jumps onto his next point to keep the Thrones from leading him astray again. “Secondly, it wasn’t Charlie who killed Adam. It was this tiny, little bug thing.” 

There are some confused murmurs among the crowd. A few heads turn to Lute, who blushes and buries her head in her hands.

“Are you telling the truth?” Sera asks. 

Lucifer nods, slouching in his seat. Just because he’s up here doesn’t mean he needs to abide by their rules and etiquette.

“Lute told us that Charlie killed Adam.” 

“Lute is a liar.” 

Lute erupts at that statement, “Are we really going to take the word of a fucking demon over an Exorcist like me? Adam would never lose in battle to an ordinary Sinner!”

“But he lost,” Lucifer reiterates, smirking. 

Lute’s face contorts with rage, and she plunges her nails deep into her palms. 

“Both of you, please,” Sera says. She nods, instructing Lute to sit back down again. “This isn’t getting us anywhere, and this isn’t what we came here to discuss.”

“Then what did you want to discuss?” Lucifer asks. He watches the clock. The meeting lasted only three minutes. 117 minutes and a painfully long eternity of seconds to go.

“We’ve been making plans for a funeral. The only problem is we need Adam’s body to do it,” Emily reveals.

Lucifer doesn’t know where Adam’s body is, and it’s not his job as the King of Hell to know where the corpses in his realm go. For all he knows, one of the many Cannibals who fought by Charlie’s side during the battle might’ve dragged him back to their town and consumed him. Especially because this is Adam’s body, he really doesn’t care and wants to make that apparent to Sera and Emily before they send him on a wild goose chase to track down a carcass.

“And? I don’t know where it is.” 

Sera’s crown burns brightly, and a set of eyes sprouts on her wings and hair. A few angels scoot backward in their chairs. She leaves her chair and begins walking towards Lucifer. The regret of talking back sets in immediately, making him feel like his trouble-making younger self again.

“Now that is not an option,” She asserts, “I am well aware of the fact that we’ve disagreed on managing our citizens for the past millennia, but this is absolutely no excuse to be arrogant!”

“Sera…” Emily says, flying over to Sera and touching her shoulder.

Sera relaxes, shuts her eyes, and takes a deep breath. The eyes disappear, as does a portion of her frustration.

“I need everyone to leave except for you—” She points at Lucifer. He expects this and tries to hide his disappointment. “And you.” She gestures to Lute, who refuses to move any closer to Lucifer despite the fact that the table is emptying. 

“I don’t know where Adam’s body is, Sera,” Lucifer says in as collected and polite a voice as he can manage, taking the opportunity to speak to her now while she’s calmed down a bit. “And if I did, I would give it back to you, but I really have no idea.” 

“You don’t need to say that to me. Say that to him.” 

After the other higher powers leave the room, a new blonde angel flies in to replace them, wielding an acoustic guitar-axe. His golden eyes and friendly mannerisms possess so much ingenuous optimism that Lucifer worries that the mention of a corpse will traumatize the poor creature.

“Hi, it’s really nice to meet you! You must be Lucifer. I’ve heard all about you—the good and the bad.” The golden-eyed angel extends his hand to Lucifer, who is hesitant to initiate a handshake but goes along with the gesture. “I’m Abel.”

“Holy shit,” Lucifer blurts. 

It feels immoral to be shaking hands with, talking to, or looking at the direct spawn of Adam, an angel whom he easily could’ve killed (and almost did). The absence of guilt to weigh on his conscience makes the interaction feel even more awkward. Lucifer is glad to slip his hand out of Abel’s grip.

Lucifer looks over his shoulder at Sera. “Is this to guilt-trip me into looking for Adam?”

“Depends. Will you be looking for Adam?”

Lucifer decides there’s no point in lying. They’ll find out if he tries to evade a promise, and angelic deals are nothing to trifle with. 

“No,” He answers curtly. 

“Look, Mr. Morningstar, I know how you and your family felt about my dad. I’m not invalidating your feelings. However, we really need to get his body back up here in time for the funeral before, you know, all the rot and the worms and the icky stuff starts to set in,” Abel says. 

“Why does that matter? Are you planning on having an open casket funeral?”

“I think it’s a matter of convenience,” Emily interrupts Lute, who’s jumped out of her seat for the third time to shout at Lucifer. 

“Why me ? Why do I need to look for it?”

“Because the entire army of Exorcists isn’t stupid enough to go back to Hell,” Lute says, retrieving her helmet from the table and hooking it under her arm. She walks around the table to meet up with the angels gathered in front of Lucifer. “We know that you know where Adam’s body is, so you can stop lying about it.”

“I want nothing to do with him. Why would I hide the body? That makes no sense!”

“Hey, hey, hey…” Abel steps in between Lucifer and Lute. “We’re not gonna fight. Remember, Lute, this is a diplomatic meeting.”

The only thing worse than a regular meeting is a diplomatic one. 

“Oh, fuck off, Abel!” Lute pushes him aside. “This isn’t about you!”

“Actually, yes,” Sera says, glowering down at Lute. “This is about him. Adam is his father. He’s in charge of the funeral preparations, and he’s in charge of this, too.”

“You weren’t even fucking there!” Lute retorts, livid golden eyes up in Abel’s face. “You didn’t see him die! It was only me! It was always me! I was the only one who ever gave a shit!”

“LUTE!” Sera bellows. “That’s enough!”

Panting, Lute backs away from Abel. She drops into a chair and stays there without saying a word. Her leg shakes underneath the table.

“As I was saying,” Sera says after clearing her throat. “Abel has articulated that he would prefer that Adam’s body return as soon as possible.”

“I can’t give you that,” Lucifer says, rubbing his temples. He doesn’t know why he has to articulate to these angels that he doesn’t know where Adam is, doesn’t want to know where Adam is, and doesn’t give a shit about their funeral. 

“You could try,” Emily adds with an adorable smile. 

Lucifer sighs. He sees nothing but Charlie’s hopefulness behind her deep blue eyes. It’s the one thing that gets him to crack, a reminder of the goodness that awaits him at home.

“Fine,” Lucifer mumbles. “I’ll have some people on it, but if I don’t find it—” This next message is strictly for Sera. “—that’s it. I’m not putting up with any more requests.”

“Don’t slack off,” she says. 

“Yeah, I won’t.” He gets out of his chair and leaves the room, the castle, and the pearly white gates of Heaven. 

One thing that contrasts starkly between Heaven and Hell is that Heaven is actually hotter. Heaven experiences weather, real weather. It gets rainy days, cloudy afternoons, and sunny mornings. It gets sunlight , which is more heat and light than Hell will ever experience.

Lucifer shudders as he travels through the portal back into Hell. The chill in the air is unmistakable, as is the smell of dumpster fires and the rat-a-tat of machine guns going off in the distance. It’s so far different from Heaven, overcrowded, contaminated, and too lost in an apocalyptic state to be reshaped by any rehabilitation programs, but it’s home. 

Lucifer flies back to the hotel but keeps an eye on the streets for any sign of Adam’s body. He doubts that he’ll find Adam’s corpse at all. It’s either decomposing in the damp darkness of a sewer or being digested in the belly of a Sinner. Regardless of where it ends up, he just wants to have some souvenir to give back to Heaven to say, “Well, I tried; sorry, not sorry for your loss”. 

“Hey, Charlie, do you remember what happened to Adam’s guitar?” Lucifer asks, shutting and locking the door behind him.

He looks up to find a trail of blood leading down the hall. His mind jumps to the worst conclusion, and he sprints after the blood trail and barges into the sitting room, fully expecting to slaughter whoever dared to put a hand on his daughter. Instead, he finds Charlie sitting in an armchair, sobbing. Alastor stands beside her, patting her shoulder while Vaggie tries to offer her water.

“What happened?” Lucifer demands. He sees that the blood trail connects to Charlie’s hands and dress, but she doesn’t appear injured—not physically anyway.

“Dad?” Charlie gasps, looking at him. She jumps out of the chair and rushes into his arms. “I did something really bad!” She weeps into his chest.

Chapter Text

The V Tower is infested with reporters. There’s always a swarm of them hovering around on the main floors, scouring any rooms they have access to for a sign of the Vees, but the assembly of journalists has tripled beyond its typical size. Anthrax, carrying the Vees’ coffee orders in one hand and a bag containing the Greek dictionary and his fresh batch of Antivenom, forces his way through the crowd and out of the flash of cameras. 

One of the reporters catches a glimpse of him in the corner and shoves a microphone in his face.

“Are you a new employee of the Vees?” She asks.

Another reporter does the same, shoving the prior she-demon aside. “Are you aware of the recent news regarding the princess?”

Anthrax adheres to the rules that the Vees gave him in regards to handling newspeople of any kind. Always say nothing and never look them in the eye.

Anthrax looks down, clutches the carrier tray in his hand even tighter, and pushes past the other reporters who try to interact with him. His neglect of their questions presses them to interrogate him further. He doesn’t settle down until he reaches the elevator, and the doors shut, cutting him away from the side of society he hates the most. He values anonymity and the abundance of power that it brings him. He’d never be able to live a life like this—a life where his face is plastered on every magazine, every billboard, every TV channel like the Vees. His astonishment at their ability to handle their celebrity status is not a sign of admiration but bafflement.

Anthrax sighs when the elevator reaches the Vees’ living spaces, a private section of the Tower dedicated only to the Vees and their servants, who are also unaware of his identity but unnerved by his presence nevertheless. Upon reaching the doors to the lounge area, Anthrax types the code—Vox’s deathdate backwards—into the electronic keypad outside the room, then allows it to scan his fingerprint and his face before he is granted entry into the room. 

“Thank fuck you’re back!” Velvette exclaims. She shuts off her sewing machine and runs to retrieve her coffee.

“Iced caramel macchiato for Valentino, blackberry mocha for Velvette, and a cappuccino with extra whipped cream for Vox—”

Vox snatches the coffee cup out of Anthrax’s hand. He removes the lid and stares inside the cup. Sure enough, there’s all of the whipped cream that he asked for. 

“You think I’d poison you?” Anthrax asks. Vox does this anytime Anthrax brings him a drink.

“You can never be too careful,” Vox bites back. He turns around and begins slurping down the warm coffee. Velvette takes her mocha and resumes her work at the sewing machine.

“He hates me,” Anthrax says to Valentino before the two lock eyes. He can smell the strong cherry aroma as a cerise swirl of smoke wraps around his neck and pulls his head to meet Valentino. 

“He hates everybody,” Valentino replies, taking his coffee order. “Why were you gone so long?” Valentino asks in Spanish to prevent Vox and Velvette from catching on to their conversation.

“I had to stop and pick up a few things before I got your coffee, and anyway, shouldn’t we be careful?”

“Careful about what?” Valentino chuckles. He places his hand on Anthrax’s hip.

Anthrax motions towards Vox, who stands in front of a massive white board on which he writes out the calculations that go into the engineering of the next VoxTek device. He’s no more than fifteen feet away. 

“What if he sees us?” Anthrax whispers.

“He’s not going to see anything. He’s not even looking at us.”

“What if he turns around, dumbass?”Anthrax snatches the chilly cup of coffee out of Valentino’s hands and takes a sip himself since Valentino hasn’t drunk any of it yet. He grimaces at the taste. “How can you drink this shit?” Right away, he forces the cup into Valentino’s hand.

“I’d expect someone of your age to indulge in the finer things, hm? You like tea?”

“I love tea, and I’m not that old.” Anthrax punches Valentino in the shoulder. 

“Suit yourself, darling.” 

“What the fuck?!” Velvette exclaims.

The two step far away from each other, and Valentino begins chugging his coffee. Instead of facing them, she’s looking through the window of the tower and pointing down at a crowd of reporters lined outside the tower, trying to get in.

Anthrax sighs with relief. She wasn’t talking about them, but that was way too close of an interaction.

“Oh. Them.” Vox sounds disgusted. He caps his dry-erase marker. “Yeah, they’ve been out here ever since the early afternoon. Apparently, something went down in the Steampunk District. They want our opinions on it.”

“That’s a different Overlord’s District. Why does our say matter?” Valentino questions.

“What happened in the Steampunk District?” Anthrax asks, looking between the three Overlords for answers. For a trio who’re chronically online, Anthrax is surprised to find that none of them has an answer.

“I’m checking Voxtagram,” Velvette says, whipping out her phone and texting rapidly.

Vox grabs a remote and presses a button that causes the whiteboard to fold into the wall, revealing the television screen behind it. The TV displays the 666 News, which (for the second time today) has another shocking headline. Vox, Valentino, and Anthrax move towards the couch to take a seat.

“We’re back, motherfuckers! You thought you wouldn’t see the last of us? Well, you thought wrong, dipshits!” Katie Killjoy says. 

“I fucking hate that bitch,” Vox says, sitting between Valentino and Anthrax and manspreading to keep them from touching. 

“We have some more news that’ll have your minds fucking blown! Care to share, Tom?”

“Well, Katie, during the—”

Katie Killjoy cuts off her co-host by shoving him off-camera and sitting at the center of the table. “During the funeral of Lord Lysander, the Steampunk Overlord was violently murdered by none other than—” Katie Killjoy gasps when a picture of Charlie shows on the screen. “—Charlie Morningstar!”

“The princess?” Tom Trench croaks, weakly trying to lift himself from the ground.

“That’s fucking right, Tom! The princess of Hell joins the ranks of the infamous Overlord Killer and the Radio Demon as a murderous psychopath! Who knew she would have it in her? So much for redemption, eh, Tom?!” She nudges her co-host on the side before cackling wildly.

Tom Trench laughs, too, but it sounds more like breathless wheezing.

“That’s impossible,” Vox says, covering his mouth.

“No, it’s not,” Velvette says from behind the couch. She shows her phone to Vox and plays a video taken of the moment when Charlie killed Madame Arabella in the middle of her District, surrounded by all of the souls she owned. 

Vox doesn’t finish watching the video. He buries his head in his hands. “Fuck…” He grumbles. 

“We were supposed to kill her next, weren’t we?” Valentino says, muting the television, so no one has to hear the grating sounds of Katie Killjoy rambling about the murder any longer.

“We never should’ve started with Lysander,” Vox whispers, shaking his head. “This is fucking ridiculous.”

Valentino drapes his arm over Vox’s shoulder and gives him a kiss on the cheek.

“It’s too late now,” Velvette says, folding her arms. She snickers. “Well, Anthrax, looks like you might just be out of a job.”

Anthrax clutches his chest. It feels like it’s tightening, like a red-hot iron fist is closing in around his rib cage, trying to lock around his pounding heart. Breathing becomes much harder as his ribs constrict around his lungs. There’s too little space to take a breath, and every respiration comes out short and shaky.

“I need to go,” He says, standing up. 

The perplexed voices of the Vees grow muffled amidst the blood pounding in his ears as he speed-walks out of the room and down the maze of hallways in this uncomfortably ginormous tower. He has no clue where he’s going, whether he’s getting more lost or walking in circles when all of these damn LEDs and posters look the same. He’s looking for a place where he can breathe, a place where there’s air and not a single soul around. No one can see him like this. 

Anthrax wraps his arms around himself. His arms sting as the wounds underneath layers of bandages start to reopen, tearing little by little as the stress builds in his nerves. With his bag in the room with the Vees, he can’t get the Antivenom to stop this from happening, and if he doesn’t end this soon (either by calming down or getting the Antivenom) he’ll bleed out. He won’t die, but there’s the mess to clean up afterwards, the dreadful bedridden days of sickness that follow, and the mortification of whoever should stumble upon him. 

Anthrax chooses the former option. It’s faster, and he’s likely closer to achieving it if he can just get somewhere private. He forces himself into the first room that he sees. Unfortunately, it’s not empty like he thought. It’s nowhere close to that. The room is filled with servants who were bustling around left and right with plates in their hands (presumably on their lunch break) until they see Anthrax standing in the doorway, hunched over, panting like a dog dying of thirst, blood seeping through the bandages on his arms.

He can’t see clearly. He doesn’t see a bunch of hungry servants, who once longed to sit down and enjoy their meal but are now studying Anthrax’s movements to find the right time to escape with their lives. As he loses his blood, visions of the men in lab coats who worked with his old boss, who held him down for prolonged periods of testing and trials and injections and failures and withdrawal, only for the cycle to begin again, flash in his head. One of the men in a lab coat rushes to a phone on the wall and begins dialing a number.

“Security!” He screams into the receiver.

That is his first…and last mistake.

Anthrax chases after the first sign of movement that he sees. The man who shouted into the phone is stabbed in the neck with Anthrax’s tail. A ruckus breaks out among the other men in lab coats who form a stampede towards the door, abandoning their plates and screaming for someone to save them. Overwhelmed by the sight of all of the enemies—the people he longed to kill for years, Anthrax goes in for the kill every single time. 

Sinners are stabbed, pierced by Anthrax’s tail, sliced open by the spines on the side, infected with the venom from the tip of his tail. When that doesn’t kill them all, Anthrax draws his guns from the holsters on his ankles and riddles the remaining survivors with bullets. It’s a mess of blood, guts, brains, skull fragments, and broken bones from the people who have been trampled. It stains the walls, the formerly white tiled floors, the room-temperature food, Anthrax’s body, and the bodies of all of the victims. 

To Anthrax, they are not victims. They are the participants in his plight, the workers who helped his ex-boss bring about his eternal suffering. This is what they deserve, and they should’ve received this a long time ago. 

Anthrax doesn’t stop until his gun forces him to. He checks his pockets; he’s completely out of his bullets, but there’s one man in a lab coat who isn’t dead yet. He crawls towards the doors, crippled by a compound fracture in one of his legs. Anthrax catches up to him without needing to run. He stands in front of the man.

“Do you remember me?” He asks.

The man whimpers. He reaches into his lab coat and pulls out a gun. Anthrax doesn’t flinch. He watches, stern expression never wavering, as the man pulls the trigger. The gun clicks; there is no bullet.

“No!” The man wails, staring manic-eyed at his gun. “No, no, please! I’ll do anything—!”

Anthrax drills the end of his tail into the center of the man’s forehead. When he’s sure that the Sinner is dead, he pulls his tail out from his skull and starts to turn around, to leave, to return to the Vees. The doors to the dining hall are wide open, with three silhouettes standing in front of him. He can only make out one of the figures—Cydani, his ex-boss, the reason why he’s in Hell. He still looks no different, with the same dark, messy hair, shadowed but sharp features, bloodshot eyes, green velvet tailcoat, and high collar. 

Anthrax yanks a spine out of his tail. It hurts like hell to do so, but the blade slides right out of its socket without trouble. It’ll function as a good enough weapon until he can find a way around Cydani.

“No! No! No! Don’t do that!” The three silhouettes—Cydani included—all begin shouting.

Cydani sounds nothing like himself. He sounds like…Valentino?

“Anthrax, put the blade down,” Cydani—no, Valentino—says, stepping forward.

He looks too much like Cydani. Anthrax gets confused, overwhelmed. He rakes his hand through his hair, unknowingly smearing blood in between the strands.

“I can’t,” He whines, tightening his grip around the razor edges of the blade. The pointed edges slice his skin with ease. “I can’t do it.”

“Anthrax, look at me. You’re okay.” 

Anthrax looks up. His world shifts from the sight of Cydani trying to reason with him to Valentino. Instead of men in lab coats, there are servants in suits lying dead on the ground in various stages of mutilation. 

“You’re going to be okay. I’m right here.” 

“Oh…” Anthrax whimpers at the image of all of the bodies. Some are missing skin on various parts of their body. One of the servants has been scalped. He doesn’t remember doing that. “Oh no.” He doesn’t know where to step so that he won’t taint his boots with more blood. He feels like he’s trapped on an island.

“Val…” Vox warns, putting his arm in front of Velvette. “Be careful.”

“Everything is fine,” Valentino says. His voice is calm and steady, as are the rest of his motions when approaching Anthrax. 

“I’m sorry,” Anthrax whispers, tears streaming down his face. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“It’s okay. I’m not mad,” Valentino says, putting his arm around Anthrax’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

“I’m really sorry!” 

He feels sub-human at the spectacle of the carnage that he created, some of which he doesn’t recall doing. It scares him, his own hands, his mentality, the violence he’s capable of committing. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart. We have people to fix this up. Vox, call someone.”

Vox and Velvette are still frozen in fear, unable to take their eyes off all fifty of their deceased servants.

Chapter Text

The warm water of the bath Valentino has drawn feels good against Anthrax’s skin. It calms his senses, brings him further back into reality, and heightens his awareness of the atrocities he’s committed. He wishes he could forget him, but then he spots the blood on his body, the thin rips in the self-inflicted scars on his arms that hadn’t torn completely open but were close to doing so. All of the supplies needed to treat this—the bandages, the Antivenom, and a couple of pain meds to get him through the next few hours are in his bag, but he doesn’t want Valentino to get suspicious and begin asking him about what other belongings he has, especially the Antivenom.

Fortunately, Valentino is more occupied trying to wipe the blood off of Anthrax’s skin, the blood that isn’t his. He has been for the past ten minutes, putting great consideration into treating each part of him like a work of art.

“Why are you doing this?” Anthrax asks. 

“Because I care about you,” Valentino says, removing the final bloody smudge from Anthrax’s cheek with a rag. 

“That’s a bad idea,” Anthrax says, shaking his head in disbelief that an Overlord like Valentino would be willing to stay with him after witnessing the aftermath of that bloodbath.

“I try not to think of it that way.” 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Anthrax says, putting his hand on top of Valentino’s.

“There’s no way you could ever hurt me.” Valentino squeezes Anthrax’s hand softly. “You wanna tell me what today was about?”

Anthrax purses his lips. “If I’m not the Overlord Killer, who am I?”

He expects Valentino to stumble as he tries to find something that can substitute for an answer. He doesn’t hesitate to say, “ There’s more to you than just killing people. I know ‘cause I’ve seen it. Don’t listen to anyone else. We’re not going to fire you for one slip-up.”

“Okay.” Anthrax chokes back tears and strokes his thumb over the back of Valentino’s hand.

“You’re okay,” Valentino whispers, wiping away Anthrax’s tears. He pulls him into a kiss, not one of fervent, desperate passion. It’s sweet; it’s genuine; it’s loving; it’s rare.

Anthrax wishes it could’ve lasted longer, but Valentino has to pull away when his phone starts ringing.

“Vox,” Valentino says. “I’ll be right back.” He stands up and starts to leave.

“Can you give me the bag?” Anthrax asks.

Valentino nods. Without inquiring about its contents, he hands the bag, then heads off to answer the call. 

Anthrax’s stomach twists in discomfort. He knows how wrong it is to be with Valentino. It’s not just his reputation that could be tarnished by Valentino’s as well. If Vox finds out about their relationship, he’ll be fired; he’ll be executed. He can’t decide which is worse. And yet, he wants Valentino so badly that considering a life without him is impossible. 

“What is wrong with me?” Anthrax groans, tugging on his hair. 

He notices that a few of the strands have grown whiter since he last saw them today. It’s a reminder that he needs to take the Antivenom now before it gets worse. He retrieves the container from the bag and, after taking each step to put together the syringe in the kit he never goes anywhere without, inserts the Antivenom into the syringe.

At this point, it’s pure muscle memory that drives him to stab the needle into his thigh and plunge the fluid into his veins. A blinding pain precedes a rush of energy that awakens his senses. Before he has time to recover from the initial agony of the injection, he feels his body liven, his vision sharpens, his heart rate spikes, then slows to a steady pattern. The veins on his wrist retreat to his knuckles. 

He falls back with a splash, head colliding against the wall behind him. He winces, but the pain pales in comparison to the relief that he has more time on his hands to survive and to kill the rest of the Overlords on the Vees’ hit-list. 

Valentino returns to the room. “Are you okay?” This is the first time that he’s sounded worried since encountering Anthrax in the dining hall.

Anthrax nods, but something that would make him feel even better right now is a hug. 

“Can you sit with me?”

Valentino nods his head. He pulls his shirt over his head, then sits in the bathtub behind Anthrax. All four of his arms lock in a double hug around Anthrax’s torso, trapping in warmth. It makes Anthrax feel less alone and like there are some things in Hell worth living for. He places his hands atop Valentino’s and leans his head against Valentino’s chest. While stroking his hand over Valentino’s fingers, he notices that his wedding ring is missing.

Chapter Text

There’s a cafe in between the Porn Studios and the main floor of the Vees. Besides the hotel, the cafe is Angel’s favorite place to be. The quaint little shop is Italian-owned and lacks the trademark neon mayhem of the Vees. There’s a relaxing, jazzy atmosphere, making it stick out like a sore thumb in the V Tower, but not in a bad way. Sinners (especially before a long day of work) flock to the food and drinks before they run out, and they run out fast. Even the Vees admit that the coffee there is the best they’ve ever had, but insist on buying more expensive brands to hold up their status by “only accepting the finest quality meals”.

The cafe is the only part of the V Tower that Angel enjoys visiting. The people know him, not by way of his father or his relationship with Valentino, but they genuinely know him and care about him.

“The usual?” The barista asks.

“You know me, sugar tits,” Angel says, removing his card from his wallet. He eyes the price displayed on the cash register. It’s not ridiculously high; he’s paid for this drink-meal combo for the past twenty years now with no problem, but the price isn’t cheap either. 

Angel reminds himself that he needs to start saving money if he intends to gather enough to pay for Valentino’s murder. He doesn’t know the Overlord Killer’s prices, and Husk can only give a rough estimate since the rates for killing Overlords have only risen over the years. 

“Actually, I’ll just take a mocha frappuccino. I don’t need the biscottis.”

The barista’s jaw drops. “Since when did you drink frappuccinos? You’ve had this same order for twenty years! And you’re changing it?!” She’s not really angry, just shocked, but her tone makes it seem like she’s furious. “Why?! When?!”

“I need to start saving money.”

“For what?” The barista frowns but takes the order down anyway.

“Clothes,” Angel lies.

The barista swears in Italian. “First, you change your coffee, then you change your clothes. What’s next, your job?” She grumbles all the way into the kitchen. 

Angel sighs wearily. He hadn’t expected her to get so emotional about a coffee order. What matters is the fact that he’s saving money for the good of his future self, even if it means having to take the cheaper way out.

“Can I get the black tea and one of your scones?” Anthrax asks.

Angel whips his head to the side. To his surprise, he isn’t hearing things, and Anthrax is standing to his right, accepting a paper bag containing a blueberry scone while one of his other eight hands slices his card into the terminal.

The barista accepting his order looks terrified and, as soon as Anthrax pays for his order, dashes past the kitchen’s swinging doors and disappears inside.

“Keep him calm; keep him happy,” Husk’s voice echoes in Angel’s head. “If you get on his bad side, this whole plan goes to shit.”

Angel gathers his courage and approaches Anthrax with a cordial wave and smile. He doesn’t consider Anthrax a friend (yet), but if he makes the right choices, he might get out of this interaction with his life and a new ally.

“Not a coffee drinker?” Angel asks.

Anthrax gives no response. He’s seen Angel and heard the question, but it’s none of his concern to make conversation. Angel groans. He doesn’t know how to talk to quiet people, not without flirting with them. 

“Thanks for getting me the week off. I had a lot of fun doing…nothing.” Once again, he almost exposes his relationship and catches himself just in time.

Instead of looking suspicious, Anthrax’s callous gaze softens into an understanding but worn-out look. Angel swears that his hair has more white streaks.

“You’re welcome,” Anthrax says.

“So…you and Val—” Anthrax frowns. “—are y’all, like, a thing?” 

“He’s my boss.” Anthrax's frown returns immediately.

“He’s my boss, too,” Angel adds. “I’m just curious. You show up, and all of a sudden, I’m off work for a week? It’s not like you’ve known him longer than me!”

So much for being friendly. Angel regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. He stammers as he tries pathetically to pick up the pieces of their brief conversation.

The baristas leave the kitchen at similar times and hand Angel and Anthrax their drinks. The timid barista whispers something in the emotional barista’s ear, causing her to stiffen and flip over a chalkboard sign so it reads: CLOSED. 

“Why is he so afraid of you?” Angel asks as the two leave the cafe for the elevator.

“There was an accident in the Tower a week ago,” Anthrax says. He takes a long sip of tea and uses the tip of his tail to press the elevator button for the Studios.

“What kind of accident?” Angel immediately assumes it has something to do with Valentino. He’s always livid about something, always willing to tear someone’s limbs apart for the most petty matter.

Come to think of it, the V Tower has looked rather empty. The majority of the servants Angel sees every day are missing. Either they got the day-off treatment, too, or they faced the end of Valentino’s wrath not long ago. 

“I did something,” Anthrax admits, tapping his fingers around the circumference of the cup.

“Okay.”

Angel pays closer attention to the numbered floors overhead. The elevator, a smooth-operating, silent mechanism, suddenly feels like a slow-moving bird cage elevator from the 20s. Angel spares Anthrax a frightful look; Anthrax chugs his tea with more vigor.

“Do you like killing people?” Angel asks.

“Can’t think of a single person who likes killing people, except maybe Alastor or Vox.”

“But you’re a hitman.”

“I like money, Angel. Who doesn’t?” The doors glide open, and Angel and Anthrax step out and into the Porn Studios.

“Speaking of money…” Angel tries not to let Anthrax get too far ahead of him. He seems annoyed by his client straggling no more than a few feet behind him, but does not comment. “How much does it cost to kill an Overlord?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Anthrax hisses.

“I would,” Angel insists.

Anthrax stops in his tracks. He turns around slowly, narrowing his eyes on every feature of Angel in search of an insecurity to exploit. Angel stands firm, trying not to let the fractures in his perfect, sex-craving, award-winning exterior shine through. If he loses this chance, likely, he’ll never get it again.

Anthrax, for a moment, looks lost in thought as if trying to remember the exact range of his prices before saying, “$850,000.”

Angel’s eyes widen. He waits for Anthrax to explain that he’s just kidding, and that the real price range is tens of thousands of dollars lower than the answer he’s given, but that reply never comes. Anthrax just stares at Angel the same way one looks at a homeless person on the street while finishing the rest of his tea.

“Depends on the Overlord,” Anthrax adds, tossing the empty cup of tea into a trash can. “If you were trying to kill the Overlord of Theater, the price would be somewhere around $600,000, compared to, I dunno, someone like the Vees.” 

Angel steels himself for the next few words, knowing that Anthrax has addressed the trio for a reason.

“Three Overlords, $850 K each. You do the math.” 

Angel starts multiplying all the values out in his head, and his anxiety skyrockets. Even if Valentino is the only one to die, there’s no way he’ll make $850,000, not with Valentino counting all of the money that his actors make and stashing some in his office. Angel barely had enough money to pay the monthly rent for the janky apartment he stayed at before the hotel, and what Angel earns now is no better than what he earned then.

“It’s not impossible,” Anthrax says. He puts his arm around Angel, and the two begin walking towards Angel’s dressing room.

“Easy for you to say,” Angel whispers, ignoring the confused stares of his coworkers. 

“You can get the money as long as you play your cards right.”

Angel rolls his eyes. Anthrax sounds like Husk, only a more heartless, mocking version of him. His arm lacks comfort. It’s just cold, hard, and prickly. 

“Help me out here. Please.”

“Cheaper coffee,” Anthrax snatches the cup out of Angel’s hand. “Baby steps.” He winks, thrusts the cup back into Angel’s hand, and heads off towards the movie set to keep an eye on the other cast and crew members.

Angel scoffs, detesting his “bodyguard” even more. He locks his dressing room door behind him, then sits at the dresser and yanks open each drawer to see how many dollars he’s collected over the years. It’s mostly coins, mostly condoms, a couple of pills—painkillers he didn’t know he had, a couple of one-dollar bills. Something was better than nothing. Angel collects as much of the money as he can and, after eyeing the VoxTek camera in the corner of his room, tucks it in the only drawer in his dresser that has a lock. 

He applies minimal makeup; what he doesn’t get now, the makeup artists will cover up later, and he’ll probably sweat it off if today is as intensive as most shoots after a break are. Out on the set, there’s a less asphyxiating atmosphere. No one is ever excited to be at the studios, but everyone seems less miserable than usual. 

Travis has returned, immured in a bulky wheelchair. An eyepatch obscures his one good eye, and his chest is wrapped in bandages. He winces every time he breathes. Beside himself with rage at his helplessness, Travis sulks in his chair while Anthrax monitors him from Valentino’s chair. 

“Where’s Val?” Angel asks one of his co-stars.

He would’ve questioned Anthrax, but he wants to put some distance between him for as long as possible.

“Overlord meeting,” The co-star replies, shimmying off his dressing gown. 

“Not the worst thing in the world,” Angel says while a makeup artist adds more eyeshadow to his lids.

“Did you hear that the princess killed an Overlord?” 

“Yeah,” Angel mumbles.

The murder of the Steampunk Overlord had become a taboo subject around the hotel. Charlie never let go of it and became too frightened of holding even a butter knife out of the fear that she would hurt someone else in her vicinity. After having spent so much time at the hotel, Angel forgot that the incident was a topic of intrigue among other Sinners. 

“You know, maybe you should ask her to kill Valentino for us. Wouldn’t that be something?”

“I thought royals didn’t get involved with Overlords.” 

It’s a rule that’s been upheld for many years to keep the balance between the Pride Ring’s monarchy and the ruling Overlords beneath them. After “The Incident”, it’s bound to create even more tensions between both parties. The abrupt Overlord meeting makes more sense now. 

“Well, it’s either that, or we pay the Overlord Killer to do it.” 

“We can’t afford that.” Angel reads over his script one last time. Whether or not he says all of his lines perfectly isn’t what matters, but he wants to run through this entire shoot without too many interruptions. A smoother shoot equals more money in Valentino and Travis’ eyes.

“I’d give my life to escape Valentino.” He sounds like he means it as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed. 

He’s worked for Valentino for only three years. For him to be this desperate after a decade of handling Valentino’s tantrums, unpredictable schedules, and a complete invasion of privacy and independence says a lot.

Throughout the filming, Angel stays in character, obedient to any of Travis or the crew member’s commands, and works as hard as he can to put together the best scenes possible. He moans, and kisses, and sucks, and strokes, and grinds again and again with the incentive of winning a couple more bucks than usual, driving him forward. Each scene starts a new Hell with a wide array of unbearable positions until the twelve hours of filming are up, and Valentino, who arrived at the studios some time ago when Angel wasn’t looking, calls “CUT!”.

There’s a collective sigh of relief from Angel’s co-stars as they drag themselves off the bed, completely worn out from filming multiple orgies. 

Angel lugs himself off the bed, wraps himself in his dressing gown, and starts to return to his dressing room. After a shoot like that, he doesn’t trust himself to walk back to the hotel without passing out. His plan to take a nap in his dressing room is cut short when he starts eavesdropping on Valentino, Anthrax, and Travis’ conversation.

“We can’t film the music video if she isn’t here!” Valentino rants. “I swear to fuck, I never liked that bitch! She doesn’t deserve the job if she can’t even be on fucking time! Thirty years working for me, and I know interns who can do better than her!”

“What if we get someone who’s already here to do it?” Travis wheezes. 

“Everyone here looks too drained to do the choreography,” Anthrax remarks.

“I’m sorry, but who the fuck are you? I’ve never seen you on set.”

“Might be the amnesia going through your fucking head, but I was here last week, pendejo,” Anthrax retorts, poking Travis, who groans in pain, in the chest. “I don’t need to have a job here to know that you’ll kill someone from the exhaustion if you pile any more work on top of them.”

“Why don’t we pick from volunteers?” Valentino suggests.

Travis starts to protest, but Valentino has already jumped onto the idea.

“Alright, fuckers, since Clitorissa isn’t here to do a music video, we’re gonna need someone to volunteer to take her place.” 

While the camera crew snickers about another one of Clitorissa’s absences and the annoyance in Valentino’s voice because of it, the remaining actors exchange looks with their coworkers, trying to volunteer each other with their eyes. No one budges. Everyone would much rather go home than have to spend a few more hours with Valentino and Travis. And anyone with sense should take advantage of Valentino’s inclusion of the word “volunteer”, a word that occurs infrequently in Valentino’s vocabulary.

“No takers? How about I increase your usual pay by 50%?”

A few timid hands start to raise, then drop after brief consideration from their owners. Angel, on the other hand, steps forward. A couple of gasps fill the room.

“Really?” Valentino remarks, eyebrows raising in surprise. He grins and reaches out to put an arm over Angel’s shoulder. “And that’s why you’re my favorite,” He announces to all of the other cast and crew members who kept to themselves.

A few roll their eyes before going about the tasks that were originally set on their minds, while others sigh with relief at Angel’s sacrifice.

“If I do this, I want you to double my pay,” Angel declares.

Valentino’s claws dig into Angel’s arm. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Angel breathes through the pain piercing his shoulder. “I want you to double my pay if I cover for Clitorissa’s absence and any other ones in the future.”

Valentino’s eyes narrow. His claws break skin. “I’m going to work your ass so hard that you’re going to crawl out of this studio on your fucking hands and knees—”

“—AHEM!” From across the room, Anthrax clears his throat loudly. 

Angel is sure that if Valentino had pupils, he would’ve rolled them. He releases his grip on Angel’s shoulder and takes a step back. 

“Fine!” He bites. “I’ll double your pay. Just get ready for the shoot. The other dancers will run over the choreography with you. The outfit is outside of Clitorissa’s room.” Valentino rubs his temples like he’s the one who’s had a wearisome day.

Angel nods. He’s lucky that he and Clitorissa share the same size of clothes and grateful that he’ll get out of today with double his usual amount, even if it means he has to work a little extra. He takes care not to piss off Valentino any further by avoiding him at any cost.

[Angel]

Oh, I wish that I could be selfish

But I know what that means

That you would be out there hurting

Oh, and I would be free

(Let me be selfish)

So, come find me in the middle of the night

I’ll be your home, we’ll be safe from all the light

Why am I so dangerous to you?

You know I wanna let you in

I know you what you wanna do

Why am I so dangerous to you?

You know I’m gonna let you in

Don’t you worry, I’ll find you

Give me one night, one dance, one sip

Give me one night, no tears in your eyes

Give me one night with your hands on this

Give me on bite and don’t be shy

Give me one night, one dance, one sip

Give me one night, no tears in your eyes

Give me one night with your hands on this

Give me on bite and don’t be shy

Give me what I want

And don’t be protecting me from the things we can’t control

Can’t we just be in denial one second to the next?

If we just stay here

Give me one night, one dance, one sip

Give me one night, no tears in your eyes

Give me one night with your hands on this

Give me on bite and don’t be shy

Give me one night, one dance, one sip

Give me one night, no tears in your eyes

Give me one night with your hands on this

Give me on bite and don’t be shy

I just wanted to keep you safe

But it was never gonna be here

And it was never gonna be with me

It’s the promise of the money he’ll get after today and the hope that Clitorissa starts missing more days that leaves Angel feeling a lot less tired than he initially expected. Nonetheless, he still plans on taking a long nap in his dressing room if he can get back without any interruptions.

“I’m here! I’m here!” Clitorissa exclaims, running into the studios out of breath.

“Are you shitting me?” Valentino asks. Angel has never heard him sound more offended. 

“I’m sorry I’m late. I was busy.” 

“Busy doing what?” Travis tries to match Valentino’s level of indignance, but he clutches his chest and winces after getting too worked up.

She shrugs. 

“Well then…” Cerise saliva oozes between Valentino’s teeth. He stands up from his chair and towers over Clitorissa. “You can get back to whatever it is that you’re doing.” He feigns a smile, but the malice, the pulsing desire to slap her, the venom in his tone is more blaring than the bright pink lights overhead. “Angel did your video for you.”

“What?” She glares at Angel.

“If you’re ever late again, you'd better pray that someone who actually knows what they’re doing covers for you, or I’ll rip your head off your neck, understand me?” 

Clitorissa nods vigorously.

Angel heads to his dressing room while the list of violent threats from Valentino continues. Angel never thought there were so many ways you could make a person regret being late, but he was wrong. Admittedly, Angel feels somewhat bad for her. Not everyone can conform to Valentino’s schedules, but there has been some talk that she’s been working for other Overlords. And if spotting her with the Steampunk Overlord’s husband was any indication that the rumors are true, then it’s likely that Clitorissa was busy dabbling with other Overlords or their spouses.

In the middle of taking off his makeup, his door bursts open. Clitorissa rushes inside and, with the same force as an irate Valentino, punches him in the face. Pain and a slight buzzing noise infiltrate his senses. He presses a hand to his sore cheek. A bruise is going to form there tomorrow morning; he knows it.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?!” Clitorissa shrieks, grabbing Angel by the collar of his dressing gown. “How dare you take my job! I sing; you do porn! It’s always been that way!”

Fortunately, she is not as strong as Valentino, and Angel can throw her hands off of him. She also doesn’t have as much authority as Valentino, allowing him to return the gesture by striking her in the face before she can throw another angry punch without feeling bad about it.

“What do you even need the money for?! To escape? Or to pay off some other Overlord to do it for you?!”

While Angel climbs to his feet, bracing himself against the dresser, Clitorissa prepares to attack him again, but a chain of pink smoke forms around her waist, holding her back. Valentino enters the room, followed by Anthrax and Travis, who struggles to wheel himself around without causing himself more pain.

“Ladies, ladies, calm down.” With a wave of his hand, Valentino makes the chain disappear. “What happened?”

“She started it!” Angel shouts, pointing at Clitorissa before she can fill the room with her lies and theories about his plans with the money. 

“He’s going to—!” She starts to scream.

“I don’t give a shit who started it; I’m finishing it. Anthrax, please take Angel home and make sure he doesn’t get into any other fights.”

Anthrax nods. He starts packing up the rest of Angel’s stuff scattered across the room. Angel curses under his breath. So much for that nap.

Chapter Text

Carmilla Carmine seems to be in a bad mood—a worse mood than usual. But it’s the early morning, so it’s hard for Vox to decipher if this is her usual temperament at work or a side effect of waking at an earlier time. Overlord meetings typically don’t occur until the afternoon and are planned over the span of many days. Today’s meeting was sudden, announced by a letter delivered yesterday evening, and stated to have a mandatory attendance by any Overlord who isn’t dead. 

Usually, Velvette attends these meetings. Vox and Valentino are too busy upholding their other empires to bother with the other Overlord matters, and they’re not the only ones who do the same. There are some Overlords gathered at the round table in the Carmine Weapon’s District that Vox hasn’t seen in decades and has completely forgotten existed. This only stimulates ideas about whose territory will be conquered next.

“I appreciate you all for coming on such short notice,” Carmilla announces, standing in front of the other Overlords. “Something…bad has happened.”

“Bad?” Miss Zeezi scoffs. “We lost Lysander and Arabella over the span of two days! That hasn’t happened since…”

“…since the Overlord Killer,” one of Carmilla’s daughters says.

A cloud of unease descends on all of the Overlords except for the Vees, who exchange smirks with each other. 

“But it wasn’t the Overlord Killer who killed Madame Arabella. It was Princess Charlie,” Carmilla says. “This violates a code we established between King Lucifer and Queen Lilith.”

“If I may speak.” Rosie raises her hand. “What happened was an accident…sorta. Alastor and I can attest to that.” 

Alastor nods. He says,  “She didn’t come to the funeral, trying to kill Madame Arabella. It was a spur-of-the-moment. We all know how Madame Araballe felt about the royal family, and let’s just say her anger got the better of her.”

“Are we to assume that Charlie “accidentally” murdered Lysander, too?” Miss Zeezi asks.

“Now that was the work of none other than the Overlord Killer,” Alastor says. “He’s officially returned.” He surveys the table as if expecting to see Overlord Killer hiding amongst them, disguised as an Overlord. 

“Does this mean we have to go into hiding again?” Another Overlord asks. She looks at Carmilla for a confirmation or denial of perhaps the greatest nuisance of the Overlord Killer’s reign of terror (second to seeing coworkers getting murdered one by one).

Vox hopes the answer is no. There’s only been one death so far, and it was meaningless. Lysander’s murder (even if it was on the gruesome side) shouldn’t warrant a complete shut-down of business exchanges between other Overlords, the implantation of curfews, and alarms to signal when the Overlord Killer was in an area. Seven years ago, it felt like the outbreak of a lethal virus and completely ruined business. 

The only reason why Anthrax is working with the Vees is to make this takeover of power easier, not to take a thousand steps backward.

“Potentially,” Carmilla says. “We can’t be too reckless. I don’t want to have a repeat of seven years ago.”

Vox and Alastor make eye contact for the first time in years. It’s like oil and water mixing, so wrong but so satisfying at the same time. Seeds of hatred have already been implanted and cultivated over the seven years of Alastor’s absence and Vox’s rise to power. 

This is the closest they’ve ever been in a long time. Vox doesn’t know whether he hates it or loves it. There’s a joy that comes out of the knowledge that he can do anything he wants at this table, and that Alastor can’t do anything about it. Where the detestation comes from is the realization that Alastor is probably thinking the same thing.

“If you know anything, please say something. We can’t have each other or our people living in fear.”

“Fear is a four-letter word, Miss Carmine,” Vox announces, leaning back in his seat. “Our businesses will go to shit if we continue to let it hold us back. I propose that we continue with things the way they are.”

“And watch the rest of us drop like flies?” A deer Overlord whose head is inflamed in blue smoke questions.

“It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, Phenix,” Vox asks, studying every insecurity given away by Phenix’s disposition.

He’s weak. He’s afraid. The weaklings always go first.

“Tell Anthrax to keep an eye on Phenix,” Vox whispers to Velvette.

She pulls out her phone and begins texting vigorously. 

“I agree with Vox,” Miss Zeezi says. This causes some heads to turn. “I’m not letting all my profits go to waste because of some bitch who should’ve been killed a long time ago.”

“Shall we vote?” Carmilla asks.

“I don’t think we should gamble on each other’s lives with a vote.” Alastor scowls, watching Vox. “We already lost enough people; we don’t need another one. That throws us off balance.”

Carmilla ignores Alastor’s objection. For the most part, the Overlords settle disputes with votes to avoid unnecessary conflicts. As Vox counts the number of Overlords present now, he realizes that without Madame Arabella, there’s an even number. 

“All in favor of reverting back to the safety protocols, raise your hand,” Carmilla says.

Half of the Overlords raise their hands.

“All in favor of lying staying the way it is, raise your hand.” Carmilla already sounds annoyed. From the initial count, she knows that this vote is going to end in a tie, and it hasn’t been that way in seven years. “Fine.” She grumbles something in Spanish. After spending enough time with Valentino, Vox knows she can translate a majority of what she’s saying into a bunch of swearwords. “Each Overlord will do as they wish without interfering in anyone else’s domain. Is that clear?” 

The Overlords nod. 

“Now time for the next order of business. Who gets Madame Arabella’s territory?”

“Shouldn’t we be entitled to the territory?” Vox suggests. He has no intention of leaving this meeting without it. “We, after all, are closest to the Steampunk District.”

“But you weren’t closest to her when she was living,” Rosie replies. “Did she have a will?” She asks Carmilla, avoiding Vox’s livid gaze.

“Not that I know of,” Carmilla says. “Under normal circumstances, we’d give her territory to her spouse, but…” Carmilla tenses. She paces the room in a circle. “Let’s say that she did have a will. Who do you think she’d give it to?”

“Well, I’d say Alastor and me, but, Al, you’re not  very interested in gaining territory.”

Alastor shakes his head. 

“For years, the rule has been that those closest in proximity to the deceased Overlord get the territory,” Velvette says, spinning in circles in her seat. “Since when are we going to change it?”

“You’re young, girl. What would you know about our old rules?” Carmilla questions bitterly. 

“I did my research,” Velvette grins. She’s still twirling in her swivel chair, paying more attention to not getting dizzy than to Carmilla.

“It’s not like there’s going to be a funeral,” Valentino says. “What’s the point in obeying her wishes?”

“We may be in Hell, but that doesn’t mean we’re respectless,” Rosie says. 

Velvette grins at Vox. She ceases her spinning by planting her feet on the ground.

“Don’t even think about it!” Carmilla hisses, catching a glimpse of the smug looks on two of the Vees’ faces.

“What if we split it? You take half, and I take half? Will that placate you?” Rosie suggests.

Half is not enough. Madame Arabella’s territory isn’t even that vast. The Vees started with her and her husband so as not to raise suspicions about the territory they’re collecting. It’s all or nothing, and if it’s going to be nothing, Vox already has his eyes set on the next couple of victims.

“No.”

A simpler deal would be to take all of the territory and guarantee that Rosie will be spared from death.

“We’ll take all of the territory.” 

“And in turn?” Rosie narrows her eyes on Vox. As she enters her half-demon form, black tendrils ooze from her dress, her claws and neck elongate, and cuts on her mouth form in the shape of a Glasgow smile. “What will you give me in turn?”

Your survival, Vox thinks. It would be such an easy thing to say, but it erases their discretion. There are only so many ways Overlords can make deals, but there’s only one remaining option.

“Souls,” Vox says. “I’ll give you some of mine.” 

“How many?” Rosie’s claws retract. 

“10,000.” 

Rosie grins. The Glasgow scars disappear. “Perfect.” 

No one speaks about the deal exchanged between Rosie and Vox or the fact that Rosie was irritated enough to the point that she nearly revealed her full demon form. Out of all of the other murderous or tyrannical (sometimes both) figures huddling around the table, she’s the hardest to piss off.

The meeting ends without another acknowledgement of territory, just a simple discussion of how to handle overpopulation, whether the royal family deserves another warning to keep themselves in line, and another reminder that “if you see something, say something”.

Vox can’t wait to get out of the meeting. With the Steampunk District in his position, he almost forgets that he’s just interacted with Alastor, who appears surprisingly sprightly for someone who took an angelic wound to the chest. 

“What game are you playing at?” Alastor asks him.

“Could ask the same of you,” Vox says, eyeing Alastor for any signs of gashes or stitches or bleeding. 

“You’ve never sought after Arabella’s territory. Why now?” He cocks his head to the side.

“Vox!” Velvette calls. She’s already standing in the elevator, propping the door open with her arm. “Let’s go!”

“Enjoy your territory,” Alastor grumbles, heading in the opposite direction of the Vees.

“Enjoy your hotel,” Vox replies with a sneer, knowing that when the time comes, he and the Vees will conquer the Morningstar District and raze that ridiculous hotel. 

Vox joins the other Vees in the elevator. Electricity buzzes under his fingers and in his chest as he thinks of how much potential can come of gaining Arabella’s territory. Her death is the first of many.

[Vox]

Looking for something

Yeah

[Vox, Valentino, Velvette]

Fame

I’m gonna live forever

I’m gonna learn how to fly

Fame

I feel it comin’ together

People will see me and cry

Fame

I’m gonna make it to heaven

Light up the sky like a flame

Fame

I’m gonna live forever

[Vox]

Baby, remember my name

[Velvette]

All my greatness

It doesn’t come for free

All my talent

It doesn’t grow on trees

Take a breather, you’ll take it all the way

If the top is where you wanna stay

[Valentino]

You gotta work hard

To make it look easy

You gotta live fast

To keep makin’ that money

If you want to be as famous as me

You gotta work, you gotta work, you gotta work

You gotta work hard

You gotta live fast

If you want to be as famous as me

You gotta work, you gotta work, you gotta work

[Vox, Velvette, Valentino]

You gotta work hard

I’m gonna live forever

Learn how to fly

If you want to be as famous as me

You gotta work, you gotta work, you gotta work

You gotta work hard

To make it look easy 

You gotta live fast

To keep making that money

[Vox]

(Baby, remember my name)

[Valentino, Velvette]

If you want to be as famous as me 

Remember, remember, remember

Remember, remember, remember

Remember, remember, remember

Remember

Chapter Text

A half-eaten corpse squelches under Husk’s feet. The stench of death may be common in Hell, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t revolted by it. He scoops his shovel under the body—which is mostly just skin barely clinging on to a rotting torso—and drops it onto a cart overflowing with other corpses. 

This is the side of Cannibal Town that visitors don’t see. It’s a side hidden by high-class shops, friendly residents, and a charming vintage aesthetic. Beneath those classy walls that Rosie takes great care to reinforce are piles of dead bodies ravaged by Cannibals first, then the flies. When the majority of the meat is eaten off and there’s nothing left but the indigestible bits, the corpse will remain in the road or the alleys. Rosie refers to them as tripping hazards so as not to ruin the high opinions of her District and hires people to clear them out of the street for her. 

As gross as the job is, it’s not a bad pay at $200 per body and occurs once a month. While Alastor pays a visit to Rosie and enjoys an afternoon tea party, Husk stands outside under Hell’s scorching sun or during a freezing winter, shoveling bodies onto the back of a cart. It’s one of his more hidden jobs on account of him not being allowed to tell anyone about Cannibal Town’s lack of a proper maintenance crew.

Instead of working to bring in just enough money to buy more supplies for the bar or a strong drink to cap off the day, Husk strives to collect more than his usual quota with the objective of contributing to Angel’s Kill Valentino Fund. Angel hasn’t given a report back on the price to kill Valentino yet, but if Husk recalls, it’s somewhere above half a million dollars. Alastor’s murder or…half-murder hadn’t been cheap in the late eighties, and inflation hasn’t made his life any easier. 

A bell rings behind him. Husk turns to find Alastor leaving Rosie’s Emporium, a heart-shaped box containing an assortment of eyeballs tucked under his arm.

“It’s so good to see you again, Al. I’m really sorry about everything that went down at today’s meeting!” Rosie helps Alastor don his pinstripe coat. “It’s such a shame that you had to see him again.”

“If my suspicions are correct, we might be seeing him a lot more. And, uh, please keep what I’ve told you a secret?”

Rosie nods. “What happens in the room, stays in the room.”

Alastor glances over at Husk. “Ah, Husker! Good work! How many bodies is that?”

“Twenty-five,” Husk lies. It’s a rough estimate. He lost track after eavesdropping on Alastor and Rosie’s conversation.

He remembers the days when he attended Overlord meetings. The “him” Rosie spoke off must only refer to Vox. Husk was never fond of the Vees even when he used to rule alongside the trio. Well, they’d been a duo back when he was an Overlord, but their power never waned. If trying to kill Alastor hadn’t drowned him in debt, he would’ve gone for Vox and Valentino next. 

He admires Angel for taking this risk now rather than later, even if it, should the fund be discovered by anyone, would result in far worse injuries than a black eye. Husk accepts all of the money from Rosie and starts to tuck it into his pocket only for Alastor snatch the wad of cash out of Husk’s hand. 

“I’ll keep an eye on this for you,” Alastor says. He forces the box of eyes into Husk’s arms. “Here. You hold that. Make yourself useful. Farwell, Rosie!”

“Bye, Alastor!” She calls, waving a bloodstained handkerchief.

Husk watches Alastor inspect every number, every letter, every symbol on the dollar bill before placing it at the bottom of the pile in his hands. He’s either looking for something among the bills, or he’s starting to get suspicious. Regardless, he’s never done this before, never straggled on account of being so invested in counting money that he’s never given a shit about.

“I’m pretty sure those aren’t counterfeit,” Husk says. 

He tries to keep his demeanor as collected as possible despite the fact that he’s terrified on the inside. The money has nothing to do with Alastor. The plan isn’t to kill him but Valentino, but that doesn’t mean Alastor (who has already faced the Overlord Killer and barely made it out alive) won’t start pointing fingers.

“This is a lot of money for a drink or two, Husker,” Alastor says. He’s not even halfway through counting the money but ends his inspection early and puts the money in his jacket pocket. “Plan on doing anything with it?”

“Renovating the bar or some shit like that?” Husk suggests. He stays on script. “Seeing as how we’re staying in this hotel a lot longer than anyone expected, I figured I could spruce up the place a little, get more of that bourbon you and the king like so much.”

“Why didn’t you just ask me if you wanted renovations? I’ll do something.”

Husk avoids Alastor’s eyes. Alastor’s idea of renovations are part of what gives the hotel its rinky-dink reputation.

“No offense, Al, but I think I’d like to do it myself.” 

“Is this Angel’s idea?” Alastor says through his teeth. He speaks Angel’s name like a slur.

“No. This was mine,” Husk replies, putting just enough of a pause between his reply and Alastor’s question to avoid Alastor’s suspicion increasing. “I think the hotel is really turning into a home for me, and I want to make sure it feels that way.” 

“Look at you getting all chummy,” Alastor scoffs. 

The two cross over an abandoned railroad. The vintage architecture and dead or dying trees are replaced by the urban infrastructure associated with the downtown region of Hell like towering steel skyscrapers that disappear behind scarlet clouds, the golden Clock Tower, and Heaven’s Embassy. 

“I try my best,” Husk says. “Now can I get my money back?”

“Half of it.” Alastor shoves what is obviously less than half of the money into Husk’s waiting hands. “You’ll earn the other half by bartending at the Gala tomorrow night.”

Husk can’t protest. Some money is better than no money even if it’s a lot less than he was hoping for. He doubts that Alastor will keep his promise, that tomorrow night after working his ass off to serve drinks for a bunch of conceited wealthy pricks, Alastor will have conveiently forgotten all about the money and accuse Husk of drinking too much.

“You’re concerning me, Husk.” Alastor stops in his tracks. His head slowly turns all the way aroud, vertebrae clicking with each movement of his neck. 

Husk rushes to hide the money before Alastor can think to take it away again. “‘Bout what?”

“Your intentions.” Alastor taps his claws against the microphone on his cane. “Whatever you’re trying to do with this money, with that drug-using harlot, I won’t allow it. His soul is under contract as is…” Alastor tightens his grip around his cane. 

A green chain forms around Husk’s neck. Its collar contracts around his neck, tighter and tighter, until he feels like he’s been suffocated by a noose. 

“...yours,” Alastor finishes. “Perhaps the Overlord Killer is back to finish the job. No one sees them alive and lives, aren’t I correct?” He taps Husk on the nose.

Husk makes a move to bite Alastor’s finger with enough force to chop it clean off, but Alastor retracts his finger just in time. 

“How do you know he isn’t back for you?” Husk says, tugging at the chain around his neck in hopes of finding some way to loosen it, some way to breathe, some way to escape. “You saw him, too, you know!”

“And who’s fault was that?!” Alastor growls, voice growing deeper and guttural. “I survived once, and I’ll do it again! Don’t think that just because you paid him, the two of you are allies!” 

[Alastor]

I am the key to the lock in your house

That keeps your toys in the basement

And if you get too far inside

You’ll only see my reflection

It’s always best with the covers up

I am the pick in the ice

Do not cry out or hit the alarm

You know we’re friends till we die

And either way you turn, I’ll be there

Open up your skull, I’ll be there

Climbing up the walls

It’s always best when the light is off

It’s always better on the outside

Fifteen blows to the back of your head

Fifteen blows to your mind

So lock the kids up safe tonight

Shut the eyes in the cupboard

I got the smell of a local man

Who’s got the loneliest feeling

And either way you turn, I’ll be there

Open up your skull, I’ll be there

Climbing up the walls

Climbing up the walls

Climbing up the walls

The chain disappears around Husk’s neck, but the indentations of its former presence are still there and still painful. 

“You’re lucky that I didn’t kill you on the spot, you worthless animal!” 

Husk shakily climbs to his feet. The next few attempts to swallow are agonizing, but little by little, the pain withers into discomfort and mortification. 

“You will be at the Gala when I say so, understood?”

“Yes…” Husk wheezes, rubbing his neck.

Alastor nods. “Good.” He turns around and continues in the direction of the hotel when one of the commercial display screens cuts away from an advertisement for the hotel to 666 News.

“Breaking news!” Katie Killjoy shouts, nearly falling out of her seat with joy. “I am still not—” She slams her fist on the table with every syllable. “—motherfucking done with the news, people! The body of the Overlord Phenix was found a couple hours ago, you guessed it, skinned alive and stripped of magic! No doubt about it, folks, the Overlord Killer is back in business and starting their return off with a couple of bangers! From the Steampunk Overlord at the hands of the princess to a centuries-old Overlord like Phenix, who knows who the fuck will be next?!”

Chapter Text

There’s something so intensely awkward about the dozens of movie posters around Valentino’s room. It’s not that they’re porn advertisements, but the fact that Angel is naked on every single one of them that doesn’t sit the right way with Anthrax. With Valentino between his legs, he tries to lie back and think about anything except for Valentino and Angel’s rickety relationship. But there’s nothing like a bunch of pictures of his naked client to serve as a real boner killer.

Anthrax can see that Valentino is making progress. He hasn’t seen Angel turn up at the hotel covered in bruises or his vanity mirror broken any further since stepping in. Angel seems happier, but that might be because he’s gaining more money. 

It’s so obvious—Angel’s plan. Anthrax just hopes that Angel grows more sense that his plan will blow up in his face, or struggles to get all the money he needs. Maybe if he’s lucky, Anthrax will die before anyone asks him to kill a Vee. That’d be too much power all at once and too risky. One Vee down means he needs to kill the other two to ensure that no information about him ever gets out. He can handle Velvette and Valentino. Vox, on the other hand…

Anthrax tenses at the thought of it. The amount of power that Vox alone possesses would kill him.

“Are you okay?” Valentino asks, sitting up.

“Just thinking,” Anthrax says, twiddling his thumbs. He frowns at the sight of the veins now creeping up his wrists again. So much regression, and all because he killed Phenix.

“Thanks for killing Phenix for us,” Valentino says with a grin, resting his head on Anthrax’s lower stomach.

“You’re welcome,” Anthrax says, trying not to roll his eyes. It wasn’t his decision. He wanted to off the Overlord of Theater, but Vox had other ideas and was the self-proclaimed leader of this takeover scheme.

He hates Vox so much that he admires him. Very few people manage to piss him off to that degree. Vox makes his blood boil with just his mannerisms, his speech patterns, his attitude towards anything that isn’t himself. He can’t understand why anyone would want to live with him and is impressed with himself for being able to put up with this for over a month now.

“What’s on your mind?” Valentino asks.

“Nothing,” Anthrax lies, avoiding Valentino’s gaze. “Just life.”

“Whatever it is, you can tell me,” Valentino kisses Anthrax’s hand.

“I’m okay.” His skin prickles with pain, but he tries not to let it show in front of Valentino. 

“Are you going to the Gala tonight?”

“Only if someone invites me,” Anthrax smirks. 

“Ask around. I’m sure someone will. You’re pretty sexy,” Valentino says, sitting beside Anthrax at the head of the bed. He grabs a cigarette and, while Anthrax stares at him in confusion, a maelstrom of thoughts forms in his head at the peculiarity of Valentino’s words, and he lights it.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Valentino asks.

Before he can take a drag of the cigarette, Anthrax yanks it from Valentino’s hand and threatens to crush it.

“Are you fucking stupid?!”

Valentino seems more worried about the condition of his cigarette than the lividity in Anthrax’s voice.

“Can I have my cigarette back?”

“I’m talking about you, gilitonto!” Anthrax shouts, taking a quick puff of the cigarette before passing it back to Valentino. 

“Me? Take you? To the Gala?”

Anthrax raises an eyebrow. Valentino’s response has already answered his previous question. Simply put, yes, Valentino is fucking stupid.

“No shit, Sherlock. Took you long enough.” 

“I can’t,” Valentino says, staring at the cerise smoke rising from the butt of the cigarette. 

“Why not?” Anthrax says through gritted teeth. “Who else are you going with?” 

He wouldn’t be surprised if the answer is Vox. Even though the two Overlords argue daily, they still make an effort to maintain their public image. 

“Angel,” Valentino replaces casually. 

Anthrax takes a violently heavy breath while narrowing his dark irises on Valentino, who just now appears to be regretting his decisions. 

“Sweetheart…” Valentino reaches out to touch Anthrax’s face. “I’ve been doing this for the past several years, okay? It’s not that I don’t care about you; it’s just that—”

“—no, no, I get it.” He does not. “I’m fine with you doing whatever the fuck you want with the whores who you like beating up.” He is not. “Just don’t come to me at the end of the night wanting me to suck your cock.”

In Anthrax's voice, there's a hint of jealousy and a buttload of bewilderment. With every chance Valentino gets, he vents about Angel, about how he’s slacking off during work, about how his acting skills are diminishing because of the princess (whose name he can’t for the life of him seem to remember), about how Angel needs to get his shit together, otherwise he’ll get fired. Angel, Angel, Angel. That’s the only thing on Valentino’s mind, and if it’s not Angel, it’s Vox. 

“I don’t like beating them up. I do it to put them in line.”

“Sure…” Anthrax whispers, rolling his eyes. He steps out of the bed and searches among the clothes scattered on the floor to find his outfit.

“Anthrax, we both know damn well I could never take you anywhere.” He leans back against the headboard and takes two short, self-assured drags from his cigarette while Anthrax stands as still as a statue, reeling from that last statement.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Anthrax asks, expecting the answer to be related to his reputation and identity.

“You have a bad habit of overreacting for no reason,” Valentino elaborates.

“Yeah, I know what you mean, you fucking hypocrite!” Anthrax exclaims, grabbing the rest of his clothes from the floor. 

“This is what I mean!” Valentino shouts, equally agitated and proving Anthrax’s point. He puts out his cigarette in the ashtray closest to the bed.

“So what was that shit you said to me after the incident with all your servants last week?”

“Well, of course, I meant that,” Valentino replies without hesitation.

Anthrax doesn’t know whether to believe him. Valentino says dumb things all the time, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that Valentino isn’t the best person. To be fair, it’s Hell. Anthrax knows he isn’t a saint either, otherwise he wouldn’t be down here, falling in and out of love with a married man, and trying to help a bunch of Overlords take over Hell.

“We should get to Vox’s meeting,” Anthrax says, ending the conversation before he and Valentino can make it any worse. “We’re already late as it is.”

Valentino nods. After he and Anthrax finish putting their clothes on, Valentino lights another cigarette and carries it with him all the way down to the Vees’ meeting area on Vox’s floor of the tower. 

“We can’t go on dates because I can’t let Vox find out about us,” Valentino tells Anthrax on the elevator. “It’d be really bad for our marriage.”

“The two of you haven’t said 'I love you' in over seven years. Even if he saw us holding hands, I don’t think there’s anything that the two of you can do to make your marriage worse.”

Valentino sighs. “If he finds out about our relationship, it will get worse.” 

This is a reminder to keep quiet, to stop getting so insolent, to remember his place on the scale of power. Valentino is an Overlord; Anthrax is a Sinner. No matter how much power he’s accumulated over the years, and especially as long as Valentino continues to be married to Vox, Anthrax will forever be beneath him. Watching the cold stare that Valentino gives him as he slowly nods in agreement, Anthrax understands why Angel wants him dead so badly.

Chapter Text

“Lysander is dead. Madame Arabella is dead. And now, Phenix is dead,” Vox announces, pacing the table just as Carmilla had done during the Overlord meeting yesterday. “Now, we’re going to take a break. We don’t want people getting too suspicious. We need to rest, recharge, and plan more. Tonight’s Gala will be the perfect opportunity for us to set our sights on the next victim.”

“Aren’t people already getting suspicious?” Velvette asks, looking up from her phone to accept the Martini from the silver dish Kitty carries around.

“They are?!” Vox exclaims, turning around.

Velvette and Valentino shrug. Anthrax has been silent. He hasn’t even accepted the drink Kitty gave him and stares blankly, tracing the outline of the blackened veins on his hands as though he’d never seen them before. This behavior is strange. Vox bites back a smirk. He’ll have a word with him later.

“Does anyone have any suggestions on our next victim?” Vox inquires.

“Miss Zeezi!” Velvette shouts, slamming her hand on the table.

“The Overlord of Agriculture,” Valentino suggests with repugnance. “I mean, what the fuck kind of industry is that?”

“I was thinking Zestial,” Vox says, taking a seat at the table as soon as Kitty comes around with his glass of Brandy.

“YOU CAN’T!” Anthrax screams, eyes wide with mania. His tail twists, each barb extending several inches beyond its usual length. “You can’t,” He says in a lower voice after calming himself down by sliding his hands into his lap.

“I’m your boss. I choose who lives or dies. All you do is kill the people that I tell you to kill and don’t step out of line.” 

“I draw the line at Zestial,” Anthrax says, glaring at Vox. “And that’s final. I’ll quit if you make me kill him.”

“Then you won’t have anywhere else to go,” Vox says, rattling the ice against the sides of his glass. “And wouldn’t it be a fucking shame to have your physical description released to every Sinner and Imp who’s ever walked through the Pride Ring? They’d kill you in a heartbeat.”

“Be that as it may—” Anthrax pushes his glass of red wine aside. “—how do you know I won’t have killed you first?”

“Anthrax, stop—” Valentino starts.

“—shut the fuck up,” Anthrax mumbles, resting his cheek on his knuckles.

Vox grins. This is good. This is a fantastic sign! Anthrax and Valentino are splitting apart, meaning he can at last make his move on both. He’ll take Anthrax first. He’s vulnerable and likely on the verge of a mental breakdown. He’s already suffered from one, so the next one could happen right now or in a couple of hours. Vox has a way with words; he’s confident that he can put those skills to better uses than negotiating deals with other Overlords and calming down Valentino.

“Anthrax, can I speak with you? Alone?”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Velvette says, holding out a cautious hand.

“It’s okay.” Vox shares a confident look with Anthrax. “I don’t bite.”

“I do,” Anthrax says. 

Vox gives Velvette a thumbs-up. Her face contorts into a look of disapproval, but she and Valentino get up and leave the room anyway.

Vox turns back to Anthrax, who’s stopped glaring at him for a second. Vox read something about never making eye contact with predators, otherwise they’ll see that as a challenge. He wonders if this is Anthrax’s way of experimenting to see how bold or how stupid Vox can really be. 

“Are you thirsty, Anthrax?” Vox asks, summoning a little bit of both. “You like coffee? Tea?” He remembers a rumor that went around a decade ago about Anthrax drinking the blood of one of his victims. “Blood?”

“That was one time,” Anthrax declares, eyebrows furrowing. “And yes, I’ll take tea. Oolong.”

Vox nods at Kitty, who disappears to retrieve the order.

“What’s going on between you and Valentino?” Vox asks. 

“We got into an argument…about Angel.”

It’s possible that Anthrax is telling the truth, but Vox doesn’t want to go off possibilities. He needs answers. He needs to know if all of this hearsay about Anthrax and Valentino having an affair is true.

“Do you like Angel?”

“He’s okay. Do you like Angel?”

“No,” Vox replies curtly. He’s glad that he can finally share his hatred for Angel with someone. “But I understand that he’s your client, and you have to protect him from the various dangers of dabbling between Overlords.”

“Is this about Angel, Valentino, or me?” Anthrax asks, removing the teacup of fresh, fumy oolong tea from Kitty’s tray. 

“This is about your attitude in the workplace.”

Anthrax raises an eyebrow. “What attitude?” 

“That attitude.” Vox points. “You might be the Overlord Killer, but you can’t just march in here, tell us who we’re not allowed to kill without a good excuse, and start fucking my—” Vox takes a breath. He’s getting ahead of himself. The discussion surrounding Anthrax and Valentino’s relationship will have to wait, but it’s still one of his top priorities. “What’s wrong with Zestial?”

“He’s too powerful,” Anthrax says. He takes a long sip of tea. “One, that’ll be too soon and too bold a move for you and the other Vees, and two, I can’t absorb that much magic in one setting.”

“It’s never been a problem for you before.” Vox tents his fingers. “Why now?”

“My job is harder than you think,” Anthrax admits, cracking his knuckles with a slight wince. “It hurts every time I do it.”

Vox squints. Anthrax’s hands look infected. Their deteriorating, slender state makes Anthrax’s coat seem too big for his arms. He seems so defenseless in this state, tail tucked underneath the table, dark eyes fixated on each of his fingers like a moth attracted to a light. Vox, for a moment, forgets that Anthrax still has the power to kill him if he wants. All he sees right now is a Sinner striving to uphold a position bigger than they can handle. He frowns, recalling the days when he was suffering through a similar time. 

“Why do you do it then?”

“It’s too late to go back now,” Anthrax says, cracking an emotionless smile. “You probably know that better than anyone, Mr. Video Killed the Radio Star.” His eyes take on a red hint as does his hair, and in the blink of an eye, he shapeshifts into Alastor. “How did I do?” Anthrax asks. His voice remains the same. “Pretty close, hm?”

Any remorse Vox has ever felt for Anthrax dissipates. 

“Stop it,” Vox demands. 

“Vox, if you think that holding me back and making me unstable will get me to obey your every word, you are sorely mistaken.” 

Anthrax’s voice in Alastor’s body is the most disturbing thing Vox has witnessed. Although both are Overlord Killers and royally piss Vox off, witnessing the combination of the two’s sarcastic but deadly personas feels like one of those unnatural sights humans aren’t supposed to see. And the fact that Vox finds this very arousing makes him feel even worse. 

Alastor has already made his opinion of the Vees clear and won’t ever return, and Anthrax is off-limits in every way, Vox tells himself, leaning forward in his seat to hide the erection in his pants. Heat pulses through his body. He’ll handle that later.

“I’m not killing Zestial,” Anthrax declares.

“I can’t take you seriously in that form,” Vox says.

“Would you prefer Valentino or Angel Dust?” Anthrax asks with a grin, spreading his legs.

“Look normal, I swear to fuck!” Vox grumbles, burying his face in his hands. If he looks at this improper amalgamation any longer, he’ll have an orgasm right here, right now.

Fortunately, by the time Vox looks up, Anthrax has switched back to his usual form. Unfortunately, his boner has not gone away. He can’t tell which is worse—this or what he’s about to ask next.

“Are you okay?” Anthrax asks, overconfident stare shifting into a look of concern. He cocks his head to the side.

“How would you feel if I took you to the Gala tonight? I’ll make you rethink your decision.”

“About Zestial?” Anthrax sounds quite skeptical. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“It will,” Vox says. “And…” He places his hand over his crotch. While making eye contact with Anthrax, it’s the best he’s felt in a long time. This is a thousand times better than the aquarium date. “I know how it feels when Valentino puts his attention on something else. You aren’t alone in here. So is it a yes?”

Anthrax stands up. He raises the teacup to his lips and downs the rest of the drink before setting the cup on the tray in Kitty’s hands. 

“Yes.” 

As soon as Anthrax leaves, Vox hides his face in his arms and groans, frustrated and still turned on.

Chapter Text

Valentino isn’t unattractive…on the outside at least. He’s only nice when he wants to be. Angel can see why he’d fallen for him to begin; he just doesn’t know why he’d bothered to stay when he’d had so many chances to escape.

 It’s too late to erase his mistakes, but not too late to back out. Angel looks into his purse at the wads of cash he’s collected from doing extra work around the hotel and waking up early to help out at the coffee shop in the V Tower. He’s proud of himself for getting this far, especially without having Valentino suspect a thing.

“You never fail to amaze me, amorcito,” Valentino says after finishing up the final touches on his fur collar. He turns to Angel, puts his hands on his shoulders, and drags him in front of the full-length mirror. “Don’t we make a cute couple?”

Angel nods. He can’t help but notice the absence of Valentino’s wedding ring and feels gross for agreeing. He can’t picture Valentino making a cute couple with anyone, not even Vox despite the two sharing similar violent interests.

“I pick the best ones, don’t I?” Valentino squeezes Angel’s shoulders gently.

Angel nods again. He’s testing his routine tonight. All he’s going to be doing his smiling and waving. He’s Valentino’s show dog to the other Overlords and upper-class. He has been for the past forty years. He’s gotten used to being gawked at by other wealthy Sinners, used to hearing others express their desires to fuck him or buy him off of Valentino while he’s standing in front of their faces. He hopes that this year will be the final time he has to endure sitting still and looking pretty like a doll perched on a shelf.

“We should probably get going. Vox is taking us.”

Angel’s eyes widen. He breaks his gaze away from the mirror and follows Valentino, who flutters around the room in a tizzy, searching for his lighter amidst the smoke and perfectly tailored furniture.

“Vox is coming?”

Valentino nods. He handles this like this is a normal occurrence while he fishes around the drawers in his nightstand. “He told me that he finally found a plus one. I’ve been trying to get him to take one of your co-stars for years. I’m glad he’s finally bit the bullet and chosen one.”

Angel disagrees. Vox doesn’t like any of Valentino’s employees. He’s aware of the bitter rivalry that he unknowingly threw himself into when he became Valentino’s favorite and tries not to get too involved in it. Valentino is awful; supposedly, Vox is worse. 

Valentino finally finds his lighter, then hooks his arm around Angel and drags him out of the bedroom and outside to the private underground parking deck in the Tower. He never lets go of Angel as if, throughout the familiar walk, Angel will ever let go. Even though Angel will never not hate Valentino, he assures himself that the only way to continue with the fund is to keep Valentino under the impression that everything is normal, even if it means needing to be suffocated by that smoky cherry scent whenever he leans against Valentino’s shoulder.

Angel can’t believe he thought Vox going to one of the Galas was the biggest surprise of the evening. What’s even more of a shock is the sight of Anthrax standing by Vox’s side, assault rifle tucked under his arm. He’s not dressed in his usual uniform but attired as though he actually plans on attending the Gala.

Valentino says, “That’s a cute dress, Anthrax, but what are you doing out here?”

“He’s with me,” Vox says, looking up from his phone. As usual, he glares at Angel, wordlessly telling him to shut up before focusing his attention on Valentino. “He’s my plus one.”

Valentino’s eyes widen. “He’s…?” He turns slowly to Anthrax. “Can I speak to you alone?” He whispers.

“We’ll be late if you do,” Vox insists before Valentino can grab Anthrax’s arm. “And he’s sitting in the front with me.”

Angel is left as speechless as Valentino but a lot less furious than Valentino, who, for the entire drive to the estate where the Gala is taking place, fumes in silence, aggressively texting Velvette updates of the situation. Angel finds it a little funny. He’s never seen Valentino this jealous, and if he’s lucky, Valentino will spend the entire evening sulking about Anthrax and Vox and forget all about Angel, allowing him to sneak off and meet up with Husk.

“Vox, can I have a cigarette?” Valentino asks, leg bouncing up and down. 

Angel looks down at his phone and texts Husk to confirm that they’re still meeting up later in the evening as promised. When he looks back up, he finds Vox groping Anthrax’s thigh. Angel turns sharply to face Valentino, wondering how he could possibly be missing this. Valentino is blind, but surely not that blind, right? Right?!

Vox reaches across the seat, pulls out a box of cigarettes, and passes them back to Valentino. By the time Valentino has taken his eyes off his own phone, Vox has his hand resting on the gear stick, tapping out the slow beat of a song playing on the car stereo. Valentino lights the cigarette and rolls down the window, allowing the smoke to diffuse into the air outside.

Angel can’t help but stare at Valentino, a mix of confusion and shock coursing through his veins. For as long as he’s known, Vox and Valentino strive to appear loyal to their audiences but pursue other interests behind closed doors. The last thing he expected was to see them cheating on each other right in front of each other.

“Val, how long have you and Vox been married?” He asks in a low voice.

“Fifty years,” Valentino replies without hesitation as though this answer had already been on his mind.

“Hmm…” 

Angel remembers his parents’ relationship. His parents were about thirty-five years into their marriage when his dad started going after other women. While getting married has never been on his mind, and he doesn’t see it occurring to him any time soon, the realization that there must be a cut-off stage when couples stop loving each other turns him off about the idea even more.

Valentino splits off to stand with Vox while the paparazzi swarm him with cameras, while Angel and Anthrax walk the red carpet leading into a mansion. The location for the Gala changes every year, and for the first time, it isn’t based in an Overlord’s house. 

“What are you doing here?” Angel asks in between posing for pictures. 

“Keeping an eye on you three. Anything can go wrong, you know.” 

Angel’s real question is “what is Anthrax doing with Vox?”. Valentino may not show it, but there are some signs scattered around his studios that suggest that he doesn’t always hate Vox. He still gets infuriated by the mention of Alastor, still keeps an old photo of him and Vox on his desk, still obsesses over whatever Vox is doing in the Tower. If Anthrax is trying to make Angel’s life better, pissing Valentino off by going to a Gala with his husband as a date has to be the dumbest decision he’s ever made.

“How’s your money saving going?” Anthrax sounds skeptical as he slips his dress coat off his shoulders and shoves it into the hands of the butler at the door. 

“It’s none of your business,” Angel says, looking away from the Overlord Killer and clutching his purse tighter.

“Technically, it is my business, and you’ve still got a long way to go before you reach $850 K. Good luck, chiquito!” Anthrax waves goodbye before heading towards the bar. 

“Would you like me to get that for you?” The same butler who took Anthrax’s coat offers to take Angel’s purse.

“I’d like to get the fuck away from me,” Angel says with a curtsy, leaving the butler speechless while he wanders off in search of a place to sit. 

He knows almost everyone here. It’s always the usual faces—just about every Overlord who wasn’t murdered seven years ago, some uppity private business-owners and CEOs, Goetias, mafia bosses, famous singers like Verosika, who stands before a crowd of music producers with her arm linked with Velvette, and a ton of other celebrities who look like they too have been dragged here by the owners of their souls. But every single guest gets off their high horse just long enough to muster as polite a smile as they can show, talk to people, share a drink, snort a line, and forget about the stresses of being at the top. That’s what this Gala is all about anyway. 

“Angel!” Alastor calls. He appears out of nowhere, pushing past a crowd of well-dressed Cannibals to meet up with Angel. “How nice to see you.” The amiability in his voice is feigned, and if it weren’t impossible for him to frown, his smile would be too.

“I’ve never seen you at these events. Didn’t think you’d be the type,” Angel says.

“I’m not a fan of Galas such as this, but Rosie—” He gestures to her, and she gives an eager wave from the crowd of Cannibals. “—has convinced me to start getting out of my shell.”

“Good for you,” Angel says half-heartedly. “Did you bring anyone with you?”

“Why? Are you looking for someone?” 

Angel starts to reply, but the malice in Alastor’s tone causes him to think otherwise. He shuts his mouth and shakes his head. 

“I’ll take you to Valentino if you’re really that desperate.” Alastor reaches up and puts a hand on Angel’s shoulder.

His hand is as deathly cold as a corpse’s. Instinctively, Angel jerks away. Getting touched at these events isn’t uncommon, but Alastor’s presence and his sudden desire to sew as much havoc into Angel’s life as possible is new. 

“No thanks,” Angel says, watching Alastor’s eyes narrow in confusion. “I’ll find him myself.”

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” Alastor asks, offering his hand.

Angel shakes his head. This is how all of the stories about Alastor’s deal-making go. Someone asks him for help, and before they know it, they’re trapped under his hand forever. Angel walks away from Alastor. While it’s not the brightest decision to turn his back on a cannibalistic psychopath, flight is better than freeze. He hopes he hasn’t made complete enemies with Alastor. They still live together, eat breakfast together, and occasionally have a drink at the bar together. He’d rather not return to the hotel with an enemy and a target on his back.

Angel stops by the bar. He doesn’t care whether Valentino will be there or not. All he needs is the strongest drink offered to put him out of his misery for the rest of tonight. 

“I’ll take the hardest shit you got,” Angel says, nearly collapsing on one of the barstools. 

“Drinking to forget kinda night?”A smooth baritone voice inquires.

Angel looks up from his hands, eyes wide. “Husk?” 

Husk chuckles. “How’s it hanging, Legs?” He pulls a Margarita glass off the shelf and prepares Angel’s usual order at the hotel bar.

“It’s awful,” Angel says, 

“Tell me about it. Just finished an order for your bodyguard over there.” Husk points behind Angel at Anthrax, who whispers something into Valentino’s ear, holding a wine glass between his fingers. Valentino nods, and the two stand up and walk away from the party. “So…do you have it?”

Angel nods. “You?”

“Yep,” Husk says. “Well…” He surveys the room with a nervous expression. “Sorta.”

“What do you mean sorta?” 

“I can’t tell you out here. Don’t know when that bastard’ll be back.”

“I ran into him earlier.” Angel taps his freshly manicured nails on the surface of the bar, which doubles as a miniature aquarium. A giant lobster stalks the sandy ground under the water. “I’m afraid he and Anthrax are onto us.”

“I’ll throw him off,” Husk says, handing Angel the Margarita. “Don’t worry.”

Angel nods and takes a sip from the glass. The sweet sugar running around the rim of his glass touches his lips. It’s a request that’s easier said than done.

An insect-like demon takes Husk’s place at the bar while Husk and Angel walk off, avoiding the pestering reporters desperate for the next scandalous couple to put on the cover of a magazine. Past the party and the massive liquor cabinets in the back of the ballroom are a set of private rooms. It isn’t until the reverberating thrum of music, clinking of glasses, and powerful concoction of colognes, perfumes, champagnes, and cigars dissipates into peace and quiet that Husk and Angel finally let their guard down.

“Alastor’s holding over half of the money I made in Cannibal Town,” Husk says.

“How much did you make?” Angel says. He realizes that he underestimated the gravity of Alastor being wary of their fund.

Husk hesitates before admitting, “Something around $5,000. But I’ll get the rest of it after tonight!” Even Husk sounds a little unsure of himself while saying that.

“Do you know how much we have now?”

“Haven’t counted yet. You’d be surprised at how little alone time I get.”

Angel laughs. He feels the same way, especially now that he’s covering for the missed week of filming. Although Clitorissa hasn’t shown up late again, Angel still tries to find ways to get Valentino to double his paycheck. 

“Well, that’s what tonight is all about,” Angel says. 

[Angel]

Money makes the world go around

The world go around

The world go around

Money makes the world go around

It makes the world go ‘round

A mark, a yen, a buck or a pound

A buck or a pound

A buck or a pound

Is all that makes the world go around

That clinking clanking sound

Can make the world go ‘round

Money, money, money, money

Money, money, money, money

Money, money, money, money, money, money

Money, money, money, money, money, money

If you happen to be rich

And you feel like a night’s entertainment

You can pay for a gay escapade

If you happen to be rich and alone

And you need a companion

You can ring “ting-a-ling” for the maid

If you happen to be rich 

And you find you are left by your lover

Though you moan and you groan quite a lot

You can take it on the chin

Call a cab and begin to recover

On your 14-karat yacht

Money makes the world go around

The world go around

The world go around

Money makes the world go around

Of that we can be sure

On being poor

Money, money, money, money

Money, money, money, money

Money, money, money, money, money, money

Money, money, money, money, money, money

Money, money, money, money

Money, money, money, money

Money, money, money, money

Money, money, money, money

Money, money, money, money, money, money

Money, money, money, money, money, money

When you haven’t any coal in the stove

And you freeze in the winter

And you curse to the wind at your fate

When you haven’t any shoes on your feet

Your coat’s thin as paper

And you look 30 pounds underweight

When you go to get a word of advice 

From the fat little pastor

He will tell you to love evermore

But when hunger comes to rap

Rat-a-tat rat-a-tat at the window

At the window

Who’s there?

Hunger!

Ooh hunger!

See how love flies out the door for

Money makes the world

Go around

The world

Go around

The world

Go around

Money makes the 

Go around

The clinking, clanking sound of 

Money, money, money, money

Money, money, money, money

Get a little, get a little

Money, money, money, money

Mark, a yen, a buck, or a pound

That clinking, clanking, clunking sound

Is all that makes the world go ‘round

Money! 

It makes the world go ‘round!

The two continue towards the end of the hall, chatting about anything besides their afflictions. Even though not a lot of good has come out of the day, they still find minor events to celebrate, like seeing each other. 

Angel can’t deny that Husk looks stunning in a suit, and according to him, he used to dress like this all the time when he was an Overlord. Angel wishes he’d actually bothered to make conversation with Husk when he was an Overlord and attending these parties. He recalls one year, a Gala taking place at a casino in Husk’s domain. He’d watched from afar as Husk took on Overlord after Overlord in poker. It was the most addictive sight, Husk winning against experienced gamblers who had all been dumb enough to think to go against the Gambling Overlord and win. Angel smiles as the feeling of euphoria from seeing Husk win returns to him now, a dearly missed high.

The two move into a bedroom at the end of the hall, sit on the floor, and count all of the money they’ve collected so far. Anthrax’s voice echoes in Angel’s head as he sprawls out a bunch of hundreds. By the time they’ve finished counting, Anthrax proves to be correct. There’s a little over half of $850,000 sitting in front of them.

“Motherfucker…” Angel grumbles. He tries to remember if he’s left any money in his dressing room or perhaps there’s still some at the hotel.

“It’s not all bad,” Husk reassures him, pulling a flask of liquor out of his jacket pocket. He and Angel pass the flask between each other to comfort themselves, think clearly, and restart. 

“How?”

“A majority of this cash came from the work we did in less than a week. Give it a few more days, and we’ll kill your boss. Or maybe we’ll get lucky, and the Overlord Killer will strike the Vees next.”

“That’s not happening,” Angel says with a sigh. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s banging both Valentino and Vox.”

“That won’t stop him,” Husk says. “He’s vicious.” 

“What happened between him and Alastor?”

Husk shrugs. He gives Angel the flask. 

“Dunno. All I remember is giving him the money and having him return in two days, looking like he just escaped a bullfight. All he said was that he just couldn’t do it.”

“What about Alastor?” He hands Husk the flask. “What’d he look like?”

“Worse,” Husk remarks with a deep laugh. “He didn’t show up for the next ten Overlord meetings, and when we finally saw him again, he still looked rough.” 

Angel sighs. While Husk finds humor in besting Alastor even for a moment, Angel can’t help but worry for Husk’s soul. 

“I’ll be fine, Angel,” Husk says. “I can handle Alastor. I’m more worried about you.”

“He hasn’t beaten me up in days,” Angel says, touching a hand to his face where he usually finds bruises in the mirror. “Ain’t that weird? I still want to get away from him, but I can’t help but feel bad.” 

“For what?” Husk’s eyes widen in surprise.

“I’m fucking up his marriage. He and Vox aren’t getting along, and it’s all my fault.”

“Those two were beating each others’ asses since the day they put a ring on each other,” Husk says, capping the liquor flask. He reaches out to put his hand on Angel’s shaking leg, steadying it. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Angel nods. He stares so hard at Husk’s hand resting on his upper thigh that his vision blurs.

“Oh, sorry…” Husk retracts his hand. He blushes.

“No, keep it there,” Angel takes both of Husk’s hands. “I like it. I like you.” 

This is the first time Angel has said these words and meant it. He’s not reading off a script, improving some cringy lines to a mediocre porno. This comes from the depths of his soul, a plea to never be left alone.

“I like you, too,” Husk replies. His hands shift upwards from Angel’s legs to cup around his face. “Can I kiss you?”

“Please,” Angel whispers. 

He can’t tell who kissed first. The moment is quick. Their faces are inches away from each other; Angel blinks; then, their lips are together. Angel tastes the faint tang of the tequila from the flask on Husk’s tongue. He pulls Husk closer, kisses him harder. This could cost them their lives if they’re discovered, but the feeling is so perfect that the consequences pale in comparison to the now. Now is the closest Angel believes he will ever get to Heaven.

They pull away, stopping to take several deep breaths, to think, to restart. There’s no going back now, no way to reset their relationship like a computer. They can’t leave this room as the same people who walked inside of it, and they’re perfectly fine with it.

“No one hears about this, right?” Angel says. 

“Right,” Husk says. 

Both are smiling. They collect the money and stash it in Angel’s purse, all while laughing as the high from the kiss fades away. Angel wonders why, after all these years, he’s been chasing after the best drug, the best pill, the best drink, when this feeling—leaving the room with Husk’s arm linked around his—is better than anything he’s ever had.

And then it isn’t…

Angel’s heart sinks as the all-too-familiar, all-too-horrible stench of burning cherry cuts through the halls. He and Husk share a look of worry and stand apart from each other. 

“What if he sees us together?” Angel whispers.

“Just play it cool. Don’t act like we know we’re not supposed to be here. Everything is normal, but he does try something…” Husk pulls out a set of cards bordered in steel. Flecks of golden blood still stain the edges. 

Angel tries to act normal as he and Husk continue down the hall, looking everywhere except at each other. Maintaining a sense of obliviousness becomes close to impossible when they find Valentino standing in the hall and moaning, hands gripping a lock of Anthrax’s hair while the latter kneels on the ground, sucking his cock.

Angel already assumed the rumors were true, but seeing it in front of him still makes him look away. 

Valentino looks up from Anthrax. His eyes widen in shock. “Anthrax, stop!”  He exclaims. 

Anthrax pulls his mouth off Valentino’s dick and clambers to his feet. The two rush to fix their appearances, but it’s too late. The damage has been done, and Angel will never be able to get that image out of his head.

“What are you doing with him?” Valentino asks, gesturing to Husk.

“What are you doing with him?” Angel retorts, gesturing to Anthrax. “Husk and I are friends.”

“Anthrax and I are also friends.”

Angel nods. He doesn’t believe Valentino for a second. “Really close friends,” He says, narrowing his eyes on Anthrax’s.

Anthrax blushes in humiliation. “I—uh—I should go.” 

“No one hears about this, understand?” Valentino says.

“Well, you’ll have to pay me off to keep a secret about this,” Husk says before Angel can agree with Valentino’s request. “Let’s say…$20,000?”

“$20,000?!” Valentino screams. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I don’t think your husband would be too happy to hear about this.” 

“Just give him the fucking money,” Anthrax whispers, covering his face with his hands. 

“You’ll have it by tomorrow. I’ll tell Angel to bring it to you. If word of this gets out, I’ll skin you alive and hang your hide on my wall.”

Husk nods. 

“Angel, we’re leaving,” Valentino says, seizing Angel’s arm and pulling him down the hall.

“What about me?!” Anthrax calls.

“You can walk home!” Valentino shouts.

Chapter Text

Angel had done nothing wrong. He wasn’t the one who was cheating and got caught doing it, yet Valentino fucks him in the bed that he and Vox are supposed to share like everything is Angel’s fault. Angel can smell traces of Anthrax’s perfume on the pillow. The smell isn’t awful, but the representation of its presence is. Angel knows how replaceable he is, not in his line of work but in the sheets. The perfume on the pillow and Valentino’s body and the glimpse of Anthrax’s heels in the corner of the room are already signs that Valentino is moving on or trying to up until he dragged Angel out of the party, kissed him in the car all the way back to the V Tower, and fucked him until the rage left his system. 

Angel hates that he’s basically a toy to Valentino, something to throw around, fuck, and break apart. The cycle repeats with no end. Angel is tired of it, but he’s grown to become numb to the pain. He’ll do what he always does after sessions like this: roam the V Tower, find the medicine cabinet, pop a painkiller, then return to bed after Valentino falls asleep. 

When Valentino finishes, he wraps his arms around Angel and pulls him into a hug. Angel says nothing. He just goes along with it and rests his head against Valentino’s chest.

“Angel, have you ever pissed off someone you love?”

Angel never would’ve expected the question to have been targeted to him had Valentino not put his name at the front of it.

“Um…” He’s not used to being vulnerable. Valentino doesn’t deserve to see that side. “Sometimes.” He remembers all those nights he spent arguing with Husk, trying to get into his pants, only to be pushed away. He’s glad that they’ve moved past that. “Why do you ask?”

He assumes this has something to do with Vox.

“Just curious,” Valentino says, combing his hands through Angel’s hair. “How do you make it up to them?”

Don’t cheat on them with the Overlord Killer, Angel wants to say. Stop having sex with me is also another really nice response.

Instead, Angel replies, “Apologize.” He cringes. He sounds exactly like Charlie. Valentino can see that and laughs emotionlessly.

“That hotel has really fucked you up.”

“Yeah, I know,” Angel says, smiling all the while. He doesn’t see that as such a bad thing anymore. 

Angel does his best to stay up even though his eyes have shut a couple of times. He stares out the window to keep himself awake, watches the Pentagram glow in the crimson light of the single celestial body in Hell’s sky that functions as both a sun and a moon. He’s always wondered what it’s like to see the stars again, if they’ve changed in any way, if they’ve grown more beautiful. 

Growing up in New York, stars were rare. He was lucky enough to have relatives in the West whose days weren’t tainted by cloudy, polluted skies and who actually got to look up at a galaxy every night. Supposedly, Heaven has nights like those. 

Valentino squeaks when he sleeps, and it’s the sound of a couple of those involuntary high-pitched buzzes that tells Angel that the gig is up, and he can’t leave. For the past forty years, he’s been perfecting his ability to sneak out of the room without waking up Valentino.

The halls of the V Tower, without vibrant neon lights to illuminate the way to every corridor, are creepier than one expects. Although Angel has wandered through these passageways more times than he can count, he still gets lost every once and a while. It feels like every wall, door, and hall twists into a new configuration every time he traverses the tower on his own. In the dark, it’s even more of a struggle.

Angel jumps at the sound of the door clicking behind him. He whips his head around, expecting to see Valentino or one of the other Vees (not that they’re any better), but to his luck and extreme surprise, it’s just Verosika, sneaking out of Velvette’s room and shutting the door behind her.

“Angel Dust, right?” She says.

He nods. He can’t tell which is more surprising, the fact that he’s talking to the Verosika Mayday or the fact that she’s hooking up with a Vee.

“Want to walk with me?”

“Sure.” He wonders if she knows where she’s going better than he does and follows her down the hall. 

“I saw you at the Gala tonight. Well, I see you at the Gala every year.”

“Me too. You know, I’ve always wanted to talk to you, but my boss is a—” He glances up at a VoxTek security camera. “—pain in the ass,” He says in a low voice.

Verosika laughs. “I know what that’s like. How long have you worked with him?”

“Forty years,” Angel says. He sighs tiredly. He longs for sleep. He longs for a break. He longs to go back to the hotel and be with Husk again. Tonight was a lot. Is a lot. 

“Not many people can put up with Overlords for that long. I’d offer my congratulations, but I haven’t heard many good things about him—Valentino.”

“He’s…” He’s a lot of things that Angel can’t fit into this brief interaction. If he tried, they’d be here until dawn, and Angel still wouldn’t be finished. “He’s a struggle.” 

Angel despises that he has to summarize all the torturous days Valentino has put him through into a single word. “Struggle” doesn’t even break the ice, but it’s enough for Verosika to nod, an apprehensive look on her face. She says nothing, but it’s clear what’s going through her mind. It’s the same expression that everyone wears when they see Angel return from work with bruises on his face, looking like he got into a fight with someone on the street. He’d much rather have that happen to him than tell people the truth, but he feels like he can trust Verosika.

“Have you tried escaping?” She asks.

“Yeah. I’m trying to escape right now.” 

“Maybe the Overlord Killer will kill him or something,” Verosika says as they reach the elevator.

“Probably not,” Angel says under his breath.

“It was nice talking to you, Angel. Hopefully, I’ll see you more than just once a year?”

Angel nods and smiles. If she continues seeing Velvette, that might just happen. He waves to her as the elevator doors glide shut in front of her, and the machine descends to the lower floors. Angel turns back around, now even more clueless about his whereabouts than before. Getting the painkillers is at the back of his mind, and he just wants to find his way back to the room.

While strolling through the dark, humming a song he performed yesterday afternoon, a sudden splashing sound jolts him out of his reverie. He looks up and finds that he’s looking at electric blue lights outlining an indoor pool rather than the pink tones of Valentino’s side of the Tower. He groans exasperatedly. Thoughts of Vox have plagued his evening enough times, and he doesn’t want to ruin the night any further by catching a glimpse of the TV Overlord. He starts to turn around and retrace his steps when an abrupt moan causes his head to shoot up.

He peers through one of the glass doors, squinting to better make out the outline of two silhouettes standing in the pool while sharks swim around them in the clear, teal, crystalline water. Angel’s breath hitches on an inhale; he covers his hand with his mouth. He feels that even the sound of his breathing is too loud. Vox and Anthrax are the figures in the pool, kissing passionately. Anthrax’s hand is stuffed into Vox’s pants and jerking back and forth.

Angel feels nothing for Vox and nothing for Valentino. The two have brought him enough suffering that he feels that their torment now is well-deserved. 

Karma is a bitch, he thinks, taking out his phone and snapping a couple of images of the spectacle. If Vox ever tries to threaten him, he’ll show Valentino these images in retaliation, then the world. 

He leaves the two to their exploits. If someone else walks in on them, that’ll be no one’s fault for their own. He clutches his phone tightly, hoping for the day he can get back at the Vees with some blackmail of his own.

Chapter Text

Vox stands in the middle of his indoor pool in silence. He brushes his hands over the rough skin of a bull shark that swims past his hip. He’s raised the two sharks that live here since they were babies. If the Vees didn’t exist, his sharks would be the closest thing he has to a family, with his bull sharks upstairs in the pool and a horde of hammerheads and great whites in the aquarium in his office downstairs. Vox ponders what life would be like without Valentino and Velvette. 

Certainly, he wouldn’t be at the top now with his name and face plastered throughout his growing District. Both bring their own benefits. Valentino’s media racks up most of the money. His charisma wins the hearts of all kinds of employees—Sinners, Imps, Succubi, and Incubbi alike, but his temper is a dangerous thing. He’s wonderful to be around at first, but get to know him, and he’s a pain in the ass. When Velvette isn’t running her fashion empire, she serves as head of advertising. Without her, Vox and Valentino’s industries wouldn’t be half as impactful as they are now. In Vox’s opinion, she’s the best addition to the team. Even though she’s got too much attitude for her own good, he would choose her over Valentino any day. 

Remorse clouds his senses after he snaps out of his daydream. He used to fidget with his wedding ring all the time, but when he reaches to touch his ring finger, he reminds himself that he doesn’t know where the piece of jewelry (for that’s all it ever is; nothing more than a circle of metal) is. 

[Vox]

Spend some time away

Getting ready for the day you’re born again

Spend some time alone

Understand that soon you’ll run with better men

Alone again

Alone again

Alone again

Alone again

Alone

No use looking out

It’s within that brings that lonely feeling

Understand that when you leave here

You’ll be clear

Among the better men

Alone again

Alone again

Alone again

Alone again

Alone

Alone again

Alone again

Alone again

Alone

“Can’t sleep?” Anthrax asks.

Vox turns around so fast he nearly cuts the face of the bull shark he’s petting.

“What the fuck?” He wheezes, clutching his chest. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“I just got here,” Anthrax explains. He takes off his jacket and lazily flings it onto the diving board. “Valentino made me walk home.” He sounds annoyed as he paces the pool, keeping a cautious eye on the largest of the bull sharks as if he expects it to jump out of the pool and attack him.

Vox believes that Anthrax deserves it—to get mauled to death by sharks…and left behind at the Gala—but keeps his opinions to himself. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m bored.”

“You sound like Val,” Vox says, stroking his hand over a shark’s dorsal fin.

Anthrax’s eyes narrow in indignation. Vox doesn’t take his words back. It’s the most honest he’ll get.

“Aren’t you afraid that they’re going to attack you? Your sharks.”

“I raised these two. They’d never hurt me,” Vox says. 

Anthrax raises an eyebrow. 

“You want to pet them?” 

Anthrax’s confidence disappears all at once. “You want me to do what? Pet them? I…” He backs away to the door. Vox grins, glad he’s finally been able to disturb Anthrax with something. “I’m good.”

“Come here,” Vox says, extending his hand to Anthrax. He reduces the electricity in his fingers so that he doesn’t electrocute Anthrax when he enters the pool.

Anthrax is reluctant but takes Vox’s hand regardless, accepting the offer and slowly walking out to the center of the pool where Vox stands. His muscles tighten when one of the sharks bumps into his leg. Vox can feel him squeezing his hands. 

“Afraid of sharks?” Vox inquires, stroking his thumb over the back of Anthrax’s hand to encourage him to relax. Anthrax remains tense while he glares at Vox. “They’re such misunderstood creatures, you know. Everyone sees them as monsters, but in reality, the chances of you getting ripped apart by one are very low.”

Anthrax takes a deep breath when the shark swims past him. His hands release around Vox’s, but he doesn’t let go. “Are you implying something?”

Vox cocks his head to the side. He struggles to align his description with Anthrax at first, but the longer he stares at him, his thick, wavy two-toned hair, which seems to be getting whiter after killing Overlords, and his tranquil gaze cast by his sangria red eyes, the more he realizes how much he’s underestimated Anthrax’s beauty when he’s not brutally slaughtering someone. Vox hums in surprise. He never knew that Anthrax’s eyes had a color until now.

“What’s wrong with your hair?” Vox asks.

“Why do you need to know?”

“Because I’m still pissed off with you about the Zestial thing. Give me a good reason not to kill him.”

“It’s the same reason why I can’t kill you,” Anthrax says. “You’re too powerful.”

The reply catches Vox off guard, and his confused facial expressions say it all. Anthrax elaborates after giving him an eye roll.

“Absorbing magic takes its toll on people, but I wouldn’t expect you to know jackshit about that. Anyways, I can’t take yours or Zestial's or Alastor’s magic because if I did it all, it would kill me. Is that a good enough reason for you?” 

“Huh…” is all Vox can whisper, still recovering from the answer. 

“You know what that means, right?” Anthrax asks, tugging on Vox’s tie. “You’re too powerful for my own good,” He whispers. 

Vox feels his cock harden again even before Anthrax transforms into Alastor. Anthrax licks his tongue over Alastor’s winning golden smile. 

“Why do you do that?” Vox asks, avoiding Anthrax’s—no, Alasor’s eyes. 

“Why do you look away from me?”

Vox still hasn’t adjusted to this abomination. He doubts that he ever will, and he’s humiliated that the two things in life that unsettle him the most have combined. Two Overlord Killers. What can be worse than this?

“This is so weird,” Vox mutters. 

“What’s weird?” Anthrax giggles. Either he’s pretending to be oblivious or is genuinely unaware of how much he’s disturbing Vox. 

“Everything about this.” Vox gestures to Anthrax’s—Alastor’s—entire being. “I haven’t touched Alastor in seven years. It’s uncomfortable.” He tugs his hands away from Alastor and folds his arms. 

“Were you close? I mean, it’s radio and video. Why not make a partnership together if you like him so much?” Alastor adjusts his monocle as though this is his first time realizing that he has it. 

“I tried,” Vox admits. A shark swims up to his hand and nudges its stubby snout against his palm. Alastor frowns and backs away from the shark, only to bump into the other sea predator swishing its tail behind him. “I was such an idiot.”

The idea was supposed to be flawless. At the end of the day, the Vees were supposed to come out on top with a new ally. They’d be the AVs, a never-before-seen unstoppable quartet of Overlords who ruled almost every aspect of media with an iron fist. Then Alastor refused. Vox’s dream came crashing down. He and Alastor had never fought until that fateful day. 

Vox sighs. He feels nothing but regret and anger, and not just towards Alastor but towards himself. “I know that everyone blames you for what happened seven years ago, but…” Alastor looks up. His frightened gaze softens into a look of innocent surprise like a doe. “…part of that was my fault, too. So...you're not the only fuck-up.”

Alastor frowns. The lack of a grin on his face feels just as improper as Anthrax’s voice in the Radio Demon’s body. He shifts back into Anthrax. 

“Thank you,” Anthrax whispers, so concentrated on Vox that he ignores the sharks circling them.

Vox sighs shakily. His heart hammers in his chest. He’s never been this close to Anthrax, never realized how gorgeous he looks up close. His gaze shifts down to Anthrax’s mouth. He desperately wants to kiss him. 

Anthrax doesn’t speak, doesn’t whisper, doesn’t breathe. He just grabs Vox and pulls his mouth onto his. 

Hell yes! Vox begs on the inside, hands locking around Anthrax’s hips. He kisses him as though he’s been waiting for this, praying to a deity he doesn’t believe in for this moment all this time. The water splashes underneath them as Vox rams Anthrax against the side of the pool. They moan into each other’s mouths; their breaths leave their lungs quick, hard, and heavy.

“Do you want me to get that for you?” Anthrax asks, motioning towards the bulge in Vox’s pants.

Vox’s logic overtakes his lust. Their kiss has already taken them too far. Whatever they have, he wants to take each hurdle slowly before he fucks it up just as he did with Valentino and Alastor.

“No, it’s fine,” Vox insists.

Anthrax lifts an eyebrow. His lips curve up into a cocky smile. He brushes his hand alongside the length of Vox’s cock. Vox shudders. He’s close enough to Anthrax that he can start rutting against his thigh, and he wants to. So. Fucking. Badly.

Anthrax shoves his hands into Vox’s pants. He thrusts into the softness of Anthrax’s palm, abandoning all forms of reasoning. His erection is painful at this point, and the relief of Anthrax’s hand is heavenly. A moan—loud, pathetic, obscene—leaves his mouth as Anthrax moves his hand up and down along his throbbing cock. His pace quickens. Both of the sharks whip their head around, triggered by all of the splashing and the rigor with which Anthrax jerks his hand. Vox grabs a fistful of Anthrax’s hair to steady himself and forces him back into another long kiss. His mind shifts between depicting Anthrax in his usual form or as Alastor. 

Anthrax moans a word in Spanish, causing the knot of pleasure and heat to tighten between Vox’s legs when he thinks of Valentino. 

Fuck, he’s so close. 

Vox seizes Anthrax’s wrist as he comes. Panting, he presses Anthrax’s hand against his cock. He doesn’t want that feeling—flesh against flesh—to escape him. He doesn’t know when he’ll get it again. He craves it every day, but he can't get it from anyone in the workplace. Velvette wouldn't dare. Valentino’s busy with Angel, and none of his employees are any good. Vox has gone through every single one of them—Angel included. He doesn’t see the appeal. This is the best he’s ever felt. It’s a high he chases like one of the homeless drug addicts he drives by. 

“Tomorrow I’ll go with you to kill the Overlord of Theater.” A gesture like this deserves a reward, and apart from money, this is the best thing Vox can think to give Anthrax. 

“Just you?” Anthrax asks. He doesn’t sound worried, but desperate. 

“Yes. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.” One of the sharks swims between the two. Becoming frightened again, Anthrax slips his hand out of Vox’s pants and backs away from the giant fish. 

From this interaction, Vox learns two things. One, the Overlord Killer is afraid of sharks. Two, he’s as obsessed with the Overlord Killer as he is with the Radio Demon.

Chapter Text

Angel can’t sleep. He just stares up at the ceiling, a tumult of thoughts stirring in his mind about last night, all the way until his alarm goes off, signifying a new start to a hopefully better day. He checks his phone. The first thing he’s greeted with is the sight of those pictures he took yesterday by the indoor pool. He hasn't looked at them since he walked back to the hotel from the V Tower.

Sex has been his way of life for years. Having seen it all—participated in all of the kinks, tried all of the positions, heard all of the dirty talk, there’s almost nothing that can fluster him. Still, looking at those pictures again doesn’t sit well with him. He sets his phone face down and goes to invest all of his love and affection towards Fat Nuggets, whom he brings downstairs with him after getting dressed.

The hotel’s atmosphere is hard to describe. Everyone is concentrating hard on different tasks. Vaggie fixes Charlie’s bow-tie while she tries on an old pink suit; Niffty sits at the bar, swinging her little legs while chugging a glass of sparkling water; Lucifer, who hasn’t shown much enthusiasm in days, carries plates of pancakes from the kitchen to her dining room. The best word he can use regarding everyone’s energies is dead. There’s no emotion, no soul, no desire. Actions are carried out as though they’re instructions from a manual, a repetitive task without meaning.

Angel slips past the other hotel guests without being greeted or questioned about how he slept or what he wants for breakfast. He arrives at the bar with all kinds of questions for Husk on his tongue.

He can’t take last night’s kiss out of his head. As much as he yearns for another one, he wants to know if Husk has been thinking about it in the same way.

“Hey,” Angel says. 

“Hey.” Husk passes him a cup of coffee. He appears just as emotionless as the others.

“Are you okay?” Angel blows on the cup to cool the burning coffee inside it. 

“I don’t think anyone is.” He casually refills Niffty’s glass while fixing himself a cup of coffee. “Princess is going to the V Tower today.”

Angel’s heart leaps into his throat. “What?” He croaks, breath trembling. Memories of seeing Charlie’s sunshine face in the torture chamber that is Valentino’s sex dungeon flood his mind. 

“She’s accepted Katie Killjoy’s offer to be interviewed on the Steampunk Overlord’s death.”

Angel doesn’t feel any better about this. “I thought they’d let that go by now.”

“Royals aren’t supposed to interfere with Overlords. That’s been the rule for centuries. This threw a lot of people off.”

“It was an accident!” That’s what Angel heard from Charlie and Lucifer, at least. He knows Charlie wouldn’t kill an Overlord for the fun of it, for sport, to see how far she could push the limits of the humanity she never had. 

“Yeah, well, nobody believes that.” Husk rubs his temples. The lack of sleep is apparent from the exhausted look on his face. “Niff, would you mind checking on Alastor?”

She stands up, salutes, and hops off the barstool. With her trusty needle tucked in her hand, she runs off to meet up with Alastor right as he leaves the kitchen, coat draped over his arm, ears pulled back, weariness and annoyance tainting his red eyes.

“We need to talk,” Husk says, tapping his claws on the bar table.

“Yeah,” Angel says, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“Can we go to my room?” 

Angel nods. He checks the time on his phone. He’s got enough time in between work to take a quick detour. Angel follows Husk to his bedroom. The only one who bats an eye is Alastor, who doesn’t interfere but glares at them all the way up until they’re out of his sight. Angel shivers as the sound of radio static echoes in his head, even though he and Husk are a long way past the foyer. His anxiety heightens. He’s eager for the warm comfort of Husk’s bedroom. There, he can relax in the faint ashy smell given off by the fireplace in the corner. Blackened blocks of wood sit beyond the iron fireplace screen. 

It’s quiet in here, but a good kind of quiet. Angel inhales and exhales in the tranquility of the room as soon as Husk shuts the door and locks it. He sits on the edge of the bed; Husk takes a seat beside him.

[Angel]

All along, it was a fever

A cold sweat, hot-headed believer

I threw my hands in the air and said, “Show me something”

He said, “If you dare, come a little closer”

‘Round and around and around and around we go

Oh, now tell me now, tell me know, tell me know you know

Not really sure how to feel about it

Something in the way you move

Makes me feel like I can’t live without you

It takes me all the way

I want you to stay

[Husk]

It’s not much of a life you’re living

It’s not just something you take, it’s given

Round and around and around and around we go

Oh, now tell me know, tell me now, tell me know you know

Not really sure how to feel about it

Something in the way you move

Makes me feel like I can’t live without you

It takes me all the way

And I want you to stay

[Angel]

Ooh, the reason I hold on

Ooh, ‘cause I need this hole gone

[Angel, Husk]

Funny, you’re the broken one

But I’m the only one who needed saving

‘Cause when you never see the light

It’s hard to know which one of us is caving

Not really sure how to feel about it

Something in the way you move

Makes me feel like I can’t live without you

It takes me all the way

I want you to stay

Stay

I want you to stay

Ooh

Husk holds Angel’s face tenderly. A hopeful smile shines through his weary, hardened exterior. He sighs, speechless but proud.

“You never fail to amaze me.” 

Angel smiles. He relaxes, leaning his face into Husk’s paw. 

He kisses him the way he did last night—soft, sweet, wanting. He kisses him like he deserves it, and for the first time, Angel believes that he does deserve it. His worries about the future, his doubts about his freedoms, the anxieties that hide under his bed and creep out whenever he tries to sleep like childhood monsters flutter away. The hatred he feels when he looks in the mirror, picks at the freckles dotting his skin like pink sequins, sees himself on film, withers as Husk whispers that he’s beautiful, that he loves him. Angel laughs to himself in between kisses. A mix of shock and joy clouds his senses. He hasn’t even put on makeup yet.

But their lips have to part. Angel is running out of time, and he’d rather not be in Clitorissa’s position.

“Let me take you out,” Husk says. “We won’t have to worry about money or Overlords. We’ll find someplace private and…”

Angel blushes. He wants this; he needs this.

“Tonight?” Angel gasps, fingers intertwined with Husk’s.

“Tonight.” 

It’s a date, and it’ll be a damn good one, Angel guarantees it. 

He can’t think straight, can’t hold his mascara bottle to his lashes without shaking, can’t brush his hair. He fantasizes about how tonight is going to play out, about how someone finally loves him. He is both in love with and embarrassed by the feeling, that feeling when he can’t stop smiling, when he can’t stop smiling after looking at Husk, and has to cover his mouth while Charlie rambles about the injustices of the world.

She joins him on the walk to the tower, speaking with determination. Angel hasn’t heard half of what she’s said. He isn’t sure if she’s talking to him or herself, but is too lost in his own thoughts to confirm an option.

“That’s a good idea, right, Angel?” Charlie says.

“Uh…sure,” Angel agrees.

“Are you okay?” Her eyebrows furrow as she concentrates on his face. “You seem a little off. I mean, I know your boss is an asshole, so I’m not too surprised, and…” She starts on a new tangent about how she wishes she could break tradition one more time and destroy Angel’s contract. 

Angel turns away from her. He’d rather not fill his mind with “what ifs” with negative outcomes. His morning already has a fantastic start, and seeing Charlie’s all-too-eager face in the V Tower feels like a worse enough call back down to the awful life he’s living.

“I’ll probably be done with my interview before you finish work,” Charlie explains. Vox’s assistant, Ethan, waits for her to finish her conversation to lead her away. “I’ll see you back at the hotel!” She squeals, giving Angel a rib-crushing hug before she skips off to join Ethan. 

Judging by the reactions of all of the hotel guests to Charlie’s decision to accept the interview, Angel knows that there’s no stopping her. He can only hope that she keeps her cool in front of Katie Killjoy, a woman known for driving even the most placid Sinners insane with rage, lest the reputation of the royal family grow even more tarnished.

Chapter Text

Unlike the hotel, the Studios are just as lively as they normally are. With Travis still handicapped, Valentino gives most of the orders to the camera crew, who frantically plug their cameras and the light board into already overcrowded wall outlets, creating the same tripping hazards that caused the fire months ago. Angel scoffs when an employee flinches away from an extension cord that gives off a violent white spark. Valentino, who already looks to be irked by something besides the tripping hazards in his studios, screams at the employee and threatens to fire them until he sees Angel. A smile creeps onto his face.

“Angel, baby…” He leaves the camera crew to their adventures in trying not to electrocute themselves. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about last night. You haven’t—er—told anyone, right?” His voice grows sinister at the last word. 

Two things happened last night that so far Angel hasn’t mentioned to anyone. He believes that Valentino is discussing the time when he and Husk walked in on him and Anthrax in the hall.

“You mean the blow job?”

Valentino grits his teeth. “Shut your fucking mouth!” 

“No one knows,” Angel says.

“Good. The money for your cat friend is on top of your dresser. $20,000.” Valentino grumbles in Spanish. “What does he plan on doing with that kind of money? Screwing you?”

“I dunno.” Angel pretends like he has no idea what Valentino is talking about, that this cat he speaks of and the money must be a figment of Valentino’s imagination, a result of smoking too much in the morning.

He wonders if Valentino has more stacks of cash either on him or in his office. He plans to check later, biting his lip to hide a smirk.

“Fortunately for you, work is easy today. You’re mainly here because Velvette’s going to take your sizes for the concert in a few days.”

Angel nods. He likes the sound of that—not Velvette measuring him and making comments about his lack of an ass—but having to put in less effort for work. 

“And if you see Anthrax, tell him to come to me first.” 

“Yes, sir.” Angel walks away, feeling lighter. That conversation hadn’t been the worst thing in the world, which is rare for most interactions with Valentino. Instead of going straight to his dressing room, however, Angel continues down the hall until he reaches Valentino’s office.

Valentino seems distracted, another infrequent occurrence, but Angel never fails to take advantage of it. Forty years working for Valentino has taught him more skills than patience, and how to know what gets people off. Above all, he learned about stealth, being able to walk past unsuspecting eyes, and talk his way out of a beating (sometimes). He sneaks into Valentino’s office without being interrupted and gets to work, searching through his desk for more money.

He gathers as much as he can, shoving it into the hollow space in his chest fluff where he keeps his cat-eye sunglasses, and by the time he’s finished, he’s sure that he’s amassed over $20,000. He’ll count the rest of it later when he has time, but the seconds in the countdown to getting back to his dressing room are ticking away fast. He spares the security camera in the room a glance, affirms that the device hasn’t turned on yet, and starts to leave when the sound of rapid, angry footsteps approaches the door. 

“Fuck!” He whispers. He can hear Valentino and Anthrax arguing on the other side of the door. 

There’s nowhere else to go except behind the desk, and to Angel’s luck and relief, the two are so busy with their fight that they pay attention to nothing else besides each other. Angel covers his mouth with his hand, suppressing the sounds of his breathing as best as he can. Valentino and Anthrax may be loud, but he worries that his exhales will be louder. His racing heart sinks to his stomach, and his churning stomach sinks to his feet. 

He needs to get out of here, but how? 

“I won’t do it!” Anthrax shouts, slamming his fist onto the desk. 

“Fine! I’ll pay you more than. Nine hundred thousand! What do you say to that?!”

“I say, “you can suck it, shove it up your ass, and spin on it”! You need to get through your fucking skull that you can’t pay me to kill Husk!” Anthrax says through his teeth.

Angel gasps. Tears prick his eyes. He tries to drown out the voices of his boss and his bodyguard, but it’s impossible.

“This isn’t your choice to make. I’m worried that Angel is losing his place, forgetting who owns him. I wouldn’t expect you to know fucking shit about the world of Overlords, but everything is a competition! The sooner you eliminate your competition, the easier the game is!”

Anthrax mutters a slew of curses in Spanish, which transitions into another heated argument between the two in Spanish. Valentino says something that vexes Anthrax so much that he gets slapped in the face. The smacking noise sounds hard and painful. Angel flinches. He pulls his legs to his chest. He wants to curl into a ball at the next sound—Anthrax groaning in pain after Valentino hits him back and forces him against the desk.

“Do it again! Hit me!” Anthrax begs, breath heaving. Valentino obeys. “After all, I’m just another Angel Dust to you.” 

Angel’s eyes widen at the mention of his name. He’s used to people talking about him with scorn, but not like this. The envy infecting his voice is primal, violent, guttural.

“That’s what this is about?” Valentino’s voice grows calmer, still irritated, but he’s no longer shouting. He cackles. “You’re jealous of Angel Dust?”

“You left me last night.” Anthrax’s voice is shaky. “You made me walk home.”

“I didn’t want that fucking cat spreading rumors about us. It’s bad enough that people are suspecting me of having an affair. I want him dead, Anthrax. Kill him for me and then…” His tone softens. He holds Anthrax against the desk, gentle but firm. “It’ll just be you and me after we kill all of these Overlords.”

Angel squirms as the sounds of wet kisses, deep moans, and clothes shifting. 

“Tino, stop,” Anthrax whispers. Miraculously, Valentino does. “I have to go. Vox and I are going to kill the Theater Overlord today. Don’t do anything dumb.”

“Remember my offer,” Valentino demands. He gives Anthrax one last kiss before allowing the scorpion demon to leave the room. He grabs a pack of cigarettes from his desk and, cursing under his breath, heads out of the office not long after.

Even after Valentino is gone, Angel is a shaking, crying mess under Valentino’s desk. He doesn’t realize that he’s been crying until he feels a warm tear rolling down his cheek. He takes in a tremulous breath. His organs are still out of order, but he doesn’t want them to replace themselves. He climbs to his feet, dusts his clothes off, and dashes out of the room. 

Anxiety clouds his vision. He needs to get Husk. That’s all he can think about—finding a way back to the hotel to warn Husk that Valentino’s trying to place a hit on him—

Angel collides into Clitorissa, spilling her hot coffee onto her half-buttoned blouse.

“What the fuck, Angel?!” She exclaims, using the napkins in her hand to wipe at the stain on her white shirt. “Watch where you’re going!”

“Sorry,” He says, wiping the tears from his eyes, so she doesn’t start asking questions.

“Are you okay?” Her face twists into a concerned expression.

Too late.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” He says. 

“What’s with the money?” She points at his chest.

He shoves his hand into the crevice, pushing the money out of sight. “It’s nothing. Came from the hotel.”

She cranes her neck to take a peek at the hall Angel just left, at Valentino’s half-open office door. “Thanks a lot for ruining my blouse,” She scoffs, shoving past him. On her way to her dressing room, she continues to scrub away at the brown stain at the front of her shirt.

Angel sighs. He still finds it impossible to breathe. The atmosphere is so suffocating. He tears his bow tie off his neck when he enters his dressing room and takes in a long, needed breath of real air that isn’t tainted with cherry, or smoke, or sex, or sweat.

He knows that he needs to get to Velvette’s section of the tower sometime soon, for she’s also a stickler for punctuality—even more so than Valentino in some cases. 

He wants not just Valentino’s death but Anthrax’s as he wrenches the cash out of his chest and shoves it into the drawer where he keeps all of his other money. It barely fits now. It might be enough now—all $850,000 needed to bring Valentino’s afterlife to a satisfying end once and for all. He hopes it is as he shoves the drawer shut and races outside, thoughts a never-ending maelstrom of the woeful “what ifs” he tried not to remember.

He arrived on Velvette’s floor just in time. He removes his choker, revealing the V branded into his neck, to the scanner just outside her studio. The scanner flashes green, and the electronic frosted glass doors slide open.

Angel’s relationship with Velvette is nowhere near as bad as the other Vees. If he were held at gunpoint and forced to choose between one of the three Overlords, he would pick her. That doesn’t mean she isn’t her own kind of monster.

“I know your size for the most part,” She tells Angel, back turned to him while she unravels a tape measure. “Unless you’ve lost more weight, not that you can lose any less. You’re a fucking stick.”

Angel purses his lips, holding back any complaints about her constantly pestering attitude. 

While she wraps the tape measure around his bust, Angel takes out his phone, intending to text Husk about the crucial information he learned. His heart rate kicks back up when he realizes that he forgot to close out the images of Anthrax and Vox.

“What the fuck is that?” Velvette asks. No, she shouts it, snatching Angel’s phone out of his hands.

Her jaw falls open as she frantically swipes through picture after picture, each one more vulgar than the last. 

“Where the fuck did you get this shit?!” She exclaims. The phone rattles in her small, shaky hands.

She seizes a pair of scissors from a table and holds them to Angel’s throat.

“Yesterday! Last night after the Gala!”

Her eyes continue to narrow on him as though Vox's cheating is somehow his fault.

“Does anyone know about this?” She hissed, pressing the blade harder against Angel’s neck.

He swallows hard. “No.”

“Good.” She hands him the phone. “No one can know, especially not Valentino.”

Angel nods. “I wasn’t planning on telling him!” He lies. 

She believes him. The blade comes away from his neck and rests on the table closest to him, a warning to keep his mouth shut. He doesn’t touch his phone again.

Chapter Text

Charlie surveys the crowded newsroom, index cards tucked tightly in her hands. It feels like she’s never left. In the corner is the smoking sign, the cameras whose lenses are replaced by fiery orange eyeballs, the shadowed wires hanging from the ceiling that she has to duck to avoid, and even a plate of stale donuts covered in a powdered sugar substitute. The stench of cigarettes and freshly printed papers is everywhere and a severe change from the usual charm of her hotel. She hates this place even more and remembers why she never liked it to begin with when Katie Killjoy marches up to her, hands on her wide, bony hips.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the daughter of Hell’s head honcho. Charlotte Morningstar,” She grins and extends her hand to Charlie. “Come for a second round?” 

“I’ve come to speak the truth,” Charlie affirms, refusing Katie Killjoy’s handshake.

She’s not here for pleasantries or to play up to the lying persona that Katie Killjoy wears on camera. She wants the world—her world—to know what happened when she killed Madame Arabella. She’s trying to uplift the image of her family as best as she can. With her father seen as a joke by Hell’s population and her mother still absent (but certainly not dead), it’s up to her to take on their roles.

“Oh, really? We’ll see about that, bitch.” 

From across the room, a member of the camera crew shouts that there are only a few seconds till the start of recording. 

“You’re audience awaits…” Katie Killjoy gestures to the rickety wooden chair she and Tom Trench had pulled up to her table.

Charlie is surprised that the chair doesn’t break in half when she sits on it. The planks nailed together are so rickety that it’s a miracle that the legs haven’t given out. Once settled down, she clears her throat and fixes her hair in the reflection of one of the cameras.

“5…4…3…2…1!” calls a man behind a camera, counting down on his fingers for good measure.

“Welcome back, motherfuckers! You thought we were gone? Well, you bitches thought wrong. As we said before our break, today we have a special guest for you. None other than Princess Charlotte Morningstar—” Charlie cringes at the use of her full name. The addition of her royal title is even more discomforting. “—who has come to give her testimony on the murder of Madame Arabella. Tell us, Charlotte—”

“—Charlie.”

Katie Killjoy grinds her teeth together.  “—What was your opinion of Overlords before meeting the late Madame Arabella?”

“I never interacted with them much. They’re okay. As long as they don’t get involved in my family’s business, it doesn’t bother me.” 

“What about Alastor?” Katie Killjoy taps her cherry red nails on the desk. 

“Wh-what—wh-what about him?” Charlie stammers.

“He stays at your hotel, right? You must have more interactions with Overlords, such as the big bad Radio Demon, than we thought, hm?”

“Uh…” Charlie looks around at the cameras. There is no Vaggie to give her a reassuring thumbs-up and encourage her to keep going, that everything is fine. “I’m fine with Alastor. He’s not a problem. And anyway, I don’t see what this has to do with Madame Arabella.”

“Oh, right, right!” She chuckles. “You’re so funny, Princess! So what Tom and I are hearing is that you didn’t give much of a shit about Overlords until you met Madame Arabella—”

“—whoa, hold on, that’s not what I meant—”

Katie Killjoy continues without hesitation, stabbing her thumb into her pen. “—In the moments leading up to Madame Arabella’s vicious murder, how were you feeling? What were you doing?”

“Well, I was going to attend her husband’s funeral. I wanted to show her some comfort.”

“I thought you didn’t get involved with Overlords.”

“I thought this was an interview,” Charlie says. She feels more like she’s getting pressured to say all of the wrong things. 

“It is an interview, but we’re gonna do it my way. Tell me, Charlie, did you have something to do with Lord Lysander’s death as well?”

“What?! No!” Charlie exclaims. 

“The remorse caught up to you, made you feel so awful and like you had to do something—”

“—you don’t know anything!” She shouts, rage boiling inside of her as she slams her palms against the desk.

Katie Killjoy lets out a satisfied sigh, which turns into a chuckle. Her co-host, Tom, shakes his head in disapproval. This is Charlie’s sign to sit back down, to collect herself. The last time she let her anger get the better of her, an Overlord died. Correction: an Overlord was murdered, and it was all her fault. Guilt replaces the rage coursing through her veins. She takes a seat in her rickety chair.

“May I say something?” She says. “Really quick.”

Katie Killjoy raises an eyebrow. She nods. 

Charlie clears her throat and returns her gaze to the cards in her tremulous hands. She spent all night working on this, rereading every word to make sure it sounded perfect for her interview. 

“I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt Madame Arabella. I was wrong to break the rule in regards to Overlord and Royal affairs. For that, I will not blame any Overlord who doesn’t forgive me for my actions.” Katie Killjoy yawns. “Regardless, I want you to know that I am not a monster. I never enjoy killing people or hurting others. I hate to see others suffering. Anyone who knows me knows that I do my best to make sure others are okay, even at my expense.” She imagines the hotel guests watching this broadcast from the hotel and agreeing with her. “I wish that I could say that what happened was an accident, that I didn’t let my anger overtake me. But that’s not the case. I want you, the people of Hell, to know that I never plan to let this happen again. My family and I offer condolences to all of those who are mourning the loss of Madame Arabella. If there is any way I can provide support or compensation, trust me, I’ll do it. Thank you.” She lays the cards flat on the table.

Nothing but silence follows. She stares out at the sea of Sinners, either watching her speech with uneasy eyes or holding back laughter.

Katie Killjoy takes a drag of a cigarette. “That was…” She leans forward in her seat with a slight cough. “The most bullshit thing I’ve ever heard!” Howling with laughter, she and her co-host nearly fall backward in their seats.

Charlie rolls her eyes. She wishes she could say that she didn’t expect this kind of response, but having dealt with Katie Killjoy before, she knows that there are some hearts she can’t sway. She just hopes that out there, there is a Sinner whose mentality has been changed for the better.

“Oh, Charlotte—” Katie Killjoy wipes the tears from her eyes. “From your dumbass passion project to this horseshit speech, I’m really surprised that anyone can take you seriously!”

“Could say the same thing about you,” She grumbles.

Katie Killjoy cocks her head to the side. “You killed an Overlord. No royal in Hell has ever done that before. You think you can cover that shit up with some stupidass apology note and, what’s next, cotton candy?” She shakes her head in disbelief, bursting into laughter again.

“So my behavior is unacceptable, but the actions of real serial killers like the Overlord Killer are glorified?” She turns away from Katie Killjoy to face the cameras. “How many Overlords have been murdered while the Vees continue to spread their influence across the Pride Ring? First, Lysander, then Phenix! We don’t know who’s next, and we can’t keep waiting for someone to die before we can bat an eye!”

Charlie notices that the cackling to her side has faded into silence. She turns slowly, expecting Katie Killjoy to take a puff of her cigarette, give out another cruel comment, and start cracking up again, but Katie Killjoy looks pale…paler.

“Finally beat you at something, didn’t I?” Charlie grins, proud of herself for being able to stun one of her least favorite Sinners into silence.

“Do you—do you have a fucking death wish?” Katie Killjoy demands, crushing the cigarette in her hand.

“No?” Charlie backs away. The fear in Katie Killjoy’s voice starts to scare her, too.

Katie Killjoy mouths something to the camera crew. 

“We’ll come back after this break!” She announces, putting on a fake smile. She then whips her head to face Charlie, frantic white pupils grow clearer in the sea of pink. “How dare you!” She shrieks. “How fucking dare you accuse the Vees on my broadcast! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“It’s about time people started paying attention!” Charlie says, still unsure of what’s so bad about addressing a real issue in her kingdom.

“Do you know what’ll happen to me if the Vees see this message? My ass is done for! Your ass—” She points at Charlie’s chest. “—is as good as shredded!” Katie Killjoy’s voice is wild and shrill. Her entire body shakes as though she’s fallen into a frozen lake. “Trust me, you bitch, they’ll find out, and we will both be as good as dead! Get the fuck out of here!” She points a sharp claw at the door.

“If you continue to remain blind to the horrors happening around you, then they surely will kill you!” Charlie manages to yell before two security guards grab her arms and try to manhandle her out of the room. “I can walk myself, motherfuckers!” 

She tears her arm away from one security guard. Her rage returns and manifests into her trident, which appears in her hand. She points the trident at both security guards. Seeing the familiar weapon that appeared in the video of Charlie killing Madame Arabella, the two Sinners back away, goat-like eyes wide with terror.

Charlie’s blood cools down at the familiar feeling of her hand wrapped around the metal handle of her trident. She drops the murder weapon to the ground and kicks it aside, wishing it would disappear as she wills it. The weapon remains there, bits of blood from Madame Arabella’s murder still left on its prongs. 

Charlie runs out of the room before anyone can accuse her of trying to kill someone in the 666 News crew. However, as tears sting her eyes, she can already tell that the rumors will spiral quickly and ruin her for good.

Chapter Text

Angel finishes the scene panting. He moans dramatically, a final flourish before the camera cuts, and Travis calls, or rather croaks, that everyone can go on a lunch break. Many of the cast members jump off the bed and sprint to their dressing rooms, eager to reach that Italian cafe for a taste of their famous sandwiches and soups before the lines get too long.

Angel has better things to do than wait in line for the cheapest sandwich on the menu, like counting his money and calling Husk to tell him the bad news. It still hasn’t left his memory, and on top of overhearing Anthrax and Valentino’s conversation, Angel plans to tell him about the photos and Velvette’s reaction to them.

As Angel calmly slides off the bed and puts on his dressing gown, he sees Travis wheeling up to him.

“What do you want, Travis?” Angel asks, standing up. 

“Valentino wants to speak with you in your dressing room.”

“Now?”

“Now,” Travis repeats through gritted teeth.

Angel nods. He reassures himself that this has something to do with all of the cheating scandals Angel bore witness to last night, or a solo at the upcoming concert. 

He enters his dressing room where Valentino is already waiting, back turned to him. He clutches his cigarette holder. A pit forms in Angel’s stomach. His eyes water, and he can’t stop the tears as they gather on his eyelids. All of the money, his money, is scattered on the floor, shredded into pieces.

“No…” He whispers. He blinks rapidly. This is a dream; this has to be a dream, an awful nightmare that he’ll wake up from if he tries hard enough, if he pinches himself long enough that he’ll cut skin.

“After everything I’ve done for you…” Valentino says, “And you just rip my heart out and step on it.” He turns around, revealing more crumpled-up bills in his hands. He allows the green paper to flutter out of his palms and onto the floor like confetti. 

Angel sinks to his knees. He rushes to gather as many pieces of the dollars as his hands can hold, but it’s too late to save any of the cash. 

“Val, I can explain!” Angel cries.

“Oh, you will explain,” Valentino says. 

“I…” Angel never came up with an excuse to keep Valentino from getting suspicious. His mind is impossible to wrangle as only thoughts of self-hatred remain coherent. “I wanted to—uh—buy you an anniversary gift.”

Valentino laughs. The sound is emotionless and forced. “$875,000 for an anniversary gift? I’d say you must really love me, but that clearly isn’t the case.”

The gaping black hole in his gut only widens. $875,000? Angel had done it. Valentino was going to die. If he’d just waited a little longer, he would be running home into Husk’s arms to celebrate with a date, some booze, some sex—real, genuine sex instead of the ridiculous bullshit he does on camera. He would’ve been free. 

“I counted for you. You see, normally I would’ve assumed that you were just saving up to go binge on a shitton of drugs for the rest of the year, but a little birdie told me that you might have other plans. I have to thank Clitorissa for that tip; otherwise, you might’ve actually succeeded at, well, this pathetic escape attempt.”

Fury intertwines with sorrow. Angel’s teary eyes snap open. When he gets his hands on Clitorissa, her next meal will be hot lead. 

“So what were you gonna do with the cash? Pay someone else to take you? That pussycat friend of yours?” Valentino cackles. “You know he was an Overlord, right? You’d be trading one life of servitude for another, baby.”

“Is that why you want to kill him?” Angel blurts. 

“What?” Valentino hisses.

“I said, “Is that why you want to kill him?” Because it won’t work! If you kill Husk, you’ll be fucking with Alastor, and I know your limp-dick husband wouldn’t last two seconds in a fight with him!”

“Angel—” Valentino growls, red eyes narrowing into glowing slits.

“—and another thing!” Angel isn’t done yet. He’s too enraged with Valentino and his psychopathic comrades to give a shit about the grave he’s digging for himself. Valentino and Clitorissa ruined his one chance at ever being able to taste freedom. He’ll never forgive them for it; he’ll never forget it; and if he has to kill them both himself, he’ll do it with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Keep trying to fuck Anthrax because maybe that’s the one chance I’ll ever get at not having to see your fucking face every day!”

Valentino is speechless. For a long, painful moment, he just stares at Angel, unable to formulate a word or a breath. 

“You know, it was Anthrax who told me that I can’t hit you,” Valentino says, unfurling his wings. He rolls up his sleeves.

Chest heaving, Angel steels himself for the blow. He knows it will hurt, but not as much as knowing that he exceeded Anthrax’s price, then lost it all. 

“But what’s stopping me now, seeing as how he’s out with Vox?” 

Angel sighs. “Vox is prolly fucking him better than you ever could—”

Val strikes him in the face. A tsunami of pain crashes into his skull as his body falls limply to the ground. Blood trickles down his nose. He tastes copper when he licks his lip. 

“You’ve got some mouth, you know that?” Valentino approaches Angel. He stomps on Angel’s hand with so much force that Angel can hear the bones cracking underneath. 

Angel cries out in pain. He desperately tries to pull it out from underneath Valentino’s boot heel, but only feels more pressure, more burning coursing through his fingers. 

“Val, stop!” Angel sobs. Valentino has never done this before. 

“Oh, you want me to stop?” Valentino acts as though he’s never heard the word before. He removes his foot from Angel’s broken hand and gives him a swift, violent kick to the face. 

Angel’s vision blurs and splits into two. Curled up in a ball on the ground, he stares at two dressers he didn’t even know he had, two walls, two Valentinos that seize him by the fluffy collar of his dressing gown and hold his feeble body in the air like a stuffed animal missing all of its cotton insides.

“Let me tell you something, bitch! I am the best thing that has ever come into your life! Without me, you’d be a worthless piece of shit sucking greasy dicks off the street!” He rams Angel against his dresser. The mirror rattles; the lights bordering it flicker. “And you know what? You are!” The back of Angel’s head collides with the mirror. As Valentino presses him harder and harder against the glass, he feels it cracking behind his head. “You’re nothing!” 

The glass breaks. Shards enter Angel’s skin, each producing their own variation of stabbing agony. He tries to pull away from it but ends up moving closer to Valentino.

“Val, please…” Angel begs. “It was just money.”

“Just money?!” Valentino throws Angel onto the ground. For once, Angel tries to catch himself, but by throwing out his hand to lessen the fall, he only worsens the pain. He feels something in his shoulder pop out of place, followed by an intense pain that assaults his arm, making the limb impossible to move. 

“Val, something’s wrong with my arm!” Angel cries, looking up at Valentino through hazy vision. He looks down at his shoulder and finds that it appears out of place. “WHAT THE FUCK?!” He screams, disgusted and shocked by the quick glimpse he catches of an indentation of his bone pointing in the wrong direction.

Valentino is unfazed by the injury. “You’re nothing but a weak, pathetic little cunt!” Using the smoke from his cigarette, Valentino conjures up chains that tighten around Angel’s chest, squeezing the air out of him. He pulls out his gun. “You’re lucky that you make me so much damn money that I can’t kill you, but what if?”

Angel’s eyes widen as Valentino shoves the tip of his gun into his mouth. He gags around the barrel of the gun. 

Valentino cocks the hammer of the revolver. The click is deafening and causes Angel to tremble. Tears pour down his face. He knows there are bullets made of angelic steel inside.

“No one’s here to stop me, and I’m sure there are plenty of Angel Dusts to find. After all, I picked you up off the street. You’re no better than a motherfucking cockroach. At least, you’d be easier to kill.” 

Valentino pulls the trigger. Angel lets out a muffled shriek, but a bullet never hits him. Valentino slides the gun out of Angel’s mouth. With a hint of disgust, he uses his wings to wipe off the saliva that coats the barrel. 

“You got lucky, amorcito.” 

Angel is sobbing uncontrollably. He’s sure that someone outside can hear him, but no one will be coming to his aid. He’s trapped in here with Valentino, and the only way out is a bullet to the back of the throat.

“Oh, and stop that fucking crying!” Valentino screams.

Angel can’t. He can’t muster out a word, just unintelligible wails.

“We start the choreography for the concert today.” Valentino starts to leave.

Angel rolls his tongue around in his mouth and feels that one of his teeth is broken. The tiny fragment snaps off, and he swallows it, nearly choking on it. He lets out a guttural, harsh cough that triggers his gag reflex. He doubles over, expecting to throw up, for he can feel the bile that stings his throat.

“Okay,” Valentino’s voice softens. He shuts the door to Angel’s dressing room and slowly walks towards Angel. Valentino kneels in front of Angel, puts a hand under his chin, and holds up his head to meet his eyes. “I want you to take the day off. Call someone who will take you home, and I don’t want to see you in the Studios until that arm of yours is fixed.”

“Okay…” Angel whimpers. 

“Good boy,” Valentino says. He presses a kiss against Angel’s forehead, then leaves at last.

[Angel]

Now it’s been long enough to talk about it

I’ve started not to doubt it, just wrap my head around it

I remember when you told me it’s an everyday decision

But with my double vision, how was I supposed to see the way?

Haven’t I given enough, given enough?

Haven’t I given enough, given enough?

Haven’t I given enough, given enough?

Haven’t I given enough, given enough?

Always the fool with the slowest heart

But I know you’ll take me with you

We’ll live in spaces between walls

Every city’s got a graveyard

The service bought and paid for

Now I’m sleeping in the backyard

Passing out as night turns into day

Haven’t I given enough, given enough?

Haven’t I given enough, given enough?

Haven’t I given enough, given enough?

Haven’t I given enough, given enough?

Always the fool with the slowest heart

But I know you’ll take me with you

We’ll live in spaces between walls

Go and stretch out my arms

Long as they need to be

Turn off all alarms and lie to me

Go and stretch out my arms

Long as they need to be

Turn off all alarms and lie to me

Haven’t I given enough, given enough?

Haven’t I given enough, given enough?

Haven’t I given enough, given enough?

Haven’t I given enough, given enough?

Always the fool with the slowest heart

But I know you’ll take me with you

I know I’ll take you with me

Always the fool with the slowest heart

But I know you’ll take me with you

We’ll live in spaces between walls

Taking his shaking, unbroken hand, Angel pulls out his phone and calls Husk. He’s the only person who can see him in this state, broken and fragile.

Chapter Text

Vox hates the cold. It’s part of the reason why he was so hesitant to visit the Theater Overlord’s District. Up north and constantly receiving snow, it bottles Vox’s least favorite weather into a torturous freezing bundle. He groans frustratedly. From where he stands on the Theater Overlord’s balcony, he can see the Doomsday District. If only he’d been able to convince Anthrax to be less uptight, then they’d be over there by now, conquering that District without fail. Instead, he’s here, shivering despite the layers of clothing underneath his coat.

Anthrax is inside the Theater Overlord’s tower, killing him. Or maybe he’s skinning him now. Vox hasn’t heard very many sounds of anguish in a long time. Anthrax insisted that Vox not be allowed to see him kill the Theater Overlord, which, in Vox’s opinion, was a ridiculous request, but he complied.

They haven’t talked about the kiss. It’s not worth discussing, but it lingers on Vox’s mind just as the taste of Anthrax’s tongue in his mouth lingers on his taste buds. He needs that again; he just doesn’t know how to ask, especially when he’s trying not to get hypothermia.

“Done,” Anthrax says, walking out onto the balcony.

“Jeez, what the fuck took you so long?!” Vox demands, turning around to face Anthrax.

The Overlord Killer looks weary. His hair is even worse with his bangs as well as large strands on the back of his head, having turned white. 

Anthrax chuckles. He stumbles towards Vox. “You’re welcome…” He swoons, falling forward. 

Vox unfolds his arms and rushes to catch him. Anthrax smirks as he stares up at Vox with this half-lidded, grateful gaze. 

“Look at that,” He slurs, raising a blackened claw to tap where Vox would’ve had a nose if he didn’t have a screen for a face. “I’m falling for you.” 

Blood rushes to Vox’s face, then his groin.

“Are you okay?” Vox asks. 

“I’m fine,” Anthrax says, stepping away from Vox. He supports his body on a stone pillar and looks out at the snowy District beneath him. “Just tired.”

Vox can admit that it’s not a bad sight: warm, red architecture illuminated by vintage lanterns floating in the air, velvet curtains veiling the entrances to lavish costume stores and theaters whose walls are made up of a comforting chestnut wood, all while snowflakes flutter from the sky and into the thick blanket of snow enveloping the cobblestone ground. A trio of women sings carols for no apparent reason other than to lift up their spirits during this desolate time. 

“I thought about living here once,” Anthrax says, squinting past a chilly breeze that rustles through his hair. “Couldn’t handle the cold, though.” He laughs at the sight of Vox shivering. “I take it you feel the same way.”

“I prefer tropical habitats anyway,” Vox says, cracking a smile. He loves the sound of Anthrax’s laugh.

The two leave the balcony, passing through the Theater Overlord’s empty tower to exit onto the cold street. Vox grimaces every time he spots a servant lying dead on the ground, bloodied up by the blades of Anthrax’s tail. Some are missing skin and other vital body parts, or have been unintentionally eviscerated. Maybe it was intentional. Anthrax doesn’t seem to mind as he ambles through the gory halls as though he were on a summer stroll.

“So…what are you going to do when you’ve taken over all of Hell?” Anthrax asks.

“Control the entire population and get them to do my bidding.” Vox sighs. “Nothing will be in my way, and I’ll have all the industries at my feet.”

“Well, that’s no fun.” Anthrax shoves his hands into the pockets of his scarlet coat. 

“Not fun? Anthrax, imagine a life ruled by AI and technology, no hard labor, no competition. I’ll be the most powerful Overlord Pride has ever seen; I’ll practically be the king. You can be, like, my highest-ranking servant or something.”

Anthrax giggles. “Or your mistress.”

“Are either of those such a bad thing?” 

“In your opinion or mine?”

Vox would love to keep Anthrax around. He’s a good fuck; he’s obedient (from time to time); he’s hot; and he’s powerful. Even if it means that he has to serve as a paramour, his presence is better than nothing, especially with how vulnerable they’ve both been around each other in the past few days.

“Don’t you have to change the entire District into your little artificial intelligence paradise?” Anthrax asks, leaning over the edge of a balcony that overlooks icy waters.

“Later,” Vox says, looking past the snowy shops to stand by the balcony with Anthrax. He smiles, enamored by the way the waves of the sea violently crash into each other. Beneath the surface of the water, large dark creatures lurk. “Think I can bring one of those things back to the tower?”

“You must have a death wish. No one’s ever fully seen those things and lived to tell the tale.” 

“Well, that can’t be all true. Everyone says that about you, but I’m still alive.” 

“You pay me well.”

“Is that the only reason?” Vox grins. 

“Among other things,” Anthrax whispers. 

Vox looks around. Apart from the creatures in the sea, there’s no one around for miles. He pulls Anthrax into a kiss that warms their bodies against the harsh, cold biting their skin. When Vox pulls away, he finds that he’s kissing Valentino instead.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what, querido?” Anthrax purrs, imitating Valentino’s accent.

“If you’re trying to make me feel bad, it’s not working.”

It’s kinda working. Every time Vox sees Anthrax, he tries to imagine that Valentino is thinking those same violent thoughts that make his cock pulse and his heart race.

[Vox]

Daydream 

I fell asleep beneath the flowers

For a couple of hours

On a beautiful day

Daydream

I dream of you amid the flowers

For a couple of hours

Such a beautiful day

I dream a dirty dream of you, baby

You’re crawling on the bathroom floor

You float around the room and you’re naked

Then you’re flying out the bedroom door

I dream a dirty dream

I dream a dirty dream

Daydream 

I fell asleep amid the flowers

For a couple of hours

On a beautiful day

Daydream I dream of you amid the flowers

For a couple of hours

Such a beautiful day

I dream a dirty dream of you, baby

You’re swinging from the chandelier

I’m climbing up the walls ‘cause I want you

But when I reach you, you disappear

I dream a dirty dream

I dream a dirty dream

Daydream

I fell asleep amid the flowers

For a couple of hours

On a beautiful day

Daydream

I dream of you amid the flowers

For a couple of hours

Such a beautiful day

Daydream

I fell asleep amid the flowers

For a couple of hours

On a beautiful day

Daydream 

I dream of you amid the flowers

For a couple of hours

Such a beautiful day

Vox is still pissed off with Valentino for cheating, but not as much anymore, and that’s not because Anthrax still hasn’t reverted back to his original form. Staring into Valentino’s eyes, he recalls with a stinging regret why he’d chosen to marry him. He was beautiful, even from the instant that they met. Even though he’d been covered in blood and had just escaped the Overlord who owned his soul, Vox had never met a Sinner with more potential in that moment. The day they said their vows, Vox thought he found a sliver of Heaven in Hell. That was a long, long time ago.

Vox avoids Valentino’s eyes.

“Why do you do this to me?”

“Give you a hard-on?” Valentino asks with a smug smile.

Vox doesn’t bother trying to hide it. “Fuck you. I’m still your boss!”

“You’re right.” Anthrax shifts back into himself. He folds his hands. “And truth be told, the only reason why I bother shifting is because I like confusing people.”

Vox raises an eyebrow.

“Be honest, I was the most perplexing thing you ever saw when Valentino brought me home, pretending that I was a friend of a friend?”

“I didn’t believe you were the Overlord Killer until you murdered the majority of my servants.”

Anthrax purses his lips, still bothered by that incident. He looks away from Vox and at the sea.

“And to be honest, I’m still disturbed by the things you do to me.”

“That’s why I do them,” Anthrax says, smiling wearily. 

One of the creatures underwater rears its colossal tail out of the murky black depths of the icy ocean and smacks it against the surface of the water. Droplets of the freezing water spray Anthrax and Vox’s face. Anthrax backs away, but Vox stays behind, immersed in the brief glimpse of the outline of the creature. It’s shaped somewhat like a mix between a whale and a shark, with a dark dorsal fin protruding from the sea.

“Vox, what are you thinking?” Anthrax asks, a hint of concern in his voice.

“Get a team out here to wrangle one of these things, and I’ll pay you your weight in cash.”

Chapter Text

From inside his office, Vox surveys the hundreds of cameras scattered across not just his District (which has doubled in size since this morning) but all over the Pride Ring. He looks forward to the day when everything will be his, when he’ll never have to bow to a king, or attend another Overlord meet, or worry about seeing Alastor’s stupidly attractive face again. He grins, leaning back in his seat as his imagination runs wild, depicting various gory images of the ways he can hang Alastor’s antlers on a wall, maybe even turn them into a chandelier.

The doors slide open behind him, but he doesn’t turn around, too busy focusing on the Hazbin Hotel to notice.

“Vox!” Velvette screams.

He turns around in his chair, excited to tell her news about how successful the day has been.

“Velvette, my dear—”

“—don’t “my dear” me, motherfucker! You want to tell me what Valentino’s little slut is doing with pictures of you and Anthrax snogging in your shark pool?!”

Vox nearly falls out of his seat. He jumps to his feet, holding back the urge to strangle Velvette. With how loud she’s shouting, he’s sure that Valentino has heard her from a floor above.

“WHAT?!”

“Don’t act dumb with me! I saw the pictures myself!”

Vox despises Angel even more now. If Valentino hasn’t beaten the shit out of him by now, he’ll have to pay him a visit to ensure that Angel remembers his place.

“You’re such a pain in the arse!” She starts to storm off like a child throwing a temper tantrum.

Vox grabs her arm. “Valentino doesn’t hear a damn word about this!”

“That’s what you’re worried about?!” She yanks her arm out of Vox’s claws. “Am I the only person in this fucking house with an ounce of sense?!”

“Nope, just the only lesbian.” 

She growls, gritting her teeth, “What happens if those pictures get out?!”

“Nothing will happen.”

“I’m not talking about the public—” She gestured to the fish stirring about the aquarium as though they would give a damn about the people Vox fucks. “—I’m talking about Val.”

“He will never know, and he’s probably already fucked Anthrax a thousand times already! This stays between you and me, got it?”

She nods but continues swearing under her breath while marching out of Vox’s office. She slams the door shut with so much force that he expects the glass to break, but that worry barely phases him in comparison to what he knows now.

He hopes that Valentino doesn’t already know that Angel will have a high enough IQ to know not to share this with a soul. Vox isn’t opposed to killing Angel, regardless of how valuable he is to the media. He’s done worse to keep secrets, and (even better) he’ll stage the murder as an accident to make those hotel guests really fall to pieces with grief.

He sits back down at his desk and lets out a sigh, which turns into a frustrated groan. Today started so well. He drank some of the best coffee he’d ever tasted, made out with Anthrax on a dilapidated balcony, and got a new pet. Now it’s going to shit all thanks to a dumbass spider whom he never cared about in the first place, but that always seems to be the only thing Angel is good at—being a pain in the ass.

The doors to his office open again, but there aren’t heavy footsteps dashing towards him, just the confident clicks of heels against the tile floor. The absence of a cherry scent gives away who Vox’s second visitor is.

“How’s work?” Anthrax asks.

“Stressful,” Vox says, a half-lie. He knows what he’s doing as he types out code onto an electric blue holographic keyboard in front of him, but he still can’t shake off what Velvette told him. It causes his fingers to shake and makes him make several ridiculous typos.

“What was Velvette so upset about?”

“Nothing,” Vox shuts him down immediately. He wants to think about anything except for that.

Anthrax hums in confusion, then he grins as he looks up at Vox’s new pet, one of those black carnivorous whale creatures from the Theater District. 

“I see that you got what you wanted.”

“And you’ll get what you want in a few hours,” Vox says. “As soon as I get the money.”

“Whatever you say,” Anthrax replies, slightly irked. “If you’re interested…” He puts his hand on Vox’s shoulder. “I know some stress-relieving techniques.”

“If it involves anything to do with breathing techniques or yoga, I’ll kick you out.”

“Just trust me.” Anthrax says. 

Vox rolls his eyes and laughs. He returns his focus to his work, developing a new design for a VoxTek gadget. One by one, he designs each piece that’ll be sent to the industrial 3D printers also on this floor, reviews the comments made by the employees also working on this project, and affirms that—

A wave of pleasure washes over him, knocking the sense, the determination, the perception out of him. 

He stares down at his crotch to find Anthrax kneeling on the floor, head between his legs, licking his tongue along the shaft of his cock.

“Fuck…” Vox moans, head falling back. He can’t muster a coherent thought. “What are you—what are you doing?”

“Relieving your stress,” Anthrax answers with a proud smirk. “Just relax; pretend I’m not here.”

Vox studies the room for any sign of future intruders, caution racking his body. He sees and hears nothing else besides the distant beeping, buzzing, and humming of the computers all around him. Deciding that the coast is clear, he continues with his work...or tries to do so at the very least.

The next few bits of code typed onto his screen are even more jumbled up than the last. He can’t concentrate on mathematical equations and proportions and dimensions, not with Anthrax’s moans sending vibrations throughout his body.

“You taste so good,” Anthrax whispers before taking as much of Vox’s cock into his mouth as he can, and he can take a lot.

That’s the final string for Vox. He abandons his work and, clutching a chunk of Anthrax’s hair to envelop as much of his cock into the gratifying, warming wetness of his mouth, fights the urge to lose control. 

A slew of unintelligible curses leaves Vox’s lips. His vision is static, a blurry portrait of Anthrax lapping up the precum off Vox’s cock. His eyes lock onto Anthrax’s in an attempt to keep himself steady, to hang on for Anthrax’s a bit longer. The depraved, needy, voracious look in his eyes, combined with the sly smile that breaks free from his lips, which are stretched around the base, pushes Vox over the edge. He releases into Anthrax’s mouth. The blissful high of euphoria blinds him, makes him grip Anthrax’s hair like a lifeline. This is so wrong, and that’s part of what makes it so damn good.

Before Vox and Anthrax can say anything, a loud, high-pitched gasp fills the room. Neither of the two has opened their mouths, so it isn’t them despite the confused looks they give each other. They turn to face the door, the source of the sound.

Standing there is one of Valentino’s employees. Vox thinks her name might be Clitorrisa, but he could be wrong. He doesn’t pay attention to any of them.

“Ho-ly shit!” She screams, gawking at the two of them. 

Vox and Anthrax scramble to fix themselves, creating an image where they aren’t in such an illicit position. 

She turns her head into the hall. “VALENTINO, YOUR BOYFRIEND IS SUCKING YOUR HUSBAND’S DICK!” 

“HEY, SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Vox shouts.

She opens her mouth to scream again, but no sound comes out except for a low gurgle. Seconds after she prepares to speak again, Anthrax drives his tail into the front of her skull. She drops to the ground, dead, venom destroying her bloodstream, and angelic steel having pierced her brain.

“Sorry about that,” Anthrax says, standing up. He pulls his tail back and starts to leave. “Good night, Vox.”

The smell of blood ravages Vox’s senses. He needs to taste something, needs to hurt something, needs to fuck something. After everything Anthrax did to him—does to him—he’s not about to let him go.

Two wires coil around Anthrax’s arms. Before he can fight back, they drag him back to the desk, ramming his back into the edge and tightening around his wrists.

“What are you doing?” Anthrax looks fearful.

“Something I should’ve done a long time ago.”

Vox tosses his jacket to the ground. He kisses Anthrax with ferocity, violating his mouth with his tongue, leaving bites all along the side of his neck that will leave nasty bruises in the morning. He draws blood in some places. The sight, the metallic smell of that beautiful crimson liquid drives him wild. He can’t wait any longer.

He shoves various items—pens and documents and stamps and staples that were once organized down to the size but are now a cluttered mess of office supplies—to the ground to make way for Anthrax, whom he places on the desk. He spreads Anthrax’s legs, tears his pants down to his ankles, and slams his cock into him. 

Anthrax whines, a strained series of Spanish swears coming out of his mouth. Vox cuts him off with another kiss. 

He regrets nothing—not the fact that he gave Anthrax no time to adjust to his size before he begins thrusting into him, not the fact that he’s making the same mistake Valentino has, not the fact that he’s marring his reputation even further by crossing unspoken but irreplaceable boundaries. Vox doesn’t care. Nothing matters to him at this moment but selfishly claiming Anthrax as his own with his cock, with his teeth, with his tongue. 

He can’t stay mad at Valentino. Had he known that Anthrax would feel this good, he would’ve railed him sooner. 

His name leaves Anthrax’s lips as a whimper, a pathetic whisper, a frantic beg, a cry to be fucked harder, then a moan, then a scream. Anthrax slaps his perspiring palms against the desk; his claws scrape the glass top. His hips buck upwards. He can’t get enough of it; neither can Vox.

Vox tries not to laugh. This is the notorious Overlord Killer, feared by all, rumored to be a complete psychopath who’ll rip a Sinner into nothing but a thick pile of viscera and flesh for so much as looking at him, now sitting on his desk, getting fucked into a whimpering, gasping, beautiful mess. Vox feels like he’s tamed a wild animal, and this is his prize.

“Fuck, Vox! I’m gonna come! Fuck!” Anthrax cries.

As soon as Anthrax says that, Vox pulls out. It’s more of a struggle for himself to resist the urge to see Anthrax break to pieces from an orgasm. He’s already disheveled enough. 

“What the fuck?!” Anthrax pants. “Don’t do this!”

Vox laughs. Anthrax’s desperation makes his cock harder.

“I’m not through with you yet,” He says, grabbing Anthrax by the neck.

All of the plans that he has for him…

Vox tries not to come at the thought of it. Anthrax will be moaning his name till dawn.

[Vox]

I have you strung, strung in my web

A candle burning slowly by the bed

Shadows tangle like a vine

Crawling up the posts within our shrine

And right now, you're mine

All mine

Give in, you're mine

All mine

I love that you shake

When I ravage your skin

It's so easy to bite with your hands pinned

Shadows dancing on the sheets

If you obey, I might give you a treat

Right now, you're mine

All mine

[Anthrax]

All yours

Give in, you're mine

All mine

[Anthrax]

All yours

You look so good, there on your knees

Such a good boy, knows how to please

Look at me, look me in the eyes

Forget yourself, surrender your mind

Right now, you're mine

All mine 

[Anthrax]

All yours

Give in, you're mine

All mine 

[Anthrax]

All yours

Chapter Text

Angel’s face burns. It burns from his split lip, the bruising in his right eye, which has swelled shut and turned an ugly shade of eggplant purple, and the space in his gums that has been relentlessly cut up by his broken tooth. It burns from the embarrassment of needing to be forced to take the day off by the man who did this to him, all because he didn’t have the energy to lift his beaten body off the ground. It burns as Husk gently dabs cotton balls with hydrogen peroxide to his wounds while Cherri finds bandages for his broken hand. 

“You need anything else?” Cherri says, finishing taping the bandage to Angel’s wrist.

“Um…” He swallows the lump in his throat, not wanting to cry lest he bring himself even more pain. “…water.” His throat is dry as hell. He hasn’t had anything to drink; up until now, he didn’t think he could keep anything down.

She nods, sparing him a worried look before sliding off his bed and leaving the room to fetch a glass.

“There,” Husk says, setting the cottonball down in a tray of bloody gauze. “All finished.” 

Angel tries to muster a smile of gratitude, but his entire face stings when he tries to move a muscle, and his head throbs with the worst migraine ever when he nods. 

“You should go,” He croaks, throat scratching like a rusted door hinge.  

“I ain’t leaving you, Legs,” Husk says. He reaches out to hold Angel’s hand. 

Angel pulls his hand back. 

Husk is already in Valentino’s sights. He’s not useful to Valentino’s profits, so it won’t matter to the Vees if Husk turns up dead under “mysterious circumstances”. And it’s not like a war between Alastor and Vox over the loss of his “pet” will make that already formidable situation better. 

Husk’s ears flatten in sorrow. “Why?” He whispers.

“It’s for your own sake.” Angel tries to lean back against the headboard, forgetting that the back of his head is still cut up from the glass, until he’s met with an acute, stinging pain that grips his entire head like a red-hot iron glove.

“Easy, easy,” Husk says, propping Angel up with more pillows. “I thought we were doing this together.”

“We aren’t doing anything together. I had the money and—” 

The door swings open, and Cherri returns with a glass of water for Angel and two bottles of beer (presumably for herself and Husk). 

“Money for what?” She asks, hopping onto the empty seat beside Angel. She looks between the two for answers. 

“We were gonna kill Valentino,” Angel explains. 

“Were?” Husk questions.

Angel waits until he can finally get a taste of the ice-cold water, which revives his sore, parched vocal cords before he finishes explaining.

“Holy shit! Good on you, mate!” Cherri cheers, raising her beer bottle like a toast. 

“Yeah, well, I ain’t doing it anymore,” He says, tapping his fingers at the condensation coating the glass. He watches the beads of water form on the rim of the cup, then slowly drip down the translucent sides in the same motions as the tears streaming down his face when he got a look at himself in his shattered dressing room mirror after the beating.

“Why not?” Cherri’s face falls. 

“I lost all the money,” Angel says. His voice breaks at the final word. Tears form again, rousing up all of the angry injuries on his face. The beat to the headache reverberating in his skull, like drums, pounds with more fervor. “We’re never getting it back!” He sobs, burying his face in his hands.

$875 K torn to pieces on the floor of his bloodied, glass-covered dressing room. That cash was supposed to bring him to freedom, to break the chains holding him back from true happiness. After today, Valentino wouldn’t trust him with a paycheck. He wouldn’t trust him to hold a nickel for longer than a second. He couldn’t go back to work. He wouldn’t be doing it for anything anyway. There’s no point in making money when it’ll probably get reduced to nothing, no point in showing his face to a bunch of coworkers who don’t care about him, no point in sucking up to a boss who only pretends to love him when his heart lies with any deranged pervert he can stick his dick in. 

Angel isn’t special, just a cog in the machine of the Vees' industry, like the tens of thousands of other employees who were unlucky enough to draw the short straw. He may not be replaceable in the porn industry, but in the lives of everyone he knows—especially Valentino—he’s just interchangeable. 

“There are plenty of Angel Dusts to find,” Valentino’s voice echoes in Angel’s head. He can still taste the metal of Valentino’s gun on his tongue, feel it pressing against the back of his throat. That clicking sound was deafening, heart-stopping. Maybe it should’ve stopped his heart then and there, and he wouldn’t be sitting here, pondering how he’ll be able to get through the rest of this miserable life.

“I can get a job,” Cherri starts. She sets her beer bottle on the nightstand. “I will get a job! M-m-maybe I can work at the hotel or something!”

“There are other ways to end deals with Overlords, ‘kay?” Husk says.

Angel doesn’t think Husk knows what he’s talking about. If he knew how to get away from an Overlord, he would’ve done it by now. Someone should’ve done it by now; someone has to have survived to tell their tale. Or perhaps there is no brave rebel who refused to keep the inner workings of their Overlord’s industry going any longer. Perhaps this someone is just a fairy tale, a children’s story of sorts to keep Sinners feeling hopeful, like they need to work until their bones break, and their muscles give out, and their bodies grow numb from the never-ending fight to not stand outside during an Extermination. Some days, Angel considered doing it. After all, giving up is much easier than a twelve-hour shoot. 

“No, there ain’t.” 

“We don’t know that,” Cherri protests.

“Well, we don’t know that it’ll work either!” Angel shouts.

“There must be! Oh, do you remember that one Overlord of Poison who disappeared seven years ago?”

Angel shakes his head, only having half an idea of what she’s talking about. A bunch of Overlords disappeared or died seven years ago. He never bothered to remember their names. It hadn’t been any one of the Vees, so it wasn’t his concern at the time. 

“I’ll get more turf,” Cherri says, touching Angel’s uninjured arm. “I promise. In fact, there’s another turf war tonight against this one piker. I can totally kick his ass and gain some souls—”

Cherri says that before every turf war. She’s been doing this since the 80s, and there are no signs that she’ll gain enough power to challenge the Vees. Even if she doesn’t succeed at becoming an Overlord, Angel doesn’t want her to get any more on Valentino’s bad side than she already is.

“You don’t have to, Cherri. It’s not gonna work. Nothing will.” 

“Maybe we can form an alliance with another Overlord.” She turns to Husk, looking for more back-up. “There’s gotta be someone willing to help.” 

“I’m not so sure how I feel about trusting another Overlord,” Angel says. Apart from the people in this room, he doesn’t feel like trusting anyone again. Charlie’s not so bad, but she’s got her own problems to deal with.

“We don’t need another Overlord, don’t even need the Overlord Killer. We’ll do it ourselves,” Husk states.

Angel shakes his head in disbelief. He checks the unopened bottle in Husk’s hand, accepting the fact that he’s either drunk out of his mind or so intoxicated with sympathy that he’s turned stupid.

“That’s not possible.”

“Charlie killed an Overlord. Hell yeah, it’s possible.” 

“With an angelic trident!” Angel snaps. “What the shit are we gonna do? Push Valentino off of his fucking balcony?” 

“It’s worth a try,” Cherri remarks with a half-hearted chuckle. She takes a swig of beer. “But I agree with Grandpa—” Husk’s eyes widen in surprise. “—for a change. We’ll find a way to get you away from him, no matter what. But you need your rest, love.” She places her hand on Angel’s shoulder.  

“Is my arm gonna be okay?” He asks. 

She nods. “I’ve had one too many dislocated limbs to know that you’ll be alright as long as you don’t do any heavy lifting while you’re healing.” She stands up and, taking her beer bottle, starts to leave. “I’m going to see if I can get the princess to get me a room here, Angie.” 

Angel raises an eyebrow. Not once has Cherri ever considered or seemed like the type to be interested in redemption.

“It’s just for the next few weeks until you get back on your feet.” She laughs. “Maybe this place ain’t so much of a shithole after all.” 

After Cherri’s gone, Angel still doesn’t feel a lift in his spirits. He just pulls his legs to his chest, pushes his glass of water (whose ice has melted) aside, and sighs with his head resting against his knees.

“I know that you don’t believe me,” Husk says, causing Angel to lift his head slightly to see Husk packing up all of the first-aid supplies. “You don’t have to, not now anyway. But I want—” He turns around to face Angel. “—I need you to know that I’m not giving up on you. I see that look in your eye. I know you want to stop fighting. I’ve been there before. Trust me. But with all of these Overlords dropping like flies, now is the best time to do this.”

“What if it doesn’t work?” Angel whispers. 

That’s the only thing he can think about now. His first plan failed; the second might just be an even worse disaster. He was lucky that Valentino was only toying with him. Next time, he might keep pulling that trigger until he actually gets something.

“I really care about you, Angel,” Husk says, sitting next to Angel. He wraps one wing around Angel’s shoulder. “So I’m not stopping until it works.” 

“In that case, it better fucking work,” Angel says, pushing past the pain in his face to muster a weak but genuine smile. He can’t stop himself, especially after giving into the instinct to rest his head on Husk’s shoulder.

[Angel]

I tried to hide, but something broke

I tried to sing, couldn’t hit the notes

The words kept catching in my throat

I tried to smile, I was suffocating though

But here with you, I can finally breathe

You say you’re no good, but you’re good for me

I’ve been hoping to change, now I know we can change

But I won’t if you’re not by my side

Why does it feel right every time I let you in?

Why does it feel like I can tell you anything?

All the secrets that keep me in chains, and

All the damage that might make me dangerous

You got a dark side, guess you’re not the only one

What if we both tried fighting what we’re running from

We can’t fix it if we never face it

What if we find a way to escape it?

We could be free, free

We can’t fix it if we never face it

Let the past be the past ‘til it’s weightless

[Husk]

Oh, time goes by, and I lose perspective

Yeah, hope only hurts, so I just forget it

But you’re breaking through all the dark in me

When I thought that nobody could

And you’re waking up all these parts of me

That I thought were buried for good

Between imposter and this monster, I’ve been lost inside my head

Ain’t no choice when all these voices keep me pointing towards no end

It’s just easy when I’m with you

No one sees me the way you do

I don’t trust it, but I want to

I keep coming back to

[Husk, Angel]

Why does it feel right every time I let you in?

Why does it feel like I can tell you anything?

We can’t fix it if we never face it

What if we find a way to escape it?

We could be free, free

We can’t fix it if we never face it

Let the past be the past ‘til it’s weightless

[Angel]

Oh-oh, so take my hand, it’s open

What if we heal what’s broken?

I tried to hide, but something broke

I couldn’t sing, but you give me hope

We can’t fix it if we never face it

Let the past be the past ‘til it’s weightless

Chapter Text

Ever since he started working for the Vees, he’d heard rumors about Vox’s performance in bed. During late nights, he would often hear Vox and Valentino through the walls and would stay up with Velvette in the living room, watching the TV at full volume, so they wouldn’t hear them. He’d always assumed that the one reason why Vox and Valentino hadn’t gotten a divorce was because they still liked fucking each other as husbands. According to Valentino, sex with your husband is ten times better than sex with your boyfriend. Valentino and Anthrax got into a big fight about this, stopped talking to each other for three days, then made up (and made out) in the Porn Studios after all of the cast and crew had left. 

Anthrax now understands what Valentino was talking about…to a degree. 

Vox was good, feral almost, skilled with his teeth and his tongue and his hands. Last night was the best Anthrax had felt in a long time. He lost track of how many orgasms he’d had, couldn’t remember the words he’d said, how desperately he’d been begging, how loud they were being. It was amazing…for the first few rounds.

The guilt of what they were doing in Vox’s bed must’ve set in, but it wasn’t strong enough to stop them from continuing late into the night. Neither wanted to stop. They’d come; at least one would, and as they were catching their breath, tease the other about their performance or their lack of stamina and get them riled up enough that the cycle would continue. Mostly, it was Anthrax who did all of the mocking, finding new phrases and idioms to poke fun at Vox and Valentino’s relationship or shifting between forms like Alastor, Valentino, and Angel Dust. Vox would grab his wrists, hold him firmly against the sweat-drenched sheets, and fuck him until he was screaming again. But not from the sex…from the biting. 

Anthrax winces as he tries to sit up in bed. The stinging bitemarks on his torso, his arms, his legs, his neck, his shoulders, his thighs are red, bloody, crescent-shaped, angry reminders of what he’s done. None of the wounds appear severe, but the pain goes deep and the shame even deeper. Bits of dark flesh are visible from the injuries. His thighs have been mangled worst of all, with serrated marks piercing the skin and pulsing with agony whenever he moves his legs. He doesn’t expect that he’ll be able to walk without getting questioned or even show himself in public without someone spotting one of these wounds.

“They’ll heal,” Vox says. 

Anthrax looks up at Vox, who stands by the doorway fully dressed in his usual suit, watching Anthrax with a look that teeters somewhere along the border of concern and disgust.

“You should’ve seen Valentino on our wedding night. Now that was a show.” 

Vox looks like he expects a laugh out of that comment. Anthrax gives him nothing but a scornful stare. He feels used. He feels like a sex toy—no, a chew toy.

“Look what you did to me,” Anthrax whispers, voice trembling. He catches a reflection of himself in Vox’s screen. His hair is a tangled mess; his scalp aches from getting his hair pulled all night. He looks like he’s been attacked by a bunch of sharks. “I look ridiculous!”

“You look fine,” Vox insists. Anthrax doesn’t believe him. “Or at least, you did when you were down on your knees and under my desk with your mouth on my—”

“ —stop, stop, I get it.” Anthrax doesn’t need that reminder. He’d just taken a dosage of the Antivenom when that had happened. A weird side effect of it is a heightened libido. 

“You didn’t seem embarrassed last night.” 

“That’s because I didn’t think you would turn me into a damn chew toy,” mutters Anthrax bitterly, folding his arms.

Vox sighs frustratedly. He slips his jacket off and drapes it on Anthrax’s shoulders. The heavy scent of cologne on the fabric gives off hints of citrus and chlorine. 

“Thanks,” Anthrax says, temper cooling down a little as he covers up the bitemarks. 

“No one hears anything about this.”

Anthrax nods. 

In the shower, the hot water only makes his wounds throb in agony. He stares, slightly hunched over, emptily at the silver drain, watching the clear water turn blood red. Each droplet of water stabs the blackened parts of his skin like a thousand needles breaking through his skin, pulling his blood to the surface. Even through the fogged-up glass surrounding him, he feels like he’s being watched and judged. 

Anthrax rushes to cover himself up with anything he can find. He dons one of Vox’s robes, paying no attention to the fact that he’ll be questioned for wearing Vox’s clothes, especially by Valentino (who hasn’t stopped sending him texts, asking if they can talk about what happened at the Gala). But Anthrax doesn’t want to talk about anything—not his thing with Valentino (because it’s hard to describe it as anything but), not last night or how his vocal cords still feel shredded from then, and especially not that Zestial was right. He’s dying faster now; the Antivenom is barely working to catch up with the irredeemable damage done to his body. With the Theater Overlord’s magic added to the melting pot of magics he’s stolen over the years, he can already feel his strength waning. 

By the time he reaches the Vees’ private dining room, he’s already too winded to acknowledge Valentino, who appears to have been waiting for him at the table with a cup of freshly made tea.

“Did you get my texts?” Valentino asks.

“Yeah,” Anthrax says. “Some of them,” He adds so as not to give Valentino the idea that he’s eager to talk about their problems when he’s too busy handling his own. After all, there’s nothing Valentino can do to help fix the fact that he’s dying, and Anthrax would rather not break his heart any further.

“I’m sorry.” 

Anthrax can’t help but laugh. Valentino attempting to apologize for something he’ll do a hundred times again if given the chance is the funniest and saddest thing he’s heard all day. After snatching the cup of tea off the table and observing its color and aroma for any hints of a love potion being added, he takes a sip. Black tea—his favorite.

“What’s so funny?” Valentino asks.

“Nothing,” Anthrax replies.

Valentino sighs wearily and removes his glasses. “Anthrax, we’ll never get through this snag in our relationship if we don’t talk to each other.”

“I’m not killing Husk.” 

Anthrax’s opinion about that still hasn’t changed. He isn’t fond of Angel but is aware of how much suffering that lanky spider demon has had to endure for the past several years. Killing his little boy toy (especially when whatever pretend romance they have going on won’t last long) is possibly the cruelest thing that could happen to Angel, among other things.

“This isn’t about Husk. This is about us.” 

“Val, I’m not really in a talking mood,” Anthrax says, pulling a chair out from the table. He tries to find a comfortable position to sit in, but there’s no way he can sit without making the fresh bites on his thighs brush against each other. The robe’s fabric grazes the raw, tender skin on his arms, too, making him wince louder than he’d expected.

“What’s wrong?” Valentino’s eyes widen in worry. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Anthrax says through his teeth, pushing Valentino away. 

“Are you?” Valentino raises an eyebrow.

“Yes.” Anthrax crosses his legs, discreetly biting the sleeve of the robe in the process as he hisses in pain, to hide the more prominent bites. “I’m okay. Just had a long night.”

“Vox told me that you killed the Overlord of Theater. He says we’re moving too slow, though, that we need to choose an even more powerful Overlord this time. Velvette and I already have our eyes set on the Overlord of Agriculture.” 

Anthrax can barely lower the teacup onto the saucer rattling in his shaking hand. The Overlord of Agriculture’s power isn’t enough to kill him outright, but it’ll (at best) send the black veins past his elbows. 

“‘Kay,” Anthrax says, barely above a whisper as he swallows a wave of warm tea and bile down his throat. 

“Anthrax…” Valentino’s voice is stern, not so far off from the directness with which he speaks to his employees, to Angel Dust. “What the hell is going on with you?”

“Nothing. I’m just going to go back to my room to put on some clothes—” Anthrax has had enough of his tea, stands up, and sets off to retreat to his bedroom, where he’ll take two dosages of the Antivenom to ensure that he’ll have enough energy to last the day without having another episode. 

Before Anthrax can leave, Valentino grabs his arm, unintentionally pulling aside the robe’s fabric to unveil one of the worst wounds on Anthrax’s body. It’s a vicious, red bite on his collarbone in an arch shape that palpitates with pain. It's the deepest of all the bites and the most agonizing. Even the softness of the fabric touching the bloody flesh beneath loose flaps of skin sends a hurricane of pain through his arm. 

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!” Valentino shouts, reaching out to touch it before he pulls his hand back.

“None of your business,” Anthrax growls through his teeth, clutching his arm. 

“It looks like a shark bite—!” He freezes. His eyes widen to the size of dinner plates before he slowly turns his head away from the laceration marring Anthrax’s skin to face Anthrax himself, who immediately knows the mistake he’s just made and the realization Valentino has just come to. 

There’s no time to stop it, no time to explain himself because what is there to explain that won’t rear the ugly head of the worst fight to ever take place between Valentino and Vox? But this battle was a long time coming. All these two Overlords needed was a little push off the unstable mountain cliff of half-hearted appreciation into the abyss of enmity. 

Valentino pulls his hand away from the robe as though he’d just touched a hot stove. Wrapping his wings around himself, he turns away and briskly walks in the opposite direction—towards a narrow hallway that leads to the kitchen.

Anthrax can’t shake off the look of betrayal in Valentino’s eyes, but he can’t trace who the look is targeted towards—him or Vox. Regardless of which direction that glare was meant for, to know that he had to see it makes him hurt inside as much as the injuries from last night hurt on the outside. Anthrax pushes the cup of tea aside, for the last taste leaves bitter remnants on his tongue. He swallows down that final sour tang, seeking to remove it from his senses, which feel like they’re on fire as he fights the urge to cry. 

“Anthrax!” Velvette’s voice greets him. Her tone is less cheerful. She sounds pissed off, too. 

Anthrax rushes to wipe the tears forming on his eyelids before turning around to attend to whatever demand she asks of him, whether it be a breakfast order or to set up her studio early.

“Where’s Vox?” She asks with a grin.

“I don’t know—” Anthrax begins but flinches at the sounds of glass shattering and pots and pans clanging in the kitchen, followed by Valentino and Vox screaming at each other, accusing one another of the same thing—fucking Anthrax. Velvette doesn’t budge, continuing to stare at Anthrax with a devilish smirk, as though she’d heard these sounds so often that they fail to faze her anymore.

“You and Vox had some fun last night?”

“I—” Anthrax starts to protest, then remembers that the bite mark is still out in the open. He sighs. The secret’s out, and he’ll risk his job (and his life) if he tries to pretend like it never happened. “It was one time.”

“Sure it was,” She adds with a wink. 

“Fuck…” Anthrax whispers, watching Vox and Valentino leave the hallway. 

Vox’s face has been smashed to pieces, with half of it glitching in and out of his distorted face and static. He holds two fragments of glass to his eye. Valentino looks just as beat up as one of his employees, with one of Vox’s iconic bitemarks embedded in his collarbone as well. Both Overlords look like they want nothing more than to strangle Anthrax with their bare hands.

Chapter Text

“So…how does it work?” Angel asks Anthrax. 

A week and a half had passed. His injuries were mostly healed—the physical ones anyway. He doesn’t want to go back to work, but he knows that Valentino won’t cut him some slack just because of the torment he inflicted. By now, Valentino’s probably forgotten about the hint of mercy he showed, and today will be just as brutal as what happened last time. 

However, Angel plans to be prepared for whatever twisted scenes Valentino has in his mind. He’s got a trick up his sleeve that neither Valentino nor any of the other Vees will expect. Angel watches, holding his breath, as Anthrax puts together the pieces of the syringe that will hold a dosage of the Antivenom that the two of them measured and calculated in accordance to Angel’s weight and height. Truly, this entire plan is nothing more than an experiment. The Antivenom has never been tested on anything besides Anthrax and a couple of rats, but since he and Anthrax aren’t too far off in proportions, Angel expects this to work as well as it does for the Overlord Killer. For the first time, he trusts Anthrax, who holds a great deal of pride for this little drug. 

Anthrax's eyes widen with the curious nature of a child inspecting a new animal, shaking off their permanently fatigued, sunken-in look. The thin but bright red blood vessels streaking across his jaundiced sclerae like lines of paint give him the appearance of being sick to the point of death, yet he moves with dexterity and swiftness.

“The Antivenom won’t make me look like that, right?” Angel asks, watching Anthrax extract the dark liquid into the barrel of the syringe. 

“Look like what?” Anthrax replies.

Angel attempts to make subtle gestures towards Anthrax’s appearance, but the latter, too busy trying to read the partially faded graduation lines, either doesn’t see any of them or pretends not to. 

“Alright, so here’s how it works,” Anthrax says, thumping the syringe to loosen up any remaining air bubbles. “Have you ever shot up a drug before?”

“I mean, yeah, a while ago,” Angel admits, struggling to recall the exact decade. It had been ages since he’d found the time to do something like that. Now, work always gets in the way of everything, and getting caught sticking a needle in his arm is bad for his image. 

“Well, this isn’t just any drug. How and where you put it in matters."

Angel nods, keeping his lips pursed in order to avoid utilizing this perfect moment to make a sex joke.

“For the past century, I’ve been putting it in my thigh.” Anthrax demonstrates by pulling aside his coat to show the insertion prick. His legs are not so different from his hands, bearing long black veins that make his skin look like cracked porcelain. Angel tries not to stare, but he can't help himself. “What’s also important is the speed after you stick it in. Don’t go too slow, otherwise it’ll feel like your heart is going to stop and someone’s sitting on your chest.” As Anthrax speaks, he waves the needle around as carelessly as if it’s a magic wand. “If you go too fast, the results don’t work as well. You need to find a nice speed that fits in between both.” Anthrax hands Angel the syringe, then sits back and, tapping his leg against the mattress, waits for Angel to do the rest.

Angel watches the liquid slosh around inside the barrel. Its consistency is unlike any drug he’s ever seen. The color isn’t far off from dried seaweed, and Angel swears he can see dust-like particles floating around inside the liquid. The longer he looks at the Antivenom, the more unnerving details he draws from it, like the rotting meat smell emanating from the vial containing the rest of the substance. Angel begins to question what he’s about to stick into his veins as a sour feeling causes his stomach to twist, not just from the nausea of sitting next to the stench of death. 

“You need me to do it for you?” Anthrax questions, smiling coyly.

“No,” Angel says as a new anxiety–the sheer size of the needle—sorts its way onto the list growing inside of his head. He cocks his head, wishing Anthrax gave him more instructions besides “stick it in your leg, not too fast, and not too slow.” What if it kills him? What if he does it wrong? What if he puts it in the wrong vein? What if it doesn’t work? What if it does work but only for five seconds, and all of this worry is for nothing? What if—?

Anthrax cuts Angel’s thoughts off by seizing the syringe from Angel’s clenched hand and shoving the needle into his leg. Angel doesn’t have the time or the energy to register what’s happened before he feels the drugs crash into his body with a force not unlike that of a tidal wave. He gasps for air as a sudden prickling pain bursts from his leg and throughout the rest of his body. His heart starts to race at a pace that’ll surely kill him. Then little by little, everything starts to slow down. For a minute, it feels as though time is running backwards. Angel’s eyes shift to the clock, praying that he won’t see the minute hand dragging itself in the opposite direction.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Anthrax says, putting a hand on Angel’s shoulder. His voice is muffled at first, but grows clearer the more he speaks, “If you like it this time, maybe we can share my dosage. You’ll get used to it when you use it more.”

“Uh huh…” Angel wheezes, hand still resting against his chest, feeling and affirming that his heart won’t spike. 

“So, anyway, I have somewhere to be. Val won’t be in the Studios today.”

“Why?” 

Anthrax gives a reproachful look while shoving all the equipment involved with the Antivenom in his bag. 

“Overlord business,” He says, avoiding Angel’s eyes while swinging the bag over his shoulders. “I won’t be in the Studios either.”

“Lemme guess. Overlord business?” Angel says with a sneer, matching up the arc-shaped bite in Anthrax’s leg to the bites on Valentino’s legs whenever he returns to the Studios after his and Vox’s wedding anniversary.

Anthrax swishes his coat over his scabbed thighs and, while cursing Angel out in Spanish, leaves. Angel scoffs. Anthrax, like Valentino and Vox, is too easy to piss off and apparently an easy fuck, seeing as how just about any Overlord can throw themselves at his feet, and he’ll screw them. Who’s next? Velvette?

Angel rises to his feet. As a result of the drugs, he expects his vision to grow blurry and his legs to feel like jelly while he hobbles like a newborn fawn out of the hotel. Instead, he finds that he can stand taller and straighter. Any leftover soreness from the constant practice of getting contorted into seemingly impossible sex positions has disappeared. His arms and legs feel perfect, as if someone had popped off his old limbs and screwed on new ones. He can see clearer and farther as if the Antivenom blessed him with a pair of prescription glasses. He feels more awake, more alive, more cheery. He can’t help but smile as he picks up Fat Nuggets, who starts to peek out from under the bed after darting underneath when Angel invited Anthrax into the room. He takes the pig and his joyful disposition downstairs to breakfast.

“Well, aren’t you in a good mood?” Husk says, folding the cards he’d spread onto the table back into a neat pile. He’d been playing Solitaire.

“Hell yeah, I am!” Angel says. 

“You…uh…you didn’t take something, did you?” Husk lowers his voice. “Apart from those pain meds Cherri gave you.” 

Angel shakes his head. One, Cherri probably found those pills in between her couch cushions, so they were no more reliable than something he could’ve picked up on the street. Two, he doesn’t want Husk to know about him getting the Antivenom from Anthrax. Even though it’s for a good thing, anything involving Anthrax in this hotel is inherently vile.

“You sure?” Husk raises an eyebrow.

“I’m sure,” Angel says with a head nod. “I guess I’m just looking at life from a different lens.” 

Seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses has its perks, but it always leaves Angel blind to certain aspects of life, like the fact that his heart skips a couple of beats as he downs his coffee at the bar. He pays no attention to the sensation, chalking it up to excitement about how well the day is going to go without the ability to feel the fatigue or agony that normally comes with his line of work.

Angel arrives at the studios without breaking a sweat. His calves no longer burn from the long, unsteady journey from the hotel to the Entertainment District. He feels lighter than air and happier than ever as he passes each of his cast and crew members, waving to each of them regardless of whether he’s even had a conversation with them. They shoot him looks of confusion, but he doesn’t mind. 

Today is going to be a good day, a fantastic day! He can feel it.

Travis announces, “So…as you all know, the Vees’ concert is coming up in a few weeks—”

Someone in the background—possibly a member of the camera crew being overworked with little payment coughs, “—three days.”

Three days?! 

The other actors and crew members erupt into exclamations of shock and annoyance. For months now, Valentino had teased them about a concert in the near future but never gave them an actual date. Narrowing his eyes on Travis, who appears to be overwhelmed by the barrage of reasonable complaints, Angel waits to hear what Valentino’s little pet has to say to keep himself from getting pummeled to death.

“Oh, calm the fuck down!” Travis screams, “Or I’ll tell Valentino about all of this whining and bitching!”

That gets them to shut up and fast. If there’s one thing everyone in this studio fears, it’s Valentino, or rather, what Valentino will do (and has done) to all of them for misbehaving behind his back.

“This is why today you will be learning all of the choreography again and again until you get it right. It needs to be absolutely perfect, otherwise none of you are going home.” 

Angel looks at the clock, wishing each second would tick by faster and faster until he could finally go home, see Husk again, maybe actually participate in the hotel’s activities instead of slacking off and complaining about his aching joints. 

Choreography days are always the hardest because there is no time limit. They’ll dance for days until each step, each movement, each hair toss, each eyelash flutter, each kick is just as Valentino intends it. They’ll dance until their feet are sore, until their legs give out, until they’re falling asleep standing up, until their ligaments rip, until their bones break. Hell, they’ll dance right up until the second that the concert starts if Valentino is in a bad enough mood. After all, it’s happened before. Who’s to say that it won’t happen again? 

“What are you taking?” One of Angel’s coworkers, Summer, asks, wrapping her knee in preparation for the pain that’s to come. She, just like everyone else rushing to get in a quick warm-up before the dance starts, is in a sour mood and hasn’t smiled once since entering the studios.

“I’m not taking anything,” He replies, eyebrows pinching together in confusion. He is taking something, but he has no idea where she came to this conclusion, especially since he doesn’t see or communicate with her often.

“Really?” She scoffs. “Everyone heard about what happened to you last time you were here! There’s no way in Hell you dislocated your arm and get fixed up that fast. So what the shit are you taking? Or even better, what is Valentino giving you?”

“Nothing,” Angel lies.

Fed up with her toxicity, he stands up and begins to walk away. Valentino isn’t even here right now, and he’d rather not manifest his presence by filling his mind with thoughts of him. He’s spun a web of victims to feast on whenever he so pleases, and Angel would rather keep himself off the menu. 

“I’m not stupid,” She hisses, standing up and following him out and into the dance studio. “I know there’s something going on between you and some Overlord.” Her eyes widen, and a look of fear washes over her. “You’re trying to get out of here, aren’t you? Aren’t you gonna take us with you?”

“Um…I…” 

Angel looks out at the sea of porn actors who’ve fallen for the same trick as him. They stare up at him, eyes wide (and shimmering with tears for some) with hope. Their hearts are made of glass, and Angel fears of what they’ll do if he breaks them. The majority of them are younger than he is, still swept away in that naive belief that there are ways to get out of a deal with Overlord that don’t involve massacre. 

“Yes,” Angel whispers. He feels the word engraving a promise with a knife into his heart that he’ll have to carry out if not for their sake then for his. He won’t be able to live with himself if he’s the only one who escapes.

There’s a collective sigh of relief as many turn to each other, smile, and laugh. It’s the first time Angel has seen joy—genuine joy in the studios. It’s not relief, not satisfaction, but pure optimism that life will get better. It’s a sight that nearly brings him to tears. 

“Alright, fuckers, let’s get to work!” Valentino’s lead choreographer, a Sinner on the sterner side who also has her soul under contract but refuses to act like it, announces. She enters the room, cracking her bloody, bandaged knuckles. “You can quit it with the grinning and the giggles. Valentino says none of you little shits are leaving until you’re crawling out of this place on scraped knees.”

As quickly as the happiness starts, it fades into the usual downcast, fatigued shadow cast by this wretched building. Angel takes his position at the center of the room. He’s Valentino’s favorite, his star, his prized possession. 

[Angel]

Baby, can’t you see I’m calling?

A guy like you should wear a warning

It’s dangerous, I’m falling

There’s no escape, I can’t wait

I need a hit, baby, give me it

You’re dangerous, I’m loving it

Too high, can’t come down

Losing my head, spinning ‘round and ‘round

Do you feel me now?

With a taste of your lips, I’m on a ride

You’re toxic, I’m slipping under

With a taste of a poison paradise

I’m addicted to you

Don’t you know that you’re toxic?

And I love what you do

Don’t you know that you’re toxic?

It’s getting late to give you up

I took a sip from my devil’s cup

Slowly, it’s taking over me

Too high, can’t come down

It’s in the air and it’s all around

Can you feel me now?

With a taste of your lips, I’m on a ride

You’re toxic, I’m slipping under

With a taste of a poison paradise

I’m addicted to you

Don’t you know that you’re toxic?

And I love what you do

Don’t you know that you’re toxic?

Don’t you know that you’re toxic?

With a taste of your lips, I’m on a ride

You’re toxic, I’m slipping under

With a taste of a poison paradise

I’m addicted to you

Don’t you know that you’re toxic?

With a taste of your lips, I’m on a ride

You’re toxic, I’m slipping under

With a taste of a poison paradise

I’m addicted to you

Don’t you know that you’re toxic?

Intoxicate me now with your lovin’ now

I think I’m ready now, I think I’m ready now

Intoxicate me now with your lovin’ now

I think I’m ready now

Minutes feel like hours. Hours feel like days. Angel looks up the clock through sweaty bangs to find that ten hours have passed. He’s the only one of the dancers capable of standing. The rest lie on the ground or sit on their knees, hunched over, groaning in pain, chests heaving up and down. They haven’t taken a break. They haven’t heard the words break, or water, or relax much to the point that it feels like a foreign language to them. It feels rare, a once-in-a-lifetime treasure found only in the furthest regions of the Pride Ring; it feels like finding water in the desert, only they’d probably have better luck finding water in the desert than getting a break into the choreo.

“On your feet, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s go!” Even the lead choreographer seems out of breath as she clings to the wall to help herself stand.

Angel straightens his back. Physically, he could run a 5K. Mentally, he wants to give up. He’s ready to drop dead on the ground and get carried out on a stretcher.

All this time, he thought that the Antivenom would make him more willing to get through a day of work. Just the prospect of this little drug felt like a miracle, a godsend, a figment of imagination that had suddenly manifested into his dismal reality. Now, he just feels broken, like nothing in his body is working the way it should. He’s running on a never-ending battery, and he’s tired of it. He’s tired of how his heart keeps racing like a low-battery signal before all of his energy is replenished, a nightmarish reminder that this isn’t over yet. This isn’t over until he’s on the floor too, moaning that he’s too weak to stand. But if life carries on this way, he might never fall. He might never go home.

“Get off the ground,” The lead choreographer groans, pointing at everyone else who hasn’t budged at all.

A few stand. Some admit that they don’t want to; some say they can’t; some say nothing at all and shut their eyes as if accepting this abysmal fate they never asked for. Even the lead choreographer looks too tired to argue. With the six people she has standing up, she continues with the choreography. It takes one high kick for her to drop to the ground, completely spent. Dia collapses behind Angel; Summer rushes to her side. Through bleary vision, Angel stares at the ground littered with exhausted dancers. He wants to join them and sleep forever on the ground.

Angel pounds a fist against his chest. His heart is racing again. He expects it to reset to its regular speed within a few seconds, like it always does. Once that happens, he’ll get help. He’s the only one who can walk to the door, so he takes it upon himself to save everyone. But…it never happens.

His heart pounds with an out-of-place rhythm that up until now Angel has never felt before and determines is certainly not normal. Each beat is frantic, terrified (as much as he is), inconsistent, feral. His fingers ruffle through his fur, trying to find some way to tear the skin apart and reach the bloody organ so he can squeeze it, reset it like a clock, restore his body back to normal. All this time, he’s felt like he’s wearing someone else’s fresh skin. He needs to tear it off and find his old body. 

“Angel?” Summer looks up from the ground at him. Her gaze softens from a look of fatigue into one of concern. “Angel, are you okay?” She asks a bit louder when he doesn’t reply.

His words catch in his mouth. He tries to speak, to beg for help, to scream that something wrong is happening to him, but each phrase is yanked back into his esophagus. Each word builds up until he can’t breathe anymore. He turns to the side and throws up something dark, something thick, something wet, something acidic. The blood pounding in his ears drowns out the muffled shrieks of disgust and shock all around him. He feels like his heart has crawled its way into his head and replaced his brain so that all he can feel is this constant agonizing torrent of beatings against his skull.

I’m dying, Angel thinks, clutching his shaking hands to his chest. Holy shit, I’m dying. He gags. Fear and more of that disgusting black liquid bubble in his throat. He vomits again…and again.

Chapter Text

The Overlord of Agriculture is fast but not fast enough. As quickly as her long, lanky legs can carry her, she races up the flights of her tower towards the comfort of her room because, after all, there is nowhere safer than her bedroom. By now, so many dried corn husks, mud, dirt, and blood have accumulated in her hair and on her face that no one could’ve been able to tell who she is. She is scarred physically, as was evident from the slight limp in her faltering sprint, and also mentally. Violent, gory images play again and again in her head, making tears prick her bloodshot eyes and her lungs contract unevenly. Her head whirs back one last time to make sure she isn’t being followed by…him. No, he is not a “he” but an “it”. It is inhuman; it is feral; it is psychotic. One can assume that it’s never been a human at all, never experienced death, only witnessed and brought up the final moments of others, it never got to know but despised with every fiber in its revolting being. Perhaps, it spawned into being as the offspring of a demon worse than Lucifer himself, worse than anything Hell has and will ever see. 

She sighs with relief as soon as she reaches her bedroom doors, shuts them with a loud bang, and locks them. That had been the last of her strength. With a weak moan, she slumps down to the floor, shaking her head in disbelief that this could happen. She’s only seen this on the news, heard about these horrible incidents from other Overords who expressed their condolences for fallen companions. She never thought that she’d be targeted. 

“Leaving so soon?” says Vox.

His voice is filled with static. Barely gasping for breath, her head shoots up, and she finds Vox sitting on her bed, legs crossed, while his comrades, Valentino and Velvette, come into view, emanating a soft pink glow from their eyes, while his screen glows a bright electric blue in the eerie darkness. Vox had been furious before he got here, took over her District, and killed everything she held dear. 

“What did I do to you?!” She sobs. She must’ve lost her voice from screaming all those hours ago, for the words come out raspy and shaky. 

“You have something I want,” He says.

She shakes her head. She can’t think of anything she’s done to wrong or offend Vox. She stayed out of the conflict between him and Alastor for good reason. All this time, she thought it was doing her good, but clearly, she’s made a mistake somewhere in her past. She must’ve said something to hurt him.

“Want my advice? Close your eyes; that way you won’t see it coming.”

“See what coming—?”

The Vees flinch as the Agriculture Overlord’s head is ripped clean off her shoulders with a sickening, wet tear. Anthrax unveils himself from a shadowy corner of the ceiling and slowly lowers his exhausted body to the ground. Chasing after the Agriculture Overlord has tired him out. The dosage of Antivenom he’d taken this morning perhaps hadn’t been strong enough, and he’s feeling the effects now as his legs trembled as he approaches the now decapitated body of the Overlord. 

“That was anti-climactic,” Vox says, wiping a splotch of blood off his screen before turning away from Anthrax to face the window. He thrusts the curtains aside and stares out at the map of carmine carnage he’s turned the Overlord’s District into. 

Fires rage through the grounds, turning fields of corn to ash, and hypnotized Sinners run about with no purpose or memory of who they are. They are nothing but puppets to him, brainless puppets with no more life than a scarecrow. Unlike normal, he does not find humor in their plight. He can’t take enjoyment in anything at all and remembers why after turning from the sight of suffering Sinners to find Anthrax staring at Valentino with this pathetically weary, pathetically longing, pathetically pathetic gaze. It makes Vox sick with envy, and wrath, and lust. He wants both; he needs both. If this were a perfect world, he wouldn’t have to choose between one. Alas, this is Hell. It was the decisions he made on Earth that put him down here. He never thought that his choices post-mortem would trap him in a rut of sorts. 

“Like what you see?” Vox shouts to Anthrax, teasing him from across the room.

Anthrax whips his head around to face Vox. That pitiful glimmer in his eyes is replaced by something sinister, something savage. He swings his tail in Vox’s direction, loosening the Agriculture Overlord’s head from its silver spines. The head rolls on the ground and stops at Vox’s feet, so that its lifeless eyes stare back up at him with a frightened but offended gaze. The pupils pierce Vox’s twisted soul, scavenging in its heartless depths to find an ounce of sympathy, but there isn’t enough. There was never any to begin with.

Vox steps on the Agriculture Overlord’s head and listens for that gratifying crack of her skull breaking.

Anthrax doesn’t know where to go. He’s not standing anywhere near Vox. Velvette appears to be distancing herself from him. And Valentino…

He doesn’t know what to say or how to say it. The words will never be able to come, and what does one say after having sex with their boyfriend’s husband? No…Valentino is not his boyfriend. They are merely two business partners who forgot their priorities and their boundaries. Anthrax realigns his thoughts and peers at the empty look in Valentino’s cerise eyes from a different angle. However, there is no perspective with which he can study this picture of silent embarrassment and rage without pointing every emotion at himself. 

Cheating happens all of the time in Hell. Hearts are broken every day. Relationships hardly matter. There are over a billion souls down here to choose from. There’s plenty of fish in the sea. But there are some heartbreaks that are impossible to get over.

With a sigh and a lot of deliberation and arguing between rational and self-hating thoughts, Anthrax works up enough courage to approach Valentino. 

“Sorry, I fucked your husband,” He says. He understands that the way he’s worded his apology is dumb and might come across as insensitive; he just hopes Valentino can hear the emotion behind his voice and see the fatigue on his body from being incapable of letting go of the incident.

“It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” Anthrax questions in disbelief that Valentino has let this pass so easily.

“Yeah! I mean, I can’t be mad at you!” There is nothing besides sarcasm in Valentino’s voice. It hammers a frown into Anthrax’s face, making it impossible to put on even a half-hearted smile. “At the end of the day, I should’ve been loyal to Vox. Really, it’s my fault. I should’ve kept a better eye on you. You know…” He lights a cigarette. “You should be at the studios. I don’t trust Travis to get shit done without someone there to monitor him.” 

Anthrax coughs and swats away the puff of smoke Valentino blows into his face. “Yeah, well…” He clears his throat and steps away from the smoke before its chemicals have the chance to damage his senses. “I’m the only one who can take an Overlord.”

“Apparently!” Valentino cackles.

Anthrax’s brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“Well, if my memory serves me correctly—” He taps his chin as if he actually needs to put effort into recalling why Anthrax is talking to him in the first place. “You took another Overlord’s cock behind my back and didn’t say anything about it.”

“Vox didn’t want you to know,” Anthrax admits, even though his heart reminds him that Vox didn’t have to ask to keep their affair a secret. If everything had gone Anthrax’s way, Valentino would never have known. 

“I didn’t realize you took so many orders from Vox! What else happened? Did he tell you to suck his dick, and you said, ‘Yes, Vox! Oh, anything for you, Vox-y! Anything to get my fucking money! I’m so desperate! Fill my holes!’”

“The fuck is your problem?!” Anthrax shouts, no longer giving a damn about retaining their conversation to this blood-stained corner of the room. Velvette turns her head to see what the commotion is about, but that’s the least of Anthrax’s concerns. “You’re not my only boss!”

“Doesn’t change a damn thing, baby. I thought we had something!”

“We did!” Anthrax hisses through his teeth. “Then you made me walk home and tried to pay me to kill an ex-Overlord!”

“The deal still stands,” Valentino grimaces. He’s nowhere near finished with his cigarette, but tosses the thing to the ground and stomps it out. 

“No! And go fuck yourself for still thinking about it!” 

He considers turning Valentino’s body into the same headless, unidentifiable corpse that the Agriculture Overlord has become. It seems so easy—to be able to rip his head off with one clean tug. If he’s furious enough, he won’t even have to try. It’ll be like tearing the head off a doll. The vengeance will be bittersweet. After all, Anthrax has been the Vees’ toy for the past several months. They can wind him up and let him loose, contort his body into whatever pose satisfies them, change his clothes and his appearance, and make him stand wherever they need him. And when they’re done with him, they’ll toss him away without a care in the world. Toys are always replaceable.

“Thinking about what?” Vox asks, walking over to the two. 

“Nothing,” Anthrax mumbles, turning away from Vox. To his surprise (and gratefulness), Valentino doesn’t elaborate on anything they’ve said. 

“You know, Val, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say this is payback,” Vox remarks, screen glowing with malicious joy.

“Payback for what?” Valentino asks.

“You went for Anthrax first. And for what? To piss me off? I’d be lying if I said you weren’t successful.” Valentino turns away from Vox. He begins fishing through his pockets for another cigarette. “I could kick you off the Vees for being so reckless, but that’s when I found out that this little firecracker—” Vox seizes Anthrax’s wrist, sending a powerful electric jolt up his arm that makes his vision black out for a second. Vox holds Anthrax close and cups a clawed hand around his face. “—is actually worth breaking someone’s heart.” He chuckles. “Who needs Heaven when you have a bitch like this to come in!”

Valentino nearly crushes his new cigarette. “Say that again?” He growls.

“Really, Valentino—” Vox shoves Anthrax aside. “I figured you of all people would agree with me.”

“So you fucked him to get back at me? What makes you any better than me, then?”

“He makes a point. Val isn’t reckless enough to risk someone taking photographic proof of his affairs,” Velvette says, slides off the Agriculture Overlord’s bed, and approaches her associates. She’s been so quiet that Anthrax forgot about her. He steps back into the shadows to allow the Vees to argue without remembering that he’s here or that he (in a way) started this mess.

“Photographic proof?” Valentino raises an eyebrow. He glares at Vox. “The fuck is she talking about?”

“Your little whore took pictures of Anthrax wanking Vox in the pool,” Velvette elaborates without tearing her gaze from her phone.

Anthrax’s heart sinks. He’d forgotten about the pool and the stupid glass doors. He presses his back against the wall and slowly slides to the ground in an attempt to rethink everything. If Angel saw, surely someone else had? And if someone else saw, then…his identity is at risk. The one thing he values enough about himself is his anonymity. He can’t live anymore if he loses that.

“I’ll take care of it,” Vox says before Valentino can break down into an unstoppable tantrum about Angel. 

“You have to,” Anthrax says, lifting his face from his hands.

“See?” Velvette says, pointing at Anthrax. “Even the slut agrees.”

“I can’t believe you’ve done this…” Valentino walks past Vox and to the window as if to calm himself down with the sight of the suffering. 

Anthrax will never understand the Vees and their addiction to making others cry and wail, and hate themselves. From the beginning, he hadn’t wanted to get roped into the Vees and their shenanigans; he just wanted Valentino. Of course, you can’t have one without the other two. He should’ve known that from day one and scolds himself for holding onto the tiniest sliver of hope that one day it’d just be him and Valentino again.

“I know you think you want this, but trust me, hon, you don’t,” Velvette tells Anthrax.

It takes him a while to realize that she’s talking to him. They don’t speak often, but it’s never bothered him. He doubts it will. He’s starting to dislike her as much as the other Vees. Her constant silence and refusal to get involved, even if it’s necessary, have pissed him off since the day they met.

“What do you think I want?”

She turns to Valentino and frowns. “Out of all the people in Hell, and you went with that one?” She scoffs. “Do yourself a favor and stick to regular Sinners instead of trying to fuck with someone way above your league.”

“Easier said than done,” Anthrax whispers, pulling his legs to his chest as Vox walks past him. 

He shuts his eyes and attempts to find another outlook—perhaps a positive one—of this situation. He wants to think about anything beside the headless body lying on the ground in front of him, staring back at him with its gaping, oozing neck hole while a thick wave of blood pools around the opening and at his feet to taint his body with shame, to take hold of him and remind him of what he’s done and what he’s doing. He can’t stop killing; his life depends on it. But he can’t keep himself from wondering after every kill what the next Overlord’s death will be like and if it will, like it used to a hundred years ago, pierce his heart and rekindle a sorrow that he hasn’t tasted in so long.

Anthrax sniffles and wipes the tears from his eyes before the Vees can see and comment. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, which he feels vibrating through the fabric of his coat. Travis is calling him. He answers and does his best to adjust his voice so it doesn’t sound like he’s been crying.

Before he can speak, Travis blurts everything all at once, but none of it comes across as coherent, with the sounds of screaming and sobbing in the background. There’s only one sentence that Anthrax hears, and it makes his blood turn to ice and his heart stop. 

“Something’s wrong with Angel.”

Chapter Text

Anthrax shoves past the crowd of distressed cast and crew members who all huddle around Angel, uselessly remarking on how awful he looks lying on the ground, gasping for air as he convulses uncontrollably. He’s frothing at the mouth; his eyes are wide and panicked, pupils widened to form two giant dots of pink that dart in every direction as if he’s crying for help with his eyes. 

As far as Anthrax knows, this has never happened to anyone before. But that’s because the Antivenom has never been given to anyone else. Cydani hadn’t tested it on anyone except for Anthrax, but because no problems had ever arisen besides the spike in heart rate following the injection of the substance, a heightened libido, and a slight weakness. The Antivenom never came with instructions on how to take it or warnings on the potential side effects. For Anthrax, the injection is a gamble as to whether or not it’ll succeed in relieving his suffering; Anthrax just never thought it would be a gamble with death for others.

“What the fuck is going on?!” Valentino shouts, pushing people to the ground to reach Angel. As soon as he lays eyes on his star, his favorite employee, his “Angel Cakes”, he drops to his knees and cradles Angel, who appears to be fading in and out of consciousness, in his arms to keep him from twitching. “Do something!” He screams at the horde of Sinners who can only stand and gawk at the horrific spectacle. 

“This isn’t supposed to happen,” Anthrax whispers. He falls to the ground beside Valentino and Angel and begins rifling through his bag for any kind of remedy. He considers taking out his phone to look up how to help Angel, but then remembers, stomach contorting itself into a knot that sinks to his feet, that he’s the only one in the room who knows what could’ve caused this. Anthrax pulls out the ingredient list of the Antivenom. By now, the hundred-year-old paper is yellowing and crumpled. The dark calligraphy written across the faded lines has been smudged and is incoherent except for the word “scorpion venom”. 

Anthrax’s eyes widen. He whips his head around to face Angel. His face is wet, not damp, with sweat, and if he looks hard enough, he can see that the injection site on Angel’s thigh is swollen, red, and teeming with tiny black veins. He’s seen this before. It’s all a reaction to his venom and a violent one at that.

“What isn’t supposed to happen? What the fuck did you do?!” Valentino shrieks at Anthrax. 

“I—”

Angel lets out a sickening guttural cough. He hacks up a thick, dark liquid onto Valentino’s coat. This elicits some shrieks from the audience, who tear themselves away from the scene to throw up. Valentino doesn’t break away from Angel, not even as his wings are soiled with saliva, unnaturally-colored vomit, and tears. He holds Angel close as if it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance.

Panting, Anthrax draws enough grit and sanity to remember how to fix this. This isn’t the first time that someone has had an adverse reaction to his venom, and while the steps seem contradictory, he’s determined that this will work. Anthrax pulls a needle out of his bag, stabs it into the mere sliver of skin on his arm that isn’t overcome by the stinging black veins who twist around his limbs like kudzu on a wall, and draws blood. 

“Hurry!” Valentino orders Anthrax, trying to hold Angel still while his body twists as if to escape Valentino’s grip. 

Now that he knows the kind of person that Valentino is, Anthrax can’t blame Angel. He tears the needle out of his arm, offers a slight prayer that his blood will contain enough antibodies to his own venom that this will work, and impales Angel’s other leg with the needle. 

Within the next several seconds, Angel’s body freezes up. His eyes take on this glazed-over look. It seems that all at once he’s stopped breathing, for his chest no longer heaves up and down with sporadic vigor. The room falls silent, and in response to Angel’s lack of movement, it seems as though everyone has also stopped breathing. Although his arm throbs with pain from the needle and some droplets of fresh blood roll down his forearm, Anthrax is unwilling to budge a muscle until he confirms that his solution has worked.

“Is he dead?” Travis asks. He stands in the very corner of the room by the door as if to protect himself from Valentino’s wrath whenever this situation blows over—if it ever blows over. It doesn’t matter if Angel heals or not; Travis is as good as dead, and there’s no way he can outrun Valentino in his wheelchair.

Before Anthrax can check Angel’s pulse, the spider demon abruptly rolls onto his side and pukes up the rest of the black substance before gasping for air. His pupils contract to their normal sizes. The room lets out a collective sigh of relief. Anthrax finds that the walls feel less constricting and instinctively wants to hug Angel, but, judging by that frightened look in his eyes, which can only be compared to that of a small child lost in the woods, understands that it’s best to give Angel some distance while he recovers.

Angel studies the room frantically. He scrutinizes the bed he’s been fucked on probably a thousand times now, the audience of relieved but still worried Sinners whom he’s had to work with just about every day for the past forty years now, and the posters of this desirable, androgynous symbol of lust. He questions whether he’s been replaced while he was unconscious. The demon staring back at him in every poster… It can’t be him, can it? He used to be beautiful, tailored to be Valentino’s impeccable little prize. His fur was always groomed; any flaws (not that there were many external ones) were covered up with makeup; his body was perfect. Something must be wrong because through the reflection of Valentino’s sunglasses, he finds this embarrassingly fucked-up replication of his once gorgeous self looking back at him. This figure, their eyes are bloodshot and dark; their hair is matted and bloody; from their teeth drips this dark oozing liquid; their thighs are bruised and sore and appear infected. 

That’s not me, right? Angel ponders, shock inhibiting his ability to speak. That isn’t me. Oh, please, let that not be me!

Angel lacks the energy to stand. He doesn’t realize that until he feels Valentino and Anthrax hoist his limp body off the ground and carry him to his dressing room. His legs are dead, practically non-existent, and he flops on top of the covers of his room like a rag doll as soon as Anthrax and Valentino let go. 

“Oh, baby, you scared me so much!” Valentino exclaims, putting his arm over Angel’s waist and peppering the side of his face with kisses. “I thought I lost you!”

“Take it easy on him,” Anthrax remarks, standing by the door, although his comment was highly unwanted by Valentino, which was made apparent by the death glare Valentino gives him for speaking.

“What did you do to him?”

“N-nothing, I…” Anthrax exhales. “I thought it would help, considering the last time he went to work, you beat him so badly that he could barely breathe. Pinche pendejo—” He grumbles, leaving his position by the door to pace the room in a circle. Angel can’t watch him for very long, otherwise he’ll get dizzy. His stomach still feels weak, and it seems that just about anything will make him gag, especially Valentino’s smoky cherry scent, which assaults his senses every time Valentino tries to get any closer to him. “—You waited until I was gone to hurt him, didn’t you?”

“Don’t think either of you is off the hook yet! I know both of you have been working together to oppose me, huh? He—” Valentino gestures to Angel “—wants me dead, and you just want to fuck up my dignity, isn’t that right? You two cunts have been in cahoots all along! Oh, fuck me for thinking I could trust you for a second!”

“So what the fuck are you gonna do about it, Val?” Anthrax’s voice both deepens and grows quieter. He sits backwards in the chair placed in front of Angel’s dresser. “You gonna beat him up again three days before you stupidass concert, or are you gonna attempt to kick my ass, but you and I both know that nothing good will come out of either of those fights.”

Valentino turns to Angel and strokes his hand through Angel’s tangled fur. Angel can barely see the two, much less hear them. He doesn’t know what their facial expressions are like, and his memory cuts in and out, making it impossible for him to clearly recall why they’re so pissed off with each other. Last he remembers, they’re fucking each other behind Vox’s back, or maybe they were. Maybe something happened. Maybe he happened. Perhaps, he did something again to ruin their relationship, for that seems to be all Angel is ever good for—fucking things up, fucking up others’ lives first, and then his own.

“Take him back to that bullshit hotel,” Valentino says before leaving.

As soon as Valentino leaves, Angel begins shaking, not seizing but shivering. He doesn’t even feel cold, though.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” He whispers, for that’s the only power with which he can speak. 

“Shh, shh, you’re recovering,” Anthrax replies in a similarly low voice. Angel feels grateful; Valentino’s screaming only made his throbbing migraine a million times worse.

“I thought it would work.”

“Me, too,” Anthrax says. He purses his lips and stares down at Angel with an abundance of sympathy. “I’m really sorry.”

Angel doesn’t have enough energy to be vengeful. He accepts the apology and hopes to never bring this up to anyone, especially not Husk. Husk already warned him about the consequences of affiliating with the Overlord Killer, but Angel didn’t listen. He expects Husk to be furious upon learning the truth, which is why he intends to keep it a secret when he returns to the hotel. Cherri Bomb is a good liar, and now that she’s staying with him at the hotel, she’ll be able to keep anyone from getting too suspicious. 

“Can you do me a favor?” Angel asks.

“Anything,” Anthrax replies.

“Can I have a mirror?” Angel extends his hand to Anthrax, who nods, pulls out a pocket mirror, and hands it to Angel.

Tears well in Angel’s eyes as he catches a quick glimpse of his reflection. It matches exactly with the image of that ruined figure in Valentino’s sunglasses. It hurts to cry; it hurts to come to the truth; it hurts to realize how far he’s fallen. He snaps the mirror shut and forces it back into Anthrax’s hands.

“I’m sorry,” Anthrax whispers again, sounding as though he’s on the verge of tears himself.

Anthrax can apologize all he wants. The real person that Angel will never be able to forgive is himself.

Chapter Text

Anthrax helps Angel hobble back to the hotel. The task is slow, painful, and daunting as Angel worries that just about any action on his part might trigger the seizures again. Anthrax assures him that if he hasn’t had another seizure since the injection of the real antivenom, then he won’t have any in the near future. Despite the fact that Anthrax is an expert when it comes to scorpion venom, Angel doesn’t trust the mildly unsure, wavering quality of his voice. It reeks of doubt, a luxury Angel can’t afford to have anymore. It nearly cost him his life, his job, and his dignity. Angel wonders how in hell he’s supposed to help his coworkers escape Valentino if he can’t even go a day without almost every week rendering himself incapable of working. He misses more days of work than Clitorissa, and speaking of…where the hell has she run off to?

Angel debates asking Anthrax about Clitorissa’s whereabouts, but comes up with an even better question. “Anthrax, why are you helping me?”

Anthrax avoids Angel’s eyes. He answers quickly, “I was like you once.” Then he sighs. It’s a prolonged sound that turns into a frustrated grunt. It’s clear he doesn’t want to tell Angel this, but he adds through gritted teeth, “I am like you.”

Angel finds that hard to believe. Anthrax has all of the power in the world but doesn’t want to use it; Angel has nothing. Anthrax could take on Hell’s royalty and could put up a damn good fight; Angel can’t even make a snide remark about his boss without leaving work with a bruise on both eyes and a busted lip. Anthrax is free but seems to insist on spending all of his hours with three of the worst Overlords Hell has ever seen; Angel is trapped and wants nothing more than to get as far away from the Vees as possible. 

“How?” Angel blurts.

“I, too, was affiliated with the wrong people because I was young and naive and stupid.”

“Ouch.” Angel considered his younger self young and naive when he signed the contract with Valentino, but stupid seemed a bit harsh. “Who’d you fuck with? The Vees?”

“Darling, I’ve been around longer than the Vees have been alive. I could kill them if I wanted to.”

“So why don’t you?”

“I don’t really have much apart from the Vees.” 

“You have the hotel,” Angel says as the towering building starts to come into view. It radiates an amiable, comforting, familial vibe. Everytime he sees it, Angel feels like he ought to be sitting around a warm fire with a cup of tea. The place is genuine, a bit cobbled together, yes, but it’s home. 

“No, you have the hotel,” Anthrax snaps, shutting the idea down before Angel can elaborate on his journey towards a life of cleanliness and somewhat sobriety thanks to the hotel. 

“So why the fuck are you staying with us? Hell, you spend most of your nights at the V Tower.”

“Not now. I need a break from the Vees, and anyways I need to keep an eye on you.” They reach the front doors, but before Angel can pull the door open, Anthrax slides his barbed tail between the bars, preventing Angel from opening the doors or even considering putting his hand anywhere near them. “Speaking of eyes…Velvette tells me that you have pictures of Vox and me on your phone.”

“Why the hell would I have pictures of you and Vox on—?” Angel’s heart sinks. The memories come flooding back. He understands why Valentino must’ve been so furious with Anthrax today. He connects that with the bite marks on Anthrax’s thighs from this morning which are now hidden by his long black coat, but it’s impossible for Angel to forget them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Angel says, hoping that if he sounds oblivious enough Anthrax will let him pass.

“You don’t have pictures of us?”

“No.” Angel shakes his head meekly. “Can I go inside now?”

“If or when I find that you’ve lied to me and have showed people these images, I’m going to make you wish you OD’d today.” 

Anthrax backs Angel up against the door. Angel looks down at the blood-stained spines coating Anthrax’s tails. If, for over a century, they’ve been able to slice through Sinners with no struggle, Angel imagines that Anthrax will have no problem slaughtering him right here on the front porch of the hotel. Angel tenses and backs as far away from Anthrax’s livid gaze as he can. 

“Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes,” Angel replies. He can’t stand the fact that Anthrax smells like cherry. 

“Good,” Anthrax says, removing his tail from the door handles and pushing the doors open. “Take it easy tonight, Angel. I’d advise staying away from alcohol for the next twenty-four hours just to see how your body responds.” 

“Responds to what?” Niffty remarks, sweeping around Anthrax and Angel’s feet. 

Angel smiles. It feels like he hasn’t seen Niffty in ages, and above all, is glad that he’s able to see her again instead of knowing how grieved she’d be if she found out that he died today. Anthrax, who isn’t so keen on having his shoes dusted off by Niffty’s cobweb infested feather duster but still attempts to be polite, offers her a small smile before stepping over her and retreating to his room without another word.

“You know, he’s not so scary when you get to know him,” Niffty says, crawling up the side of Angel’s body and sitting on his shoulder.

“No, he’s still pretty scary,” Angel says, recalling the conversation—threat moreso—they had outside. “Where’s Cherri?”

“She left. Turf war.”

Angel shakes his head in disbelief. While he admires her adamancy to fix Angel’s problem with Valentino, he doesn’t believe that Cherri risking the territory she has already worked her ass off to gain by throwing herself into turf wars almost daily will make his life (or hers) any better. By now, he’s sure that the constant fighting is a coping mechanism for her. No wannabe Overlord she’ll ever face will be like Pentious and mimic the fights that they had. 

“But Husk is in your room,” Niffty adds.

“He’s WHAT?!”

“Shh!” She holds her finger to her lips and points at the second floor. “Everyone is asleep.”

Angel gently shakes Niffty off his shoulder. She watches Angel confusedly as he sets her on the ground carefully and starts towards the stairs, meandering over the right way to begin his conversation with Husk. He worries that his heels might be too loud, but then again, that Antivenom has rendered his senses oversensitive. 

He can hear the slight sizzle of the orange-pink candles in the halls flickering left and right. He can hear the sound of his own tremulous breathing and the blood pounding in his ears to the beat of each of his wary footsteps. Worst of all, he can hear static buzzing as a radio hums to life. He smells blood, raw flesh, rotten flesh. It gets closer and closer to him, forcing him to walk faster, to have the clicks of his heels on the ground echo a bit louder every time in order to drown out the buzzing, the whispering, the whoosh of the candles being snuffed out behind him. Angel reminds himself that he just needs to reach his room before the lights go out. As soon as he’s in the darkness, he’ll be left alone to whatever sinister plan Alastor has in store for him. Each candle disappears faster and faster, erasing any feeling of geniality Angel initially felt towards the hotel. 

By the time he reaches his room (or what he hopes is his room), all of the lights in this hellish hall have disappeared. Angel fumbles around for the doorknob, blindly groping the darkness for the texture of the steel handle protruding from the wooden door. While gasping for air and swearing furiously at the fact that his hands at still trembling, he at last, manages to grip the doorknob and violently tugs it to the side. He pushes the door open and rushes into Husk’s arms. Husk appears startled at first but eventually embraces the hug and walks Angel away from the door. 

“Alastor doesn’t sleep?” Angel asks.

Husk shakes his head. “As far as I know, the bastard has never needed to. Now’s a bad time to wander the halls.”

“Is this Alastor’s “stalking time”?” Angel questions, still annoyed with Alastor for turning into a complete asshole ever since he and Husk have started talking…well, they’ve done more than just “talked”.

“You must not have heard then,” Husk says. “Another Overlord’s been murdered. The Overlord of Agriculture. She was found decapitated.”

Angel gasps. The blood on Anthrax’s tail makes more sense, and it only makes his skin crawl knowing no more than a few hours ago Anthrax had saved him but had stolen another’s life a little while before. 

“Anthrax…” Angel whispers.

“Her and Alastor weren’t friends, but that didn’t mean they didn’t enjoy each other’s presence.” Husk sighs. “What I’m trying to say is that Alastor is getting scared now. If Charlie’s right about her theories, and the Vees are involved in these murders, then it’s safe to assume that they might be coming after Alastor next.”

Angel has lost a lot of sympathy for Alastor over time, but he can’t imagine what the hotel would be like without that charming yellow-toothed grin. Alastor has protected the hotel from harm too many times to count. He’s good at his job even if he isn’t an inherently good person. Above all, Charlie likes him, and it’s hard to change Charlie’s opinion of a person unless they directly do something in front of her. Anthrax is proof of this fact. Had she listened to everyone’s warnings about keeping an absolute monster under her roof, perhaps life would be different. Maybe it’d be easier to sleep.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll sleep on it,” Angel says, brushing past Husk. He starts towards his bed to lie down and hopefully imagine something fantastical in his sleep that’ll block out all of the day’s horrors.

“That’s all?” Husk asks.

Angel nods. He kisses Husk on the cheek. “Good night. See you in the morning.”

He flicks his hand upwards as a meager effort to wave, then sits on the edge of the bed. After that, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Typically, he takes his boots off first, but he doesn’t feel comfortable showing anyone, especially not someone he likes as much as Husk, his feet.

“So I guess you’re not going to talk about this?” Husk says, extending his hand to Angel. He’s holding the syringe with the dosage of Antivenom that Angel took this morning. Seeing it again makes him flinch as he relives that excruciating period of sickness during which he thought he would die in Valentino’s arms, perhaps the most shameful second death he can think of.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Angel asks, reaching out to snatch the syringe out of Husk’s hands as if he believes that somehow by putting the dirty object out of sight, Husk will forget about it. His mistake won’t matter anymore, neither will the consequences.

Husk pulls his hand away from Angel. “Niffty found it while cleaning your room. She was concerned, and I am, too.”

“It’s none of your business,” Angel snaps.

“What’s it for?”

“It’s a new pain medication, but I’m done with it now.”

“Where’d you get it from?”

“No one! Just give it back!”

“Angel, this shit looks like it’s from the 19th century! I’m damn sure that it isn’t clean. So who gave it to you, and what did you use it for?”

“It’s nothing! And stay the flying fuck out of my life! I don’t need you!” 

Angel successfully snatches the needle out of Husk’s hand, but crushes it in his own hand. The syringe is glass, and thanks to its age, just a little bit of pressure is enough to cause it to break. Angel stares down at his quaking hand, at the shards of glass piercing the fabric of his gloves and his skin. He can feel them impaling his skin, but the humiliation cuts deeper. Angel drops to his knees. He sits on the ground with his legs in a mildly uncomfortable W-shape and chews the inside of his mouth to keep himself from crying.

“I know you don’t mean that,” Husk says in a significantly calmer voice. 

“You don’t know anything about me,” Angel says, gripping his hand tightly as the agony in his palm travels down to his wrist. 

“I know that this isn’t your fault, Legs.” 

“I just wanted to go one day…” Angel’s breath hitches. He blinks rapidly, then stares up at the ceiling while the tears flow down his cheeks. “One day without being in pain.” 

“I’m going to get you a day like that,” Husk says, sitting on the ground beside Angel. 

Angel wants to believe that. He wishes he had the patience to try to make it through another day under the delusion that life will get better, but that simply can’t be the case. He may have the day off tomorrow, but the following day will be as hellish as today. The Vees may have a concert in three days, but it won’t matter because he’ll have work right after. There’s no break, not even at the hotel, where even the Overlords there seem to want him dead.

“You know, Legs, you’re right. I don’t know anything about you,” Husk says while cleaning up the wound on Angel’s hand. Angel winces as the soap reaches his cuts, stinging the bloody openings in his skin.

“So?” Angel hisses, retracting his hand from the faucet, pelting his broken skin with cold water.

“So I want to get to know you. I want to be more than just people who hook up every once and a while.” Husk rolls his eyes at the thought. “I want to be around you, Angel.”

“But why?” Angel asks, avoiding the sight of his mangled hand and instead focusing on his ruined face in the bathroom mirror. He still can’t believe that he’s looking at himself. He wants to imagine that the thing staring back at him with its contused and tear-streaked face, discolored thighs, smudged makeup, and knotted fur, its piteous frown, its fearful eyes, and its worn-out gaze is nothing more than a hallucination—a really, really, really realistic hallucination. “I look awful.” 

“Says who?” Husk asks, bandaging Angel’s hand. He sounds offended.

“No one,” Angel mumbles, avoiding Husk’s eyes. Even though no one has said it to his face, he knows that’s exactly what everyone is thinking when he returns to work with bandages engulfing his hand or when he has to limp out of the V Tower. 

“It pains me to see you be so rough on yourself.”

“That’s all I’ve ever known,” Angel says, tracing the remnants of the chipped tooth in the back of his mouth. Valentino said he would find someone to fix it, but Angel isn’t so keen on adding another gold tooth. He already wears and dresses and acts however the hell Valentino wants him to be, like a puppet; he doesn’t need Valentino to alter his body any further.

“Doesn’t have to be, and I definitely don’t want it to be.” 

After Husk finishes wrapping Angel’s hand in gauze, Angel takes a brief moment to stare down at the blood soaking through the fabric. Breath trembling, he tears his gaze away. It hardly matters—his injury; he’s sure he’ll have a worse one by tomorrow or in a week.

“There’s no way to escape, is there?” Angel asks, looking up at Husk with bleary, tear-filled eyes. He can hardly see Husk’s face through his hazy vision, but can make out an equally despondent expression. 

“There’s no easy way to escape, but there are ways. I’ve heard from—” Husk falls silent. His slitted pupils dart around the room cautiously for a couple of breathtaking, disquieting moments of near-soundlessness, accompanied solely by what Angel believes is static buzzing up and down the halls. “—someone that the Vees aren’t in a good spot right now. After Charlie publicly called them out about being involved in the Overlord murders, some of the other Overlords are starting to get suspicious.

“Where did you hear this from?” Angel hadn’t realized it at first, but his voice had dropped to a whisper. 

“Alastor—”

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Angel’s heart jumps into his throat. He and Husk peek out of the bathroom and wait with bated breath for a continuation of the noises or the silence that follows them. There’s an unmistakable addition of distorted humming to a song from the 20s or perhaps the 30s. 

“Hide!” Angel whispers to Husk. 

He rushes to the door, hoping that the sooner he can attend to Alastor’s late-night needs, the quicker he can get him to leave. He opens the door. Standing there, just as he suspected, is Alastor, grinning from ear to ear but looking rather impatient. It hasn’t been more than ten seconds since he started knocking on the door, but Angel hides his frustration with a fatigued smile and a fake yawn.

“Alastor…you just woke me up. Something wrong?” Angel has always been a good actor.

Alastor sighs. “There’s nothing wrong at all. I just heard some sounds coming from your room, and I wanted to ensure that everything was alright.”

“Yeah, I’m good. I just got home late. Long day of work, you know?” Angel laughs to cover up the awkwardness. He rarely has private conversations with Alastor, and none of them turn out very well. 

Alastor narrows his eyes. No, he doesn’t know. “You must talk to yourself then.”

“What?”

“I heard you arguing with someone.” He looks ahead at the empty bedroom and scans every light, every shadow, every piece of furniture for a sign of something. Even though he hasn’t touched anything, Angel sees this as no different than if Alastor were to just ransack all of his stuff. 

“Maybe you’re just the tired one then,” Angel says, stepping in front of Alastor and blocking his ability to invade his privacy any further. “It’s just me tonight unless…” He smirks. He hasn’t flirted with Alastor in a while, but the thought of it now is genius. He starts to unbutton his blazer, and Alastor’s face flushes pink. “You wanted to join me, Smiles?”

Alastor backs out of the doorway and into the blackness of the hallway. “Absolutely not! Good night, Angel!” He turns down the hall and briskly leaves.

Angel retreats into his room with a smirk, shuts his door, and locks it for good measure. He turns to face Husk, who sits on the edge of Angel’s bed, with a proud smile.

“You know, if you ever need someone to take care of your boss, I’m always open to help!”

Husk laughs. “I’ll be sure to take you up on the offer. Let’s just handle your boss before we start dealing with any of my problems.”

Angel sits beside Husk. They sit in silence for a moment. They know what needs to be discussed—Valentino, the Overlord murders, how to end a contract. But what else is there to be said that won’t ruin their days any further? 

Angel relaxes. He sprawls across his bed with his arm dangling off the edge and his head resting on Husk’s lap. He stares up at the ceiling, fixating so hard on the pink lights overhead that he starts to see spots. 

“Husk, I’m scared,” he admits. 

“Me too, kid. Me too.” 

“You don’t ever act scared.” Angel shakes his head, finding it hard to believe that Husk isn’t lying to reassure him. 

“Being scared for you keeps me from going out and killing your boss myself.”

“Hm.” Angel does like the idea of that. Anthrax would kill Valentino only for the money; Husk would do it out of love. Angel hopes this is out of love. He’s never had anyone genuinely love him. He’s never sat in a bedroom with someone for this long without having sex with them. “When Valentino dies, what am I going to do with my life?” Angel doesn’t know what’s gotten into him to ask so many poignant questions. He chalks it up to near-death experiences casting this ominous shadow of pessimism on him.

“You can sleep as late as you want,” Husk says, gently untangling Angel’s fur as he brushes his fingers through his hair. “You can relax. You won’t have to be in pain all of the time. You can stay with me.”

Angel smiles. “I’d like that very much.”

[Angel]

Wise men say

Only fools rush in

But I can’t help falling in love with you

Shall I stay?

Would it be a sin

If I can’t help falling in love with you?

Like a river flows

Surely to the sea

Darling, so it goes

Some things are meant to be

[Husk]

Take my hand

Take my whole life, too

For I can’t help falling in love with you

Like a river flows

Surely to the sea

Darling, so it goes

Some things are meant to be

[Angel, Husk]

Take my hand

Take my whole life, too

For I can’t help falling in love with you

For I can’t help falling in love with you

Chapter Text

Husk can’t take his eyes off of Angel’s bruised thighs, but not in a perverted way. He’s seen those token markings many times before, but never expected to find them on someone like Angel. They were more prominent last night, appearing as aggressively as a crack in a phone screen, but now they are faded. They look like shadows embedded in his skin. There’s only one Sinner with marks like that (and in the same places, too). Husk knows them well enough to have an idea of where they go during the day, but not what they do with their day. Nevertheless, he sees this matter as urgent. There’s only so much time left before the Vees’ concert, which has been violently advertised all throughout the Pride Ring via billboards, flyers, commercials, pestering emails, and phone calls. 

Husk sits up in Angel’s bed and slowly lifts his arm off the slumbering spider demon’s body without waking him. He isn’t surprised that Angel can sleep so peacefully after yesterday’s chaos. He’s been through a lot. Well…more than a lot. He’s been through too much, and it’s time for that to end. Before Husk leaves the room, he presses a kiss against Angel’s forehead. 

Husk hopes to leave the hotel without being stopped by anyone. A delay in time—even if it’s short—is a delay nevertheless. While his plan is impromptu, he wants it to go perfectly because any flaw can cost him his life and, more importantly, Angel’s life. But by now, Husk is accustomed to his hopes and dreams never seeing the light of day again…like now.

“Ah, Husker, my good friend! What a lovely morning this is, wouldn’t you say?” Alastor says.

Husk stops by the front door, his paw mere inches from the handle.

“And where are you off to? We haven’t even had breakfast yet!”

Husk turns around to face Alastor and his exuberant, morning grin, which is no doubt a cover-up for all of the ways he’s considering turning Husk inside out for going about his day without revealing every single tiny detail down to the second he plans on returning to the hotel.

“I just have a couple of errands to run.”

“I don’t have any errands,” Alastor remarks, presenting himself as nothing more than an oblivious child as he sways back and forth on his cane and puts pressure on its already unstable shaft. After being shattered by Adam, Alastor put the thing back together with some flimsy tape and a bit of magic, and it’s a miracle that it hasn’t broken again with the way Alastor carelessly puts all of his weight onto it.

“It’s an errand for myself,” Husk elaborates, stepping closer to the door. 

Alastor’s eye twitches slightly as though he’s baffled by the idea of Husk having a life outside of him. And he is.

“Where do you intend to go so early in the morning? Who’s to run the bar?”

“Someone else will take care of it, and, look, it doesn’t matter where I’m going. I shouldn’t be gone too long. Tell Charlie not to worry about me.”

And with that, he leaves, hoping that Alastor’s admiration for the princess will motivate him to stay put. After hearing no sound of footsteps or the crackle of a radio, Husk continues on his journey unhurriedly so as not to draw attention to himself. VoxTek drones hover throughout the sky, peering into windows and peepholes and just about any crevice or opening their zooming cameras can find. It’s no secret to all of Pride that Husk is affiliated with Alastor and that Alastor is affiliated with the hotel. It gives him an extra sense of protection, a need not to feel worried as he ambles through the streets of Hell, but it doesn’t remove his paranoia. If Alastor wants to follow him, there’s no stopping him. There’s a high chance that Alastor is following him right now.

Just before Husk crosses the barrier into the Entertainment District, he looks over his shoulder. There’s no sign of the Radio Demon, but he’s not fully satisfied, and he might never be, especially not as he enters the Entertainment District, a section of Pride known for a complete lack of privacy, dignity, and sanity. Hell, you can find more of that in the Lust Ring, but here? Debauchery knows no bounds.

Husk ignores the sight of two skimpily dressed prostitutes waving to him from an alley. The letter V is tattooed (or maybe branded) on their upper thighs. To his right is a massive billboard illuminated in hot pink stage lights, advertising one of Angel’s new movies. He diverts his gaze from the billboard, finding it difficult and frankly disgraceful to see Angel portrayed as this sultry sex icon or this innocent young virgin getting manhandled by a bunch of criminals. 

When Husk gets his hands on Valentino…it’ll be a bloodbath, and he looks forward to making that sick freak suffer in any way he can. If today is successful, he’ll be a step closer to that glorious outcome.

The V Tower is not hard to find with its neon pink-tinted windows, luminescent exterior, multicolored LED signs, and its conveniently placed location—damn smack in the middle of the District. But now that he’s here, Husk realizes that it’s going to be a lot more difficult getting into the building and where he needs to be without someone spotting him as Alastor’s lackey. 

He sneaks around to the back of the building, out of the line of sight of the drones standing guard at the front of the tower. Many take the form of tiny video cameras with helicopter blades; others are monumental structures piloted by hypnotized Sinners who roam through the sky like hawks. Husk doesn’t say it out loud, but he starts to sympathize with Alastor’s hatred for technology, most especially Vox, who has a giant countdown clock for the concert displayed on one of the other skyscrapers in his District. It mimics the countdown to Extermination Day, making Husk’s skin crawl.

Even more cautiously than before (for there is a high-voltage fence guarding the building), he moves to one of the poorly lit back alleys. There’s still enough light to see a door leading to Porn Studios, and if Husk’s suspicions are correct, the Sinner he needs should be on that floor. If only he could get past the fence…

Husk jumps at the sound of loud arguing from the other end of the door. He hides behind a dumpster just in time to avoid being spotted, but is also able to perfectly hear and see Anthrax dragging out the body of Sinner while he mutters to himself in Spanish about how much he hates the Vees.

While alive, Husk picked up many languages. As a gambler, he found himself affiliating with people of many backgrounds, especially when he was dead, so these skills came in handy. He knows Russian, German, Mandarin Chinese, Japanese, Italian (but has yet to show Angel), and Spanish. 

Husk narrows his eyes on Anthrax, who pauses his complaining to haul the corpse into the dumpster without a care for how her body slams against the metal rims before being sloppily laid to rest on top of a bunch of garbage bags. Anthrax curses the smell, dusts his pants off, and turns his back to leave, but Husk isn’t about to let him escape just yet.

Husk waits until Anthrax’s back is fully turned to pounce on the oblivious killer. He wraps his hands around Anthrax’s chest and drags him away from the building and into the alley while covering Anthrax’s mouth with his tail to muffle his screams. Anthrax squirms and attempts to fight back, but all he gets is Husk stepping on his bladed tail and a mouthful of feathers when he attempts to bite down on Husk’s tail. 

“Shut the fuck up!” Husk shouts, pinning Anthrax to the wall. He holds one of his cards to Anthrax’s neck and draws a bit of blood, but Anthrax doesn’t stop writhing and shouting that he’s going to kill Husk as soon as he gets the chance…until Husk slaps him so hard across the face that tears well in his eyes. 

He falls silent, very silent. Husk wonders if he’s knocked the ability to breathe out of him, too, as he stares down at his hand before refocusing his attention on the stunned Overlord Killer.

“I don’t want to hurt you, and I’m not going to use this—” He gestures to the card at Anthrax’s throat. “—if and only if you calm down. Are we on the same page?”