Devil’s Backbone

by Rarelyput2gether

Summary:

A series of mistakes landed Husk in a cell and shaking hands with the Devil himself. Alastor agrees to Vox’s proposal. Charlie is stepping into the political world with a plan for the future. Vaggie wants to repay the princess. Angel Dust makes a deal he is sure he’ll regret

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Tags will be added as the story progresses (and when I get better at tagging). First fanfic on this site (and in years)! Drawings on my tumblr @rarelyput2gether

Notes:

Hello! This is my first fanfic on this site and in the last 10 years. I was inspired to hop back in when I was watching a video critiquing this show (I like picking apart the things I like; sue me) and one particular comment on the video said “Hell looks empty”. I was inclined to agree and started sketching how I pictured an overpopulated hell, then I started drawing the characters in it, and finally a story emerged.

Back in my fanfiction days, I wrote a lot of rare/crack pairings so I wanted to continue that and took my favorite characters and put them together. There were a couple of stories about Husk/Lucifer brewing in my head, this one just took over.

Even with my problems with the show, I still like it and I wanted to try my best to do it justice. This is an alternate universe and the Heaven/Hell conflict is different, particularly there’s no exorcist coming down but there is an ongoing war that takes inspiration from the Bible and Christian Mythology. I should add I am a sex therapist and I’m drawing some inspiration from my clients to some of these characters.

Chapter 1: Prologue: A deal with the Devil

The faint sounds of water dripping are heard echoing against the damp walls.  The cell is small, almost claustrophobic, with rough, damp walls that exude a perpetual doom. The air is thick with a scent of mold, decay, and death; it is hard to breathe. A single, rusted iron door with a small, barred window is the only connection of escape to the outside world.

 

The room is dark, save for the faint flickering lights on the outside casting eerie shadows, barely illuminating the cell’s interior. The prisoner could barely make out the detail of the interior, despite the enhanced night vision.

 

It is hot and muggy. The warm, moist air clings on to his fur. The cold stone walls provide little relief from the muggy heat.

 

 

The floor is uneven and covered in a thin layer of grime and straw, which serves as a makeshift bed for any unfortunate occupant. In one corner, a primitive, rusted iron bucket serves as a toilet, adding to the stench. The ceiling is low, causing taller prisoners to stoop.

 

The cell is silent except for the occasional distant drip of water and the scurrying of unseen hell rodents. They’re ugly creatures, misshaped forms of their earthly counterparts. The stone walls are etched with desperate marks and crude drawings made by previous prisoners, evidence of long-forgotten attempts to keep track of time or maintain a semblance of sanity.

 

In this oppressive darkness, the feeling of isolation is overwhelming, and the cell seems to close in, suffocating any hope of escape or rescue. Not like he’ll attempt one, or see anyone coming for him, not in this predicament. 

 

A paw runs down his face as he lies awake in the itchy haystack. He shifts to his side, making the straw scratch against the concrete floors. Crooked wings flutter out, feathers sticking out, as a way to get away from his own body weight. There’s an underwhelming anger brewing underneath him; there’s so much he wants to be angry about, whom he wants to be angry about. His snout twists into a snarl.

 

I should have never-

 

He sighs. Is there a point in getting worked up? He couldn’t tell how much time has past but he knows it is closing in on him, just like the walls keeping him contained, barely enough room to stretch his wings. Time seems to be nonexistent down here in the underworld, even more so in this prison cell. 

 

Alone in the dark, the world dissolves into a shroud of velvet black, where shadows whisper secrets to the night. Silence stretches like an endless abyss, heavy and profound, wrapping around the soul with an eerie intimacy. Each one of his breaths is a fragile echo, a soft reminder of his sorry existence in the vast, consuming void.

 

The darkness presses close, a tangible presence that cloaks the senses, amplifying the beat of his solitary heart. Time loses its meaning, moments stretching into eternity, while the mind dances on the edge of imagination and reality. Unseen, the darkness breathes its cool breath, chilling the skin and stirring the smallest hairs in a delicate caress.

 

Shit. How long has he been down here? The only indication that time has moved on is his growing hunger and signs of missing alcohol. His stomach twists in pain at the empty contents of his stomach. 

 

Husk lay on the scratchy material in his small, dimly lit prison cell, staring at the wall with bloodshot eyes. The room is still quiet except for the faint trickling of water droplets, each drop echoing like a drumbeat in his throbbing head. It had to have been almost a day since his last drink, and his body is rebelling against the sudden absence of alcohol.

 

His hands tremble uncontrollably, a constant reminder of his dependency. He clenches them into fists, trying to steady the shaking, but it only seems to make the tremors worse. His muscles twitch and spasms, the tremors rippling through his body in waves.

 

Anxiety gnaws at his insides like a relentless predator. Every sound seems to be magnified, every shadow more ominous. His heart races in his chest, thudding so loudly he wonders if it might burst. Sweat beads and decorates his forehead, and he wipes it away with a shaky hand, the motion sending a spike of pain through his temples.

 

Insomnia adds to his torment. The uncomfortably of his cell, the impending doom of his sentence, his stupid form, and the absence of his vice are all screaming at him, preventing him from sleeping. He had spent the night tossing and turning, unable to find any position that brought comfort. His mind refuses to quiet, thoughts swirling in a chaotic storm. He feels trapped in his own skin (and fur), desperate for sleep but continuously denied its refuge. Every time he closes his eyes, he is assaulted by vivid, unsettling images, and fragments of nightmares of the past that kept him on edge.

 

The headache is a constant, relentless presence, a dull throb that flares into sharp pain with every movement. It feels as if his skull is being squeezed in a vise, pressure building until he fears it might crack. He presses his palms against his temples, trying to alleviate the pain, but it only seems to amplify the pounding.

 

Husk tries to take deep breaths, to calm the panic that tightens his chest, but it is like trying to fill his lungs with lead. He feels like he’s on the verge of tears, the emotional strain almost as unbearable as the physical symptoms. Despite his situation, his thoughts keep circling back to the bottle, the easy escape it promises. 

 

As the hours drag on, Husk fights to maintain his resolve. He knows the next day would be worse if he has to stay here any longer.

 

His sensitive ears twitch. He finally picks up sounds. There are clicking noises of heels and shuffling sounds of boots against solid floors, as steps are taken, getting closer to his room. The prisoner shifts to sit up. The only light being let in is blocked by a tall figure emerging behind the iron door. 

 

An ugly cranking sound is heard as locks turn and the door is open. As Husk blinks, he sees two sets of feet shuffling in. His eyes adjust to sudden light being let in by a handheld lantern. He is suddenly grateful for the impenetrable darkness that left him too soon. He quickly shuts his eyes and leans his head against the stone wall. He presses his palms on his eyes.

 

“Sorry to have kept you waiting…uh…” says the first voice.

 

“Husker, your majesty,” provided the second person.

 

“Yes, that!”

 

Husk isn’t going to correct them. His head hurts, he’s shaking, and too miserable to care. Any front he could have in front of the literal king and… the guard? The executioner? Who cares. Whatever crafted image he built himself in this literal hell hole has long sunk. He needs a drink. He needs them to talk quieter and a lot less. 

 

Or, they can finally make up their mind and kill him already. Put him out of his misery.

 

Husk hears the soft clicking of shoes as he’s approached. He still keeps his eyes shut and tries to search for relief from the pressure of the wall against the back of his head. 

 

The first voice continues to speak, unfortunately. “You find yourself in quite a predicament.”

 

The other man spoke. “You have been charged with smuggling angelic weapons, stealing royal grimoires, tampering with the borders, murdering the captain-,”

 

“You’re loud,” he interrupts. His voice is hoarse and cracks when he speaks. He hasn’t spoken in hours, he assumes. Husk runs his tongue across unbrushed teeth; they have a hold of a slight film of plaque and the smell of an unwashed mouth. 

 

A beat of silence. “Excuse me?”

 

“I said you’re loud,” Husk repeated but provided no explanation. No shame in speaking out of turn. 

 

“You,” they snapped. Someone is angry. “-are in the presence of the king. You should only-,”

 

“Leave us.” He assumes that must be the king talking. Husk notices his volume lowers.

 

“Your Majesty, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

 

The king scoffs. “Oh please. I’ll be fine.” He isn't wrong.

 

The sound of shuffling boots echoes in the small cell, out of it, and down the hall. Another sound of movement catches in his large ears. As silence breathes into the room again, Husk removes his hands and opens his eyes. He shifted his head to roll to look to his side.

 

He sees a blonde man crouching not too far from him. Before him, an alcoholic miserable cat, sits the King of Hell, Lucifer Morningstar. He is smartly dressed in a three-piece suit; it is white with gold and red trimmings. It was perfectly tailored to fit him and pressed to perfection. A matching white top hat sits on his head and a golden cane with an apple rests on his lap. His outfit was finely curated to fit him. He looks just like the portraits that circle around Hell.

 

With him being less than a foot away, Husk can make out the dark rings under the king’s eyes. His undershirt is wrinkled under the ironed vest and jacket. His vest is misbuttoned and the jacket hangs open. His hair seeps from under his hat where split ends stuck out in different directions. He looks almost… human. It isn’t what he pictured.

 

The king shifts. “You…” Lucifer’s eyes wander away before they snap right back to the imprisoned cat. He clears his throat. Husk waits. “How did you find out about the plot?”

 

Husk should have expected the question but he isn't prepared for it. It is hard to focus and prepare for eloquent answers and decorated words to charm anyone, let alone the King. He is quiet for a while. It’s hard to speak with the shakes and pounding headaches.

 

“I own and work a few bars.” He finally says. His voice is low. “People talk when they drink.”

 

There’s a stretch of silence again. Husk can guess that King Lucifer wants more. He really should say more. He should sway and swindle the king on his side, but he can’t. His brain feels like someone took their claws, dug in, and raked them across the tissue.  

 

The king hums. He looks away as if he’s planning his next move. His fingers drum on his cane. 

 

“That happens a lot?” His red eyes focus on Husk again. His eyes are expressive. They shine with curiosity.

 

“Yes… your majesty.” Husk says, as he adjusts and shifts his body. His wings flutter. The cell is small and the king, although surprisingly short, takes up the rest of the space he has left. 

The King hums again. “Hmm. Perhaps we can discuss this more.” 

 

Holy shit…Was he serious?

 

“Let’s get you out of here first. It stinks down here.”

 

Oh, thank God! Well, not Him, but close enough…

Chapter 2: Alastor

Notes:

Wow, while I was waiting for my stuff to arrive, I was able to complete this bad boy. This came out faster than I thought.

I want to introduce all of the main players as they are different in this AU, before I get into the plot. Not OOC, but they move around Hell differently. I really like to introduce my take using the characters that navigate this kingdom. I'll say this is a multi-perspectivity story, with most of it belonging to Husk and Lucifer.

Warning: Short smut scene in the beginning

The streets of the city are busy. Sinners and hellborns alike move from place to place, entering and exiting stores and restaurants that litter the street fronts. Cars race in the streets to get to their destinations. Different demons pile into the underground rapid transit, some having to shrink to fit into the stairwells. The streets are a canvas of life of well-dressed residents and bustling workers. Expensive shoes step over flesh and blood. Bodies dodge gnarly rats and crows. 

 

In this section of Pride, the city is a place where glass touches the sky, and light shadows of towers are cast on the pavement. Rare sanctuaries of modern and timeless elegance shine over city streets. Blocks of glass walls are separated by wide alleys and streets. 

 

High above the constant movement, the hustle, and bustle. There lies an intimidating tower made of glass and steel. The windows were tall, pristine and clean. It is dark, gloomy, and foreboding. The red sun streams into the floor-to-ceiling windows of a penthouse. It casts a rosy glow over the sleek, modern interior. Panoramic views of the skyline and the distant buildings of Tinsel City present themselves to the occupants. The bright lights of luxury buildings and lifestyle blend and fade into the crowded dark buildings on the outskirts. The glass towers touch the sky, bathe in light, and quiet the crowds. The city hums, a distant murmur for those on top.

 

Above the noise and dirt, behind the glass windows, the noise is muffled and traffic is silenced.  There are only the sounds of slow shuffles of sheets. Moans and groans creaked out from the bedroom.

 

A man with red hair rocks on top of another. He holds himself up with his hands resting on the other’s torso. He grinds his body down, taking in a strangled groan. He watches as his partner’s face glitches, and metal claws held down by black tendrils twitch. His ever-present smile widens as he watches the man below him struggle to thrust upwards. 

 

He really did look wonderfully pathetic like this.

 

He continues to ride on the member. The cock enters in and out at an even, quick pace. He is angled just right for his penis to press deeper inside him.

 

He can tell his partner is close. The desperate gasps and deep groans pick up their pace, as did the red head’s motions. His screen flips and glitches as his voice skips and contorts. Just a few more thrusts, just a bit more rocking, and it’ll be done.

 

“Alas-Ah!” the sinner pushed out another gasp and moan. Vox makes a useless motion to move his hips. There it is .

 

Alastor lifts himself from the man below, removing the cock from inside. The slicked, hard organ slips out with an audible pop. He hears him whine as he is robbed from release. Alastor’s ever present smile widens. He sits himself on top of the other’s thighs and grips the neglected cock and strokes it up and down. He squeezes and presses his fingers into the meat. He makes the movement fast and quick; he no longer teases the orgasm. He makes a motion to end the debaucherous affair.  

 

Moaning and groaning come to a high as he finally reaches completion. His hips raise from the plush bed as spurts of semen shoot into the air, on to his torso, and his partner’s hand.

 

Alastor wipes the remnants on to the covers as shadowed tendrils release the overlord. He hears his partner sigh as Alastor removes himself from on top of him. His TV companion takes deep breaths as his heart beat settles and comes down from the high of an orgasm.

 

Alastor maneuvers away from the center of the bed. His hooves settle and tap onto the plush carpet. He shifts over to grab a robe that rests on the nightstand and slips it on. The scent of sex and sweat swaths his nostrils. His anus feels uncomfortably wet with everything said and done. His smile twitches, a little; it is a subtle motion that goes unnoticed. 

 

He needs a shower.  

 

He hears the breaths of the other man calming down from behind. The demon shifts onto his feet and stands up.

 

“Are you doing alright, dear?” he says. “Taking quite some time to settle down.” His voice holds a filter and is filled with static but there’s no mistake, he’s teasing.

 

Vox sits up on his elbow to look at his partner. He looks over the clothed form.

 

“Just perfect,” the TV purrs. A grin spreads across his face.

 

He catches the soft chuckle of Alastor as the red head moves to the attached bathroom. He’s always quick to get clean.

 

“You have plans today?” Vox asks as he opens the nightstand drawer. He gathers the wipes in it and proceeds to clean up the mess that splattered on him.

 

Alastor hums. “I do.” He doesn’t elaborate. He enters the bathroom, gathers a towel, and turns on the shower. The shower head cascades water down from the ceiling with a pleasant pressure. He supposes there are some benefits to modern technology.

 

By the time he exits the bathroom, his clothes are materialized on his body with a wave of his hand. A red suit decorates his body with a shirt fully buttoned to his Adam's apple, a pinstriped jacket is pulled taut around his form and cufflinks clipped onto his sleeves. He pulls on his black gloves as he flexes his fingers. His body, save for his head, is completely covered. He lets out a breath.

 

He brushes a strand of hair that tangles itself around the base of an antler and puts it back to its rightful place. The deer demon scans his eyes around the bedroom. A life woven in threads of red light files through the glass windows. The red runs into the crystal palace and walls are adorned with abstract themes of light. He sees Vox has thrown on some pants as he sits on the corner of the bed, and the bed is stripped. The covers and sheets are pushed to the side for the housekeeper to pick up. 

 

His screen brightens up a little as he notices Alastor come in. The deer silently takes it in. He tucks his hands behind his back as he looks down at the other on the bed.

 

“And what of you? You mentioned you had a full schedule planned.” The red head continues the conversation. He steps closer to the man on the bed.

 

“Oh, yeah.” Vox sighs. “A few contracts to sort out, some rental disputes, some bullshit is happening with the latest show.” 

 

Alastor smirked. His fingers drummed together behind him. He tilts his head as his eyes narrow. He takes in the information and Vox’s body language.

 

He says, “Sounds like an exciting adventure.” Vox tauts  at his joke. “I shan’t keep you.”

 

“Not staying for breakfast?” Vox asks. His fingers scratch along the bare mattress.

 

“It does sound tempting,” Alastor laments. He steps closer until he’s a few inches from the blue demon. “But, I am expecting a package, my dear.” Again, he doesn’t elaborate.

 

He tips forward, bending at the waist. As expected, Vox plants a chast kiss on his lips. He allows it.

 

“Then, I’ll see you tonight?” Vox taps his foot.

 

“Perhaps.” Alastor answers as he stands right up. His posture is straight and tall. “There’s a few things I need to settle.” He tilts the TV head so he looks up at him. He taps his fingers on the edge. “I’ll show up.”

 

He always does. Maybe not when expected, but he does.

 

Vox grins. “Good. I expect dinner,” he says. A shrill sound of ringing cuts through the conversation as his behemoth of a mobile device alerts them of its presence and the start of the day. His ears flick at the disturbing noise.

 

He nods at his partner as he waves a goodbye. His form darkens and melts into the shadows before anything else can keep him.

 

Through the shadows, he moves and slithers around. He exits the penthouse and then the apartment building. He travels through darkness, wavering through buildings and apartments. His shadow passes beneath, weaving below the feet of unaware sinners and hellborns. He rushes to get out of the busy streets of Vox’s territory and into his own. He passes through the clean neighborhood, through the close buildings of the slums and out of the tent city.

 

It takes some time, as he’s on the other side of the Pride ring. 

 

He stops and sinks out of the shadows into the welcomed streets of Crescent Town. As he appears, so does a ghoulish, red cane with a microphone as the handle. The soft dings of trolleys and clicking of shoes on the streets welcomes him. The feminine demons dress in a soft silhouette. Their hemlines descend to ankle lengths and waistlines wrapped perfectly around them. Simple lines soften the curves of their figures and outline a slender, elongated torso with draping sleeves.

 

The more masculine demons were often dressed in knitted sweaters and soft collared shirts. Some wore a more formal affair, with black suits decorated with woven patterns and adorned by bows or ties. The trousers are wide at the bottom, and worn with a crease and cuffed. 

 

Alastor takes a stroll down the street. He prefers to walk and stretch his legs before his duties take up his time. His shoes and cane tap on the concrete ground. The residents walk to stores that live on the bottom of the buildings. They slump into their homes of pack, low rise buildings. They are separated by small gardens. Patches of dirt and grass break up the walls and prevent anything from smothering. He hums as he takes in a peaceful environment. There is nothing like his small territory, save for Cannibal Town. It leaves out the distraction of noisy, modern technology. Cars rarely pass along the streets. Most of them have room for streetcars and pedestrians. 

 

He notices his enforcers burning down carnivorous plants and moving unwelcome visitors. They are solid shadows. The beings are black, soaking up any light into their bodies. The edges of them are soft and move in subtle waves. They all take different shapes and sizes; they are the reflection of those who have fallen under him. The only visible thing on them are their glowing eyes. He crosses the street, letting them do their job.

 

He casually steps over a bloody corpse as it struggles to piece itself together. He can practically hear the bones snap back into place. Unfortunate thing will be there for a while.

 

 His smile sharpens as demons actively avoid him. They step out of the way. Some of them struggle to quickly push out of his way. A sea of sinners  part as he makes his way home. 

 

He comes up to an iron gate. Without moving a finger, it creaks while it opens. Thin vines twist around the bars and slink to the side of the cobble walkway. He clicks against the stone ground until he reaches his porch. He is greeted by  stately columns and beautifully decorated doors. Before he opens the door, his ears twitch to a sound coming from the inside. He hears a shuffle.

 

With his shadows, he slinks inside to the foyer. 

 

Here he sees a tiny, excited woman dusting portraits on the wall. Her hair is elegantly curled and styled behind her ears, with soft curls secured flat against her head. Her red outfit is made up of a red pleated skirt and blouse with rounded sleeves. Her stylish belt is hidden by her apron that never fails to have blood splats. The cyclops hops from one item to another.

 

“Nifty, dear.” He greets casually. Despite his low tone, she still jumps at the sudden voice. Her head whips around to face him. Her manic grin stretches across her face.

 

“Alastor, sir! You’re home!” she says as she bounces over to him. Her feet tap exactly 13 times when she reaches him.

 

Alastor bends down and pats her head; she barely reaches her knees. He strips his jacket to hang it on a coat rack. 

 

He responds, “Of course. I’m never gone long, am I?” He walks around the happy lady as she follows him earnestly. He makes his way into the kitchen to start his first meal of the day. His cane disappears into the darkness below. He reaches for an apron that doesn’t hang far from the oven. He fetches supplies from the icebox and cabinets.

 

He fetches a box of grits he previously grounded, canned red beans, and a packaged meat labeled as veal. He gathers his seasonings, butter, and oil. He goes to the other end of the kitchen to grab some flour. He hums as he picks and prods at the onions and garlic he owns. They are still good. He hums as he lights the stove. Knives and cooking utensils are put out before him.

 

He pounds the meat with a mallet before cutting them into small pieces.

 

“What are you making?” Nifty peers above the kitchen island. She rested her chin on the wood, drumming her fingers on top exactly seven times.

 

“Grillades, my dear.” He answered. He debates on adding cheese to his grits. “I’ll make enough for all of us.”

 

Nifty grins sharply. “All of us?” she inquires. A guest? Into Alastor’s personal home?

 

“Yes. You remember Husker,” he states as dredges the meat in flour. “He’s stopping by to give me a gift.”

 

Nifty gasps. “Oh, yes! I want to read one of my stories to him! I just finished my latest chapter.” Alastor hears her excitedly scramble out of the kitchen without stopping his movements. She is, in no doubt, gathering her notes and detailed tales. Her latest one is particularly gory, centering around a detective looking for his lost wife.

 

Husker might grumble about the detailed horror, but he’s looking forward to it.

 

–

 

Where is he?

 

Alastor is seething. Husker can run a little late, sure, but an hour?

 

The gall of that man! Alastor is prepared to rip him apart when he sees him. He has been waiting for too long. He paces the length of his living room, the click of his hooves on polished hardwood echo his impatience. His red eyes dart to the grandfather clock; its hands moving with a torturous slowness that only heightened his anticipation. His shadows move and stretch around him. He feels as they search the streets in his territory for the umteenth time, scanning the busy streets for any sign of a stocky, winged cat. Every creek of the house, every streetcar passing by, sent a ripple of attention through him, only to leave him restless when it proved to not be his awaited guest. 

 

He fidgets with the cuffs of his sleeves, straightens the already perfect cushions and taps his fingers on his cane as it clicks on the floor.   Not only is his schedule thrown off, but his cooking has gone to waste. Well… not necessarily. He did split the cat’s serving with Nifty. Speaking of the girl, she is particularly mixed with excitement and concern.

 

“Are you going to hurt him?” she asks before he dismisses her. “I don’t want him to die; it’ll take forever for him to regenerate!”

 

She likes him. She says he listens. He does, even as he’s knocking whiskey after a bourbon. Even as his eyes gloss over in boredom, he can repeat the story verbatim, if prompted.

 

But this isn’t the time for any compliments for the drunk. He is not here. He should be here. He received a call from the radio two nights ago, saying he’d be here this morning with the book. 

 

He drums his fingers on his cane again. With the snap of his fingers, his jacket is on him. He will deal with this swiftly. He blends into the shadows again. He travels out of his home, and into the streets. A shadow passes along the ground and walls of stone buildings and wooden houses. He slinks with plants that threaten to take over the town. 

 

He shows up to an industrial-style building that houses sinners in the neighborhood. It sits in a bustling neighborhood of demons racing past each other. They step over dead bodies and plants that overgrown into the street. The residential areas have apartment buildings rising like stalwart sentinels, their facades a patchwork of aged brick and gleaming glass that captures the essence of Pride. Each structure stood shoulder to shoulder, a testament to the area’s relentless drive for space and efficiency. Balconies, crowded with overgrown plant life and colorful laundry, juts out like small, perineal oases amid the concrete jungle. Narrow alleys between the buildings are alive with the hum of the daily afterlife- the clatter of bicycles, the clatter of persons, and the distant aroma of a dozen cultural cuisines blend into a tantalizing mosaic of smells. At the street level, small shops and bars nestle under the apartments, their signs flicking in the gloomy dark in neon hues. Buildings tower over the lively and deadly scene of Hell’s common streets; it creates a canyon of urban energy.

 

The walls of the buildings taper slightly. There is movement in them. The lines of the buildings are drawn with texture. It is a playground grounded by brutal architecture and decorated with winding trees. Roofs are connected by wires and electrical work. There are bridges and ropes connecting some buildings above. The apartments at the very top have a walkway and pedestrian crossing of their own. 

 

Pipes and chimneys stick from the top of the roofs. Balcony rails spill over with dark, muted flowers. Clotheslines stretch between windows like a makeshift bridge connecting lives.

 

Alastor shifts inside one of the taller buildings in the street. He travels to the top floor. His body appears into a loft.

 

The loft apartment, carved from the bones of an old industrial building, exudes a unique blend of raw authenticity and modern sophistication. Exposed brick walls, rich in character, form a rugged backdrop, their weathered surfaces bearing the marks of time – remnants of old paint, mortar lines, and the occasional graffiti tag that hints at the building’s storied past. High, vaulted ceilings soar overhead, crisscrossed by massive wooden beams and metal ductwork, creating an open, airy expanse that accentuates the loft's vastness.

 

Large, steel-framed windows flood the space with natural light, their grids casting intricate shadows across the polished concrete floors. The windows offer an extensive view of the pitiful competitive struggle of Hell’s urban landscape.

 

However, it is noticeably empty.

 

He goes up the floating staircase with iron railings leading to the mezzanine level, where a glass balustrade overlooks the living space below. The bed is made with the precision of a veteran and everything is folded, as he never drops his habits from basic training. This usually hosts the sleeping drunkard. But he’s not here.

 

Alastor’s eye twitches in irritation. He scans the apartment once more. Did he go to his bars first? One of the many gambling rings in the underbelly of Pride? All of them are scattered across the ring; it will take all week, maybe two, to find him. 

 

It’s impossible for the owl-cat to leave the job incomplete and without notice. It’s in their contract. Also, Husker is one to finish a job before he can do anything. His words: ‘I don’t have to worry about shit later’

 

Alastor clicks his tongue and taps on his chin, right under a tight smile. 

 

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. A glowing ring appears on his wrist with a thin string. He feels the magic and the constraints of a deal travel out of the apartment, out of the neighborhood and then… nothing. It just ends as if there’s nothing at the end of bond.

As if, he’s gone .

Notes:

Tinsel City is modeled after downtown LA. Crescent Town is modeled after New Orleans. The citizens of Crescent Town are dress in 1930s inspired fashion. Alastor’s home and neighborhood are inspired by New Orleans’ Garden District. Nifty’s hairstyle is inspired by one of Zhou Xuan’s curly hairstyles. I’ll probably adopt a soft curl Japanese bob for her in later chapters. Grillades and Grits are a part of traditional Creole breakfast.

Alastor and his relationships are… complicated. We’ll explore it more in the future. Alastor's attitude towards sex is based on a patient of mine. They are asexual and have a pretty indifferent attitude towards sex at times. His sexuality will be hinted at but not the focus. How should I tag this? Any opinions?

Again, I hope you enjoyed this latest addition. We will be getting into Lucifer/Husk. However, I am introducing a different hell. I do like to write about all the characters, and I didn't want there to be any confusion of the lore and head cannons I built.

Chapter 3: Dining with the Devil

Summary:

Lucifer sits down with a cat sinner to put his plan into action

Notes:

I like to reread my work to make sure I'm being consistent. When I was re-reading the chapter while I was typing up the fourth one, I realized that it wasn't the direction I was going for! I posted my draft! So quickly updated this chapter while I took a break. The most important change is how Husk will be working for Lucifer

Waking up feels like a cruel trick, a harsh reminder of a reality that offers no solace. The weight of the blankets seems to pin him down, pressing him deeper into the mattress as if the world outside is too heavy to face. Every muscle aches, not from physical exertion but from the burden of carrying an invisible, relentless… He couldn’t even tell you.  The thought of rising, of engaging with the day, feels insurmountable, like a mountain with no summit. The prospect of getting out of bed brings a wave of nausea, an overwhelming sense of dread. It's as if every spark of motivation, every desire for normalcy, has been extinguished, leaving behind an oppressive fog that makes the act of simply existing an agonizing chore.

 

The King of Hell, the Origin of Sin, the Embodiment of Pride did not want to get up this morning. The past three days have been a mess. He is entirely thankful that Charlie is with her mom. She didn’t have to watch him struggle to get dressed, let alone witnessing him trying to be a civil leader in a heavy crisis.

 

He really did think she was loyal

 

He is honestly a little impressed. Something like this hasn’t been done in two thousand years, and that one he saw coming. He guesses he should’ve expected the betrayal, but he saw her as a friend. However, it is Hell.  Friends are a loose term here. She was a good actor. She played her part well. She kept the charade of comradery.

 

He should’ve seen the first crack. Thinking back on it, it’s so obvious. She became a bit more reserved. There were a select few guards that she would start to interact with. She recruited more than necessary; all of them served her. 

 

Lucifer had to spend the entire day going through contracts to pull truthful answers out of people. He has to rearrange leaderships, move demons in and out of different rings, and fully uncover plots, making sure there’s no stones left unturned. Some demons were directly involved in her conspiracy, some that knew and others that covered her tracks. All of them are awaiting their execution.

 

He relishes a more free-spirited approach to his dominion, preferring the unpredictable dance of chaos to the rigidity of strict control. That's just who he is. He often allows Hell to govern itself, the tumult and disorder serving as both ruler and rule. Chaos frequently took the reins, surging through the infernal hierarchy with a wild, untamed energy. He intervened only when absolutely necessary, stepping in to ensure that a few essential rules were obeyed, like unseen hands adjusting the course just enough to prevent total collapse. His governance was a delicate balance of freedom and restraint, where infernal anarchy thrived within the bounds of his subtle, almost invisible, oversight. That’s why it's important to never directly interfere with demon royalty unless it's absolutely necessary.

 

So why? Why do what she did? He just doesn’t know why . Why was there a change in her character? Why now? Now, he’ll never know. The Captain of the Royal Guard is now dead with the very weapons she purchased. All thanks to a curious cat.

 

“Your Majesty?” says one of the servants.

 

He snaps out of his train of thought. “Hmm?” he questions.

 

“Dinner is served in the Tower. Your guest is waiting.”

 

He almost forgot. He has a plan to put in action; this will be a good one.

 

He shakes his head and pushes his hair back. With a roll of his shoulder, he puts on a smile. Lucifer steps out of the sitting room and takes strides down the hallway. There’s so much riding on this. 

 

He enters a small dining room. 

 

There sits a small table with a rich damask tablecloth, adorned with intricate gold embroidery. The cloth drapes elegantly to the floor, with a runner of deep crimson velvet edged in gold. The table is set for two.  Porcelain dinnerware is decorated with hand-painted gold. There’s cutlery flatware with ornate detailing on the handles, and the glassware is made of crystal for their water and wine. Linen napkins, crisply folded in an intricate design, held in place by opulent napkin rings made of gold. A flower arrangement, made of dark colored flowers, featuring tall, slender candles sit in the middle. 

 

To the side of the main table, is a more understated yet complementary styled table that holds desserts and beverages. The tablecloth coordinated with the main table, featuring a simpler design, but still luxurious in color and make.

 

The room is intimate in size but holds a grandeur in material and food. Chandeliers and wall sconces provided a soft, golden light in a usually red atmosphere.

 

The cat stands at  the opposite end of the table. He doesn’t look at him and he sees his claws tap against each other.

 

He, at least,  looks more cleaned up. A two piece suit with a button up shirt. He is freshly clean with the grime of the prison washed off. His fur is fluffed up after a dry. However, there is no mistake how tired he looks. His eyes are sunken in. He is slumped forward from where he stands.

 

“You can sit down.” Lucifer says. He motions to the seat opposite of him.

 

“Thanks,” the cat says as he sits down as instructed. He sounds like he would rather be anywhere but here.

 

The king is quick to agree. It is an inconvenient day. He rather crawl back into his bed, than deal with this. There’s these new wonderful things called “sweatpants” and they feel amazing. He’d wear those and sleep in his bed all day, if he could. However, he’s without a Captain, who could normally take over.

 

This is his fault. 

 

He can practically hear Lilth’s voice in his ear. “You’re not the man I married.”

 

He sighs. His teeth grind as he tries to keep up his smile. When he takes his seat, servants file in to place food down and leave serving utensils. A young lady pours a red wine into each glass. The winged-cat is quick to down the whole cup in a couple of gulps. 

 

Ok, wow.

 

The server blinks in surprise before she pours another cup. She leaves the chalice in the middle of the table before she backs to the wall. The feline takes another gulp before he sets down the glass. There’s a sigh of relief exiting the cat demon.

 

He did not expect that.

 

The room is  heavy with an uncomfortable quiet, every second stretching out like an eternity. Neither of them met each other's eyes, instead fixating on trivial details—the ticking clock, the pattern on the carpet, the food on their plates. The air feels thick, almost suffocating, as if full with unspoken words that linger on the edges of their tongues, too afraid to break free. A nervous cough tried to pierce the tension but only amplified the awkwardness. His fingers drum on the table, footsteps shuffle nervously from behind him, and the silence, once merely a backdrop, now roars with an unbearable intensity, pressing down on everyone in the room.

 

Lucifer gathers portions of meat, various vegetables, and bread. He pushes some with his fork. He keeps his eyes down on his plate. He can talk to him. He can put his plan into action and make up for all this time for neglecting his duties.  He led a rebellion against Heaven; he can handle a conversation with a stranger.

 

“So, uh, Henry…”

 

The cat grumbles something under his breath. The winged demon picks at the meat served to him with his claws. His hand quickly reaches for the fork as his eyes shifted across the table. Lucifer doesn’t pick up what he says, so he continues.

 

“How did you find out about Aria-the captain?” the blonde says as he fiddles with the steak. “I know she bought the weapons from you.”

 

The cat picks a piece of meat from his plate before he answers. 

 

“No,” the feline says. Lucifer raised a brow in suspension. He looks up at the feline, who is busy swirling his drink. “A competitor. I usually avoid Royal Guards.”

 

Lucifer rubs a finger over his knuckles. “But you knew about her.”

 

His table mate hums. He rubs his head with his paw. “I keep track of them.” The chimera takes another drink from his wine. “Like I said, I own a few bars. The people under me hear things.  I hear things. A royal guard or any of their acquaintances smuggling Angelic steel? Word gets around.”

 

But, he’s the only one who has done something about it.

 

“Why did you kill her?”

 

Hendricks shrugs. “You wanted her alive? Could’ve saved myself the trouble.”

 

Lucifer's shoulders shake with a small laughter, even though it is no laughing matter. “Hmm. That doesn’t answer my question.”

 

The cat sighs and leans back against the chair. He tries to relax into it while his shoulders are still stiff. From nervousness? From feeling this doom of being around the devil? 

 

“They had a kid… I guess I just felt bad.” His voice starts to clear with the more water he drinks. It soothes out to something more pleasing, like it isn’t tearing at his throat to get out. 

 

Lucifer is a little shocked. Sure, sinners have different morals, some of them very skewed, but they never plagued anyone enough to do something about it. The sphinx goes out of his way to stop his previous captain from committing regicide. He didn’t know if it’s true or not, but…

 

“Really?” He has to ask. Is that really why? The demon shrugs. “It got you caught,” the king stated firmly.

 

“I know,” the cat says as he takes another drink of the wine.

 

The cat could’ve skirted away with the family’s grimoire, could’ve saved himself from being discovered.

 

He has to ask. “Did you know it would?” Lucifer pushes his food around with his fork. He pokes at the chicken.

 

“Yeah,” says the cat. Then, he finally makes eye contact with him. 

 

His golden eyes are piercing into him. It held the intensity of a sun he hadn't seen in years. They bore into him like he’s reading, searching for something. Lucifer doesn’t know how he feels about that. It makes him a little nervous as the cat’s expression betrays nothing. The gaze cuts through the air and across the table. His pupils are slited and steady, making the air between them vibrate. Is it getting tense here? That’s a first… in a very long time.

 

“Why am I not dead?” the cat asks.

 

He jokes, “You wanted to be dead? Could’ve saved me the trouble.” He wants to shake off that feeling. His dinner mate smirked, showing off his sharp canines. He continues before the cat can push. “You… saved them. It didn’t feel right.”

 

“There has to be something else,” says the feline as his tail flicks to the side. His gaze moves down as he paw rubs at his head, like he’s trying to push something out of him.

 

“You think I have some ulterior motive?” he asks.

 

“You are the devil.” Although it grumbles out, the sentence bared no bite. It honestly sounds exhausted. 

 

This time Lucifer laughs a little more openly. Well, he got him there.

 

“I’m thinking…” he takes a sip of his drink. It has been sometime since he has been so hands on in Hell’s affairs. The cat’s only response is that he raises his eyes to him, encouraging him to continue. “After what you did, I’m left without a captain and answers. I figured I'd go a new route, something like you. You can temporarily work for me.”

 

The cat chokes on his drink. 

 

“What?” the sphinx exclaims. Shock is written all over his face.

 

 “Everyone leave.” He waves his hands to dismiss the guards and servants.  After a beat of silence, the waiting staff and the guards leave the small dining room.

 

“I want you to take over some things to help me, Hunter. It’ll be short term. There’s tons of benefits, a certain immunity to-,”

 

“Why?” He’s interrupted. His deep voice ruptures through the air with a seriousness that cuts in coldly. The fallen angel stares up at the cat. His golden eyes don’t waver under his red. Where once he could barely glance at him, now he fixes his eyes on him with the intensity of someone pouring over a challenging text. It made the devil (the devil) glace around for a second. He steered back to look at the sinner to reveal an unwavering focus, his gaze sharp and penetrating, as he could peel back layers of his thoughts.

 

“I don’t need guards, Hunter,” Lucifer says. He weaves his fingers together and taps his thumbs on one another. “Technically, neither does the Queen. Once my daughter reaches a certain age, neither will she.” They are the most powerful beings down here; he is one of the most powerful beings ever. “The Royal Guards are my eyes and ears in Hell, Earth…Heaven. They’re supposed to prevent and help stop plots like…”

 

He sighs. Captain Aria is- was - supposed to help with these things. For centuries, she moved smugglers out of the way, got rid of assassins, and kept him up to date of major plays. She had the strategic mind to keep up with Heaven and alert the Generals on the edges of Hell. Assassination attempts happen all the time, some of them prevailed. However, the king needs some elder demons and their families to exist. Aria knew this.

 

“You want me to be your spy?” Hollen asks, as he stops Lucifer’s thoughts. The cat takes a sip of water. “You’re worried about a conspiracy, that she wasn’t acting alone.”

 

So he knew. Lucifer is making the right choice.

 

The king watches as the cat thinks. He stretches his wings out as he leans back against the chair. His elbows rest on the chair arms while fingers and claws weave together. His posture is a little straighter. He slips into a pose of authority, as if it’s familiar. The tiredness is still there, trapped in his eyes.

 

Lucifer takes that in. He was far too occupied with current affairs to read into the other. His eyes narrow as he focuses on the sinner before him. He sees a trickle of power that brews underneath. The magic bubbles around him. It reaches a height higher than the average sinner. Is he an Overlord? Lords don’t usually get their hands dirty… well, like this. Perhaps he was a witch when he was alive? Or a warlock? Whatever they call themselves.

 

The king looks for ties that circle the sinner. There is one; there is a chain. A Soul Chain perhaps?

 

“I don’t like your guard’s reaction to your plan.” There was one? he didn't bother looking behind him. Lucifer chooses to focus on the runner in front of him. The man is apprehensive but he hears a tinge of consideration in his voice.

 

“We can draw up contracts to protect you. I have to make amends to a bunch anyways,” he says.

 

Golden eyes bore into him. It’s starting to make him a little nervous. He doesn’t say much. Shouldn’t he be asking more questions? Or jumping at the opportunity? Perhaps, that is what makes him a good choice. It's a gut feeling; it is a strong feeling he hasn’t had in years, decades.

 

“It makes sense,” says the sinner. He tilts his head as he never wavers his stare. So, he sees the pieces. “I’m already a smuggler, I already hear things…” He’s piecing them together. “But, if people know who I work for, they’re less likely to talk.” He makes a valid point.

 

Lucifer grins. “No one else has to know. We can work around it. We can re-train and re-contract the guards and servants into secrecy. I highly doubt my family will say anything.”

 

“Why me, specifically?” The cat leans forwards as he talks.His arms lay lazily on the chair arms. Lucifer opens his mouth to say something but he’s not given a chance. “There are other smugglers that I'm sure you heard of. Some with better reputations than mine” That is one reason he wants the male. “ You can barely remember my name. I highly doubt you know who or what I am.”

 

Ok, ouch…and partially true. Lucifer wiggles in his seat a little bit. 

 

“I know your name. Have been saying it this whole time!” The king pouts as the man raises one of  his thick eyebrows. “It’s Harry! No, no. Holden! Hendricks? …Hunk?”

 

“Husk,” the cat provides. He gives a little relief from the king’s embarrassment. 

 

“That’s…what I said.” He tries to play it off. Hunk-no- Husk only hums in response. The fallen angel sighs. “And what you are…” He senses the magic. He sees threads of deals circling around him. “You can’t be an overlord?”

 

Husk frowns. “No.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Not anymore.”

 

No longer an Overlord? There’s still deals that hang off of him. There’s a lot of them. There’s a particular green, ghoulish chain that looks a bit more powerful, more solid than the rest. It’s hard to see within the castle walls; he’ll have to put in more effort to make them out. There’s spells and ruins that block outside magic. 

 

“The smuggling in Pride has become more organized. We never had a name nor a face to who was responsible,” the king takes a piece of bread and rolls it between his fingers. “So, you’re a pretty good smuggler.”

 

The cat paints a smug grin on his face. “I’m very good, Your Majesty,” he purrs. The baritone sends a shiver down his spine. Nope. Not even gonna think about that. Shoving that to the back of his head to be buried and die.

 

He shakes that off. “So is that a no? Like, I said there’s benefits to this job. We can discuss more details in the contract. There are the basics. No harm will come to me and my family, you’ll keep secrets, etcetera.”

 

“I figured. Pretty standard.”  Husker says. “What about my… job. I can’t back out and working for the Royal Family complicates it.”

 

Lucifer waves that off. “As long as I know where things are going, you can do what you want.” The cat sinner’s mouth forms a thin line. “I mean what if  it just happens that some of your clients miss a few things.”

 

The feline hums “I guess if their homes are broken into… I’m technically not breaking any deals.” He picks at another piece of food. “What’s preventing me from betraying you, like your captain? You barely know me. I highly doubt you trust me.”

Don’t get attached again. Don’t expect you to be a friend.

 

“You’ll have to expect a tighter contract,” says the fallen angel.

 

Husk reaches forward to grab the wine. He pours a drink before he sits back and takes a drink. He puts it down. Lucifer waits.

 

“Don’t know if I like that.” The cat scratches his chin. Lucifer takes into the bonds contracted around him. 

 

Lucifer plays with this. He really thinks it will be a good idea. The cat already has connections; his information flows faster than his services, obviously. It’ll be useful.

 

“I’m not asking for your soul,” he says as he pulls apart the bread. “I just need your loyalty, and so does my family.” He isn’t going to explain why. “Loyal enough not to let this happen again. Loyal enough to finish the job then you’ll be done. You’ll basically be a… honorary Captain.”

 

Harry…wait. Husk. Husk doesn’t express any interest. He can’t tell what he’s thinking. In fact, he looks rather bored. How could he be bored? 

 

“Would you rather stay in a smelly prison?” he continues. He grins to sell his pitch.

 

“You’re hiding something,” he notes. Lucifer almost sputters. He tries to say something. “You don’t have to tell me, as long as it’s not a trap.”

 

“It is not. Just an exchange of services for your freedom.” There’s a beat of silence. “So is that a yes, Husk?” He says the right name this time. 

 

The winged cat lifts his glass in a toast. “I believe that’s Captain Husk.”

Notes:

Thank you for reading! I hope I was able to capture a little depression and goofiness of Lucifer while he maintains his authority. He's prideful, a leader stated in the Bible, but facing a new feeling of sadness. I can't wait to get into that. I really want to get into the politics of Hell in this fic as well. Getting into Husk and Alastor in the next chapter.

I'm starting to post pictures on my Tumblr, rarelyput2gether. Right now I'm starting with the easiest people to draw. Like, Nifty and Vaggie are up, next one will be Lucifer and Charlie.

Chapter 4: Back to the Trenches

Summary:

Husk returns back to his bar after some time spent at the palace.

In the dimly lit room, lies a long table with a few guards from different rings surrounding it. They hold a managerial position in each ring, taking care of the guards that watch over the Sins and royal families. Husk resides in staying as close to the wall as possible. Lucifer stands at the head of the table, the soft light casting shadows that dance around his pale face. He commanded a quiet authority, a presence that seemed to emanate from a place deeper than mere position. The royal guards are on edge. The captain is dead. The culprit? A cat sinner in the far corner of the room. The king's solution? Let in the murderer. The carefully cultivated ring of the King’s spies and intelligence is broken. No one knows why. The innocent and loyal members of the royal guards are understandably anxious, enraged, curious, doubtful, excited.

 

Lucifer’s team listens intently, hanging on his every word as he outlines the strategy they came up with. He has a reputation for ruling Hell with a mysterious brilliance that left even his closest associates in awe. Yet, despite his commanding presence in this room, a peculiar shyness grips him in casual interactions, creating a paradoxical aura of intrigue.

 

Husk couldn’t help but take in his transforming demeanor. When the king requests he joins him for dinner, the blond awkwardly lingers at the edges of conversations. His confidence of executing traitors and ruling his intelligence seem to dissipate in the face of small talk and casual greetings.

 

“Why do you want me to have dinner with you?” Husk’s curiosity got the best of him. The king looks like he could throw up from talking with him.

 

Lucifer blinks as he bites into a roll. He swallows and rubs the back of his head. 

 

He says, “Oh, uh, am I not supposed to? You’ve been staying here helping me. I thought it would be rude?”

 

Husk grunts. Now, he feels bad. Damn, he’s not good at this.

 

“No, I-,” the cat says hurriedly. “Thanks… just, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He gets that he’s here on business.

 

Lucifer starts to pick at the bird on his plate. “I want to.” If Husk’s ears weren’t so sensitive, there would be no way he heard that quiet murmur. Maybe he didn’t mean to say that outloud?

 

Husks looks down at his plate. “I have to know… How do you get Earth food down here? You never worked with a tradesman before, right?” He figures he should try his best to change the subject.

 

Lucifer perks up a little. “The succubi!” Husk raises a brow. “No, seriously!”

 

The conversation flowed a bit easier that night. It wasn’t as quiet as the other meals. It was nice. But his little vacation is over. He’s back into an active nightlife in Pride; he’s back to the grueling work of surviving in Hell. He glides over the crowded buildings and intricate footpaths. The hot air breezes through his fur as he lands on an open spot on the street. 

 

If he is perfectly honest, he is exhausted. The dim glow of city lights filtered through the street, casting a tired haze over the ground. Hellborns and sinners pass from one area to another. The smell of sulfur and corpses stick to the air like glue. Husk is hunched over as he walks and shoves his way through the crowds and stepping over homeless demons. The past thirty days had blurred together, a cacophony of dinners, hushed conversations, and looks from the staff. There is nothing more he wants to do than lay the fuck down and pass out. But, no. He just had to agree. He has work to do.

 

Husk’s mind drifts to the beginning of this grueling stretch. It all started with his hasty decision to turn around and care, care just enough to shoot off the gun, where he met eyes with one of the royals of Sloth. He had barely enough time to breathe, let alone process what he did, before he was tackled to the ground and dragged off to a cell.

 

Then, Lucifer, the devil himself, came to his rescue. Husk is still surprised at the pardon. There’s like ten rules in hell and he broke nine of them, and continues to do that. The talks and contract negotiations were a test of endurance, with caffeine, wine, and the little will to live being his only allies. In between, there were fleeting moments of solitude in the guest room. If he’s honest, it was a little jarring not talking to anyone. He’s a bartender, trader of secrets and goods. He’s always forced to interact with someone to fill out jobs, contracts, and deal with… Alastor. The cat sinner groans. Even thinking about the radio demon gives him a headache.

 

The only one to interact with him was the king, and it all centered around the devil’s plan to unravel this conspiracy. The conversations were perfectly underwhelming. It didn’t feel like he was being manipulated at every turn, lied to, plotted against, and everything that almost everyone does down here (including himself). The constant pressure is always carving lines under his fur- he swears. He can feel the weight of every deal, every decision, bearing down on his shoulders. He has spent many of his nights staring at the ceiling, his mind a storm of what-ifs, contingency plans, and paranoia. So the month away, although busy, was a nice uneventful “break” to his normal, chaotic routine of dealing with fellow sinners. 

 

He stops at one of his oldest bars; the one thing he never lost during his downfall. A small, nondescript iron door, partially concealed by a curtain of ivy, served as the entrance, giving no hint of the world that lay beyond. The heavy door rattles as he slams it open. There’s a palpable silence as his presence is announced. The eyes around the established blink away their blurriness and drunken states. Some are shocked, others a little relieved. Now that he’s back, they don’t have to go out and look for protection.

 

When Husk makes his way in, the customers continue their endless chatter and drinking. The bar is a hidden gem, tucked away behind an unassuming facade in the heart of the city.  Upon entry, a narrow, dimly lit corridor greeted patrons, its walls adorned with vintage posters and discreetly glowing light fixtures. At the end of the passage, a heavy curtain parts to reveal the bar, exuding an air of clandestine elegance and inviting secrecy.

 

Inside, the bar unfolds like a scene from a bygone era. Low, amber lights cast a warm, golden glow over the room, illuminating clusters of intimate seating arrangements. Plus, velvet-covered armchairs and leather banquettes are arranged in cozy nooks, each spot perfect for quiet conversation or solitary reflection. It’s a nice break from the dark, dingy alleyways or neverending red sky. 

 

The few waitstaff titters around, serving drinks, and sneaking glances at their boss. The first thing he does is make his way to the bar while it is currently being served by two women, a purple demon and a sheep demon.

 

There’s a polished mahogany bar stretching along one side, its surface gleaming under the soft lights. Behind it, shelves stocked with a myriad of bottles showcased the establishment’s extensive collection of spirits from Earth and Hell, each label a promise of carefully crafted cocktails. The bartenders are dressed in crisp white shirts and black ironed pants, moving with practiced ease, mixing drinks with a flourish and a nod to the ear the bar seeks to evoke. He snatches a bottle of whiskey from the wall.

 

He continues to the back, going up the stairs and walking down the catwalk until he reaches a room. It’s simple; it contains a desk, a couple of chairs and a cot for late nights. There are lamps that decorate the room to bring in some light into the windowless office.

 

Husk sinks into the desk chair while he slams his bottle on the desk. He slumps forwards and rests his head on the desk. His claws scratch and mess up his hair as the feelings and thoughts of the past thirty days rush through his head. He didn’t know what he expected from the fallen angel. Lucifer is… a surprise. He’s exactly what he looks like in the portraits, sharp teeth and killer smile. However, Husk noticed how he fiddles with his fingers when he talks to him, the merciless hand of weeding out the guards, the dark circles under his eyes, and his smile straining at times. 

 

I want you to work for me

 

Another contract, another day of trying to survive in Hell. 

 

A knock raps on the door. He doesn’t want to answer. He wants to drink this bottle until he passes out. He wants to sleep a minimum of twenty hours. However, he knows a month away would raise questions.

 

“What,” he calls out as he takes a swing of his bottle. He gulps down the harsh liquid. Husks waits as the purple demon makes her way in. 

 

“Mr. Husk? You’ve been gone awhile,” she says as she closes the door behind her.

 

He hums. “I’ve noticed.”

 

She hesitates a little. Her hooves tap on the wooden floor. She’s holding a tablet in her hand. She waits for him to say something. She’s expecting him to tell her something.  

 

With nothing being said, she clears her throat and opens a tablet. She’s testing the waters.

 

“The bars are running smoothly. There were a couple of break ins due to your… absence. The Gecko’s Gutter, The Underway-,”

 

“Leia,” the cat sinner interrupted. He takes a deep breath as he feels irritation build up inside him. He’s incredibly inpatient today. “Is everything fine?”

 

“Well, yes,” she starts to say.

 

“Then, I don’t fuckin’ care,” he spits out. Perhaps he said that a little too harshly.

 

Her white hair flames up as her anger gets the better of her. “Well, excuse me. You asked me to be-,”

 

“I know, I know.” He takes another deep breath in and lets it go. He holds his hands up in defense. He is being a dick. “Thank you, Mayberry. I’m just… fuckin’ tired.”

 

She huffs out a breath. “Where were you?” She finally asks. Husk was waiting for her to say something. There’s not much he can do to get around it, especially with her.

 

“Getting a new client,” he says as he lifts himself out of his chair. He moves to a bar cart to grab a couple of glasses. He places them on his desk and pours a couple of drinks. Mayberry takes the obvious invitation and sits down across from Husk as he sits back down. They’re going to need a drink, or at the very least, he does.

 

“And? What are they looking for?” She takes a sip of the whiskey and opens a new file on the tablet. She takes the electronic pen and begins to write. 

 

It isn’t new; this is how they operate since she  started working for him. She died pretty recently. However, Mayberry quickly became a reliable employee. Her planning and attention to detail made her perfect in helping him move things along his chain. She’s consistently by his side, moving from bar to bar with him as he checks on each one. She’s there during meetings and negotiations. He takes his drink in his hand.

 

Now, here he is, throwing a wrench in their predictable routine.

 

“Angelic steel, weapons,” he says.

 

Mayberry’s eyes widen with shock before it narrows to a disappointing glare. Husk hates that look. It reminds him way too much of his Spanish teacher when he was alive.

 

“You said we wouldn’t touch that shit,” she says as she stomps her hoof. She’s quickly suspicious.

 

“I know what I said. Things change.” He twists in his chair. He listens as it squeaks under his weight. “We’re not trading. Just keeping an eye out.”

 

Mayberry swirls her drink in her hand. She grinds at her teeth in thought.

 

She says, “I’m guessing you’ll personally oversee that.” As if there is any other option. “You got yourself into something.” It’s not a question and she’s not wrong. That doesn’t make it less irritating.

 

Husk scratches under his chin, claws rake through his fur. 

 

“Less you know, the better.” The cat pours another glass as he realizes it was disappointingly empty. When did he drink that? “It’ll be even better if Alastor never finds out.”

 

Mayberry frowns. She puts down the tablet. There are very few things the Radio Demon doesn’t know, especially involving the former Overlord. Her eyes scan the area around the office.

 

“They’re not here.” Husk states as he reads her apprehension. “He doesn’t know I’m back yet.”

 

“But he’s been looking for you. He can show up any minute.” Her fingers drum nervously on the tablet on her lap.

 

“That's why I’m telling you now.” He places his fists on the desk.  He leans towards the educator. “Just tell everyone we’re keeping an eye on the others. The information will flow in without anyone noticing anything different. Send whatever there is and I’ll shift through it. Simple.”

 

There is nothing Mayberry can do to disagree. She can state her opinions but whatever the boss says, goes. She looks down at her fingers. They fold onto each other. She presses and squeezes them together. 

 

Husk, normally, refuses to get into anything that could drag him in front of the rulers of Hell. Then he shows up, saying something she never thought would exit his mouth. When no one, and she really meant no one, knew where he could be, there was an unspoken nervousness. There are very few sinners down here that offer something stable without a soul contract. She’s not sure it’s by choice, but it’s reassuring nonetheless. The contract is just as tight. There are rules and outlines that must be followed. Try to even talk about Husk- appearance, personality, relationships- and mouths are sewn shut, babbles exit out their mouths, facial expressions are controlled, and the cat immediately knows. All of the intelligence they gather could never leave the staff that work in his bars. A hint of betrayal is quickly met with a disappearance.

 

It makes sense; it’s all part of their work and making themselves valuable in this descending pit. Overlords, from the supreme to the starters, all want dirt on their opponents. The wealthy in Pride want unattainable things. Drunk demons talk. They gather news and information. Bars are numerous down here and often hardly destroyed, easy to hide and smuggle goods. It’s usually simple; it’s items from other rings that sinners can’t normally attain themselves. There are valuable items from Earth. The food, for instance, valuable and easily attainable only receives a slap on a wrist (by Hell’s standards).

 

Now, angelic steel and blessed weapons are in the mix. It’s rare. It’ll make you rich, respected, and powerful. It’ll get a target on your back. It’ll leave you for dead. Nevermind it being the few things that are illegal in Hell, it is welcoming beacon of every evil, conniving bastard to kill you and take it for themselves. Rumors of you having anything remotely holy calls assassins at your doorstep. Now, Husk is… A displeased noise exits Mayberry’s mouth.

 

She flicks at her nalls, over and over.

 

Husk rocks out the desk chair and walks around the desk. He kneels down in front of her.

 

“Hey,” he says as gently as he could muster. He puts his hand out in front of her. He waits until she places a shaking hand on his own. He gives it a squeeze. “It’ll be fine.”

 

“Will you?” she says angrily. This is stupid. He goes to do a job for that shithead, psychopath and comes back with… what? She doesn’t know but it can’t be anything fucking good. She finally looks up at him. She glares at him, not hiding anything, not holding back how she feels about all this.

 

Husk releases a breath through his nose.

 

“Leia-,” he starts sternly.

 

Mayberry interrupts him. “You come back a month late with a client who wants angelic steel? Something you said you’ll never fucking touch. So excuse me if I have some god damn questions, if I worry.”

 

Husk uses his other hand to pat her on the shoulder and gives her a firm squeeze.

 

“You’ll be fine,” he reassures.

 

That's not what she asked. They both know that.

 

She pulls her hand away from him but doesn’t push him away.

 

“I don’t trust him.” She always makes that point very clear. He knows who she’s talking about. There isn’t much Alastor can do to her. She signed with Husk. Her contract is an agreement of work, pay, protection, and most importantly, secrets. No one can breathe information outside of the chain, not even to the Radio Demon. But, Husk is a different story. “I don’t trust you with him.”

 

Ok, ouch, but… fair.

 

He’s starting to think she knows him a little too well. He stands and gives her shoulder another squeeze.

 

“We’ll discuss details in the bunker, when he’s off my back. This conversation,” he waves a hand in the air between them, “never leaves this room.” He finishes his drink and puts the cup down. He continues, “You know that Royal Captain that was buying off Henroin?”

 

“Yeah.” Mayberry raises her eyebrow. She remembers a drunk guard hinting towards it, then, one of theirs tailing him for days.

 

“Go home.” He makes his way to the door as Mayberry gets up to follow. “I need everything we have on her in a week. Rest up and focus on that.”

 

The purple sinner sighs. “Ok.”

 

They make their way downstairs. When they finally climb down the stairs, they share a look. Husk nods his head towards her. She goes through the back to the employee lounge to gather her things. Husk watches as she leaves before he makes his way behind the bar. He’ll take over her shift.

 

A pair of customers walk in. Two young men  dressed up for a night of bar hopping. They’re carrying their conversation in Spanish. Their silk button up shirts were perfectly ironed and slacks were well pressed.

 

Husk’s eyes flick down to the silver watch. On their wrist, barely covered by the accessory, lies an emblem. He quickly recognizes them as Carmilla’s men. One looks like a capybara and the other is a harpy eagle. 

 

He waves his bar mate away from them to signal he’ll take care of them. She continues to serve the girls at the bar and charm them into higher tips.

 

The men take a place at the bar. “What can I get ya boys?”

 

–

The night goes by uneventfully, and the next, and the next. The men from a couple of days ago gave him nothing.  He manages to keep them at the bar for a couple of hours, talking, joking, listening. However, all it lent was kicking them out when they got too handsy with one of his waitresses. Husk is honestly thankful for that; he didn’t have to rush over to the king yet. He didn’t have to deal with the impending uneasiness of dealing in this trade.

 

Mayberry is making rounds and going through the data to get everything she can on the former Captain. The weapons she had? No one knows where they are. So far, no one knows she’s dead. This is good; this gives him more time. Husk and the king had a thorough conversation on that.

 

“You don’t want me to look for a captain?” said Lucifer in a bit of surprise. His fingers drum against his coffee cup. He wasn’t taking the suggestion with open arms. The blonde mentioned promoting one of the guards to fill in the gap. He knew someone had to be in charge, someone that can show their face. Husk’s position held little authority on all of the guards of Hell, afterall. He was a temp worker, so to speak, just there to tie up loose ends.

 

Husk dug into his bacon. He tore it with his teeth and chewed it down before he answered.

 

“We don’t want the connection that I had anythin’ to do wit’ it. It’s best to wait ‘til I arrive at one of my bars. Also, you’d be surprised how the unknown makes people slip up.”

 

The king took a sip of his drink. His fingers fiddled with each other against the porcelain. 

 

The fallen angel released a begrudging sound. “Ugh. Fuck. Fine. I guess I get it. Don’t like fucking doing it.” Husk raised his brows. Had he heard the king swear before this? He doesn’t think so. Hmm. “You really think sinners will notice?”

 

“The smart ones, ya.”

 

Speaking of… there, he sees it. It slithers against the wall. A familiar shadow with green eyes crawls up to the ceiling. It looks as if it turns and looks around, before Husk finds it staring down at him. It pauses. Its head tilts and its grin widens. That sharp smile is always so disturbing.

 

Husk continues to clean the glass as he makes eye contact with it. It looks around and slithers away into the shadows. The cat goes back to cleaning. He looks back to the bottles at the back of the bar. He really hopes he’s not too close. The cat needs at least a couple of hours before he decides to show up here.

 

Husk goes to count the inventory. He scans the bottle to keep himself from thinking of his impending doom. He prefers to keep his distance from him when he can. When he does these favors, working on clearing his debt, he wants their interactions to be quick. He’d rather not linger in his presence. It’s easier that way.

 

His fur on the back of his neck stands up and one of his ears twitches.

 

“Husker,” comes a voice from behind him. Fuck.

 

The bar grows a little quieter. The sinners and hellborns that take up the establishment rest their conversations into a low murmur.

 

Husk’s shoulders slump as he turns around to face the period dripped bastard. His smile, ever present, is sharp and strains at the corners. He is plopped on the stool right in front of him.

 

“Al,” he greets as nonchalantly as he can muster. Gold eyes meet red ones. Alastor, the radio demon, holds some tension in his shoulders and an anger in his eyes. The red head likes to play this game of glaring, smiling maniacally, and putting people on edge to break them down. No matter who it is. “That was quick.”

 

Alastor brings his elbows to the table  and rests his chin on intertwined fingers. He stares silently. His eyes travel from the tip of his ears to the bottom of his shirt. He traces around his body and face; he’s looking for anything that could be out of place, any hint to what happened. He wants to catch him in a lie, to know more about him than himself.

 

While Alastor studies him like some Van Gogh painting, Husk rolls his eyes and starts on an Old Fashioned. He gathers a top-shelf bourbon, bitters, agave, and an orange. He mixes the drink and slices off an orange peel. It’s served over a ball of ice with a signature garnish. He passes it to the red head. The demon looks down at his drink, before he takes it into his hand, and then looks at the cat. They finally meet eyes again.

 

“It’s been awhile, my friend,” says the deer demon. He takes a drink. His smile never wavers. With a dramatic wave of his arms, he praises the cat sinner. “And even in your absence , your skills never even remotely diminished.” 

 

Demons that are too drunk to notice the Radio Demon, or those used to his presence are the only ones left in the building.

 

“Everyone get out,” Husk bellows. Demons are a little affronted. Some start to complain. Waitstaff and other bartenders start picking up dishes and gathering cash. “Everyone get out now, or I’m feeding you to this guy.” He tosses a thumb in Alastor's direction. The deer pauses his eyes boring into him to take a chuckle at the rushing and stumbling demons. Husk’s staff is still cleaning. “When I said everyone, I meant you too.”

 

They take quick glances at each other and finally nod their acknowledgment to their boss. They file out to the employee lounge, choosing to exit from there.

 

Finally, they are alone.

 

“Mind explaining yourself?” says Alastor. His fingers trace the rim of the glass.

 

“Actually, I do,” says Husk. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a flask. He takes a swing of the whiskey inside. “It wasn’t pleasant.”

 

Alastor drums his fingers on his glass. His murderous intent calms down.

 

He hums and tilts his head. “What do you mean?” he says through his teeth.

 

Husk looks into the red head’s eyes. He didn’t waver under his glare. This is nothing new, this song and dance. That’s something Husk has on his side next to a powerful overlord.

 

“I got caught,” says Husk. The cat tosses a rag over his shoulder and grabs a bucket from below. He moves around behind the bar and starts picking up empty and half full glasses. He tosses the liquid down the sink and puts the glassware in the bucket.

 

“You were caught? But you’re still alive,” says Alastor in a mild surprise. “Don’t tell me it's your charm that got you out.”

 

Husk quickly whips around to look at him. “What if it was?” He says as he pops his hand on his hip. As if he couldn’t be charming.

 

“You can’t lie to me, Husker, dearest,” says the red head as his smile sharpens, the smug bastard.

 

Husk snorts as he leans on the bar. He has to handle this carefully.

 

“I made a deal with a fucker who could get me out,” says the cat. “Don’t even ask who. I’m not going to tell you.”

 

“You can’t?” Alastor tips his head back to finish his drink in a few gulps.

 

“I won’t,” he confirms. He walks to another end of the bar, closer to the shelves of liquor.

 

“But I didn’t come back empty handed,” says Husk. He reaches under the bar to move a cupboard out the way. There lies a safe. It’s old fashioned compared to the fancy shit he sees. He turns the lock to put in the combination and opens it. He grabs a metal briefcase to place in front of Alastor. When he opens it, it reveals a shining piece of paper, ripped straight from a royal grimoire. 

 

“I can’t go back empty handed,” he told Lucifer.

 

Husk continues,  “So let’s close off this favor.” He reaches out a paw that lights with a golden magic. Alastor looks down at his hand and backs up to his eyes. There is still a great value in it; enough value for someone to kill him over. Anything from the Princes of Hell held a great magical persuasion over reality.

 

“It isn’t what I asked for,” says Alastor.

 

Husk lets out a breath through his nose while he relaxes his arm. 

 

“You can’t expect me to go back now,” Husk says as he glares down at the deer demon and crosses his arms. “You’re going to hang on to this? It could take years.”

 

He knows Alastor knows that; he’s just being a dick. Alastor reaches out his hand to touch the paw resting on the bar top. He fiddles with a sharp claw

 

“ Petit -,” he tries to charm.

 

“Don’t,” he hisses out. A yowl rests in the back of his throat. He snatches his hand away from the Radio Demon.  His hand clenches in a fist around his flask. He almost crushes it. “Don’t call me that.” He turns around to grab a spray bottle and a rag. He doesn’t want to deal with Alastor being… fuckin’ Alastor. The shit-head deer demon can’t have a normal interaction with him for one fuckin’ second.

 

There is a silence, as Husk busies himself cleaning the bar. He walks around from behind the bar with another bucket. He grabs the broom an employee left behind in a hurry. He hears the static reaching a dangerous volume as he tries his best not to look at the overlord.

 

Husk’s hands move with precision, though his mind feels anything but orderly. The broom in his grasp sways across the bar’s floor in rhythmic strokes, gathering remnants of forgotten dust. A star breadcrumb here, a bit of dust there- every tiny particle seems like a minuscule fraction of the chaos in his heart. He finds himself focusing intently on the bristles’ soft scratching sounds against the wooden floor, trying to drown out the internal noise, trying to drown out him. Each sweep was a conscious effort to push away the mounting waves of the past that threatens to break through his carefully maintained facade.

 

Why can’t he go away? Why can’t he leave him alone? Why stretch out every single favor? Why can’t he pay off his debt so he can fucking leave?

 

He moves to the many tables next, systematically wiping them down with a damp cloth. The circular motions are a meditative act, a small anchor amidst the emotional storm. As he scrubs away invisible stains, he finds a strange comfort in the simplicity of it all. The physical act of cleaning allows him to pretend, at least for a moment, that he can cleanse his thoughts just as easily. The lemon-scented cleaner fills the air, sharp and fresh, a stark contrast to the muddles thoughts in his head.

 

“I couldn’t find you… for a month,” Alastor says. The filter in his voice wavers a little. “I thought you… You left Nifty sick with worry.”

 

Husk takes a deep breath. He doesn’t face the Radio Demon. Trash is removed, glasses are put in the bucker, and tables are wiped down. He often finds himself solace in the repetitiveness- the act of making something dirty, clean; something chaotic, orderly. It’s actually something he has in common with Nifty. 

 

He doesn’t know what to think around the maniac, he never did. He’s a good liar. Something that sounds so sweet, so authentic could be just as manipulative.  But the way the filter skips and static stops, it makes Husk almost turn around and give in. The way Alastor quickly had to put Nifty in the middle, to distance himself from this conversation, maybe. It almost lets him pretend. Husk keeps his back towards him.

 

“I know,” says Husk quietly. “I’m sorry.”

 

There is a softness in his words. There always will be, even as their deal sullies everything between them. 

 

“I’ll accept your terms, however, I do feel a little cheated out of a powerful book,” says Alastor.

 

Husk rolls his eyes. “I’ll go upstairs and get you some real venison.” The ones in hell are even gamier. Could you imagine?

 

Husk finally turns towards the overlord. Alastor immediately perks up. His grin softens. A hand reaches out to him. He crosses his bar and takes it in his own. A swirl of green and gold magic circles around them and then phases out.

 

“It’s a deal.”

 

Just 887 more favors to go.

Notes:

When you're indebted to your ex. I feel for you Husk.

Husk's bar is modeled after speakeasy bars that were famous around his time. Las Vegas has a long history of being ruled by the mafia, from the prohibition period to now, so I wanted to incorporate that.

The past/flashbacks are in italics and past tense, while the present is in regular text and past tense.

I don't care to add many OCs. There's already gonna be a lot of characters, so expect characters from Helluva Boss to show. I rather use characters people are familiar with in fanfics. I also gave Mayberry a first name. I also want to give the feeling that their friends (or care about each other) while never using the word.

Originally I was going to have this take course over a couple of decades but then I thought 'Wow Husk would be really bad at his job' so scrapped that idea. Instead, I let their plan formulate in a month and we'll see it revealed through the chapters. I'm gonna clarify it when Vaggie enters the picture (hint hint), but Husk and his crew operate almost like "secret agents" with a mix of Las Vegas mafia.

And no, Husk doesn't own souls. We'll get to why later.

I hope you enjoy this chapter! Lucifer's design is up on my Tumblr if you want to take a look. Bare with me while I'm re-teaching myself how to draw, haven't done it in years.

Chapter 5: The Princess of Hell

Summary:

Princess Charlie makes her first political move

In the heart of an ever growing garden floor, where sunlight snuggles around the black vines and dark painted flowers, stands a Gothic castle; its stone walls adorned with intricate carvings and vine-covered battlements. Ivy and wisteria climbed the dark turrets, their lush green tendrils weaving in and out of the cracks in the polished stone, giving the imposing structure an air of eerie enchantment. Moss crept along the cobblestone paths, and a riot of ferns and flowering shrubs filled the castle's expansive courtyard, where the shadows of gargoyles loomed over the profusion of greenery. Towering oaks and elms encircled the castle’s ground, their ancient branches forming a protective embrace around the timeless edifice. In the woods, there’s a flat garden, a yard that runs for miles. In the midst of this verdant wilderness, the castle's tall, arched windows glinted with a mysterious allure, their glass reflecting the rich tapestry of flora that surrounded it, blending the line between the human-made and the natural world.

 

The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting a gentle rosy hue across the castle grounds. She stares at her reflection in the mirror, taking deep breaths in a futile attempt to calm her jittery nerves. Today was the day of her big presentation—the one she has been looking forward to for5 weeks. Despite the hours she had spent practicing, perfecting her slides, and rehearsing her speech, a knot of anxiety tightens in her stomach, refusing to unravel. She snaps back to attention.

 

She’s rehearsing her speech one more time in front of her betrothed.

 

“And that is how we’ll solve Hell’s population problem! So what do you think? Any notes?”

 

There is silence for a moment.

 

“Babe, you can’t be serious,” he says, barely looking away from his phone.

 

Charlie Morningstar, Princess of Hell, the heir to the throne, the antichrist, lets out a guttural groan. 

 

“Than… of course I’m serious! This will have a huge impact on Hell’s population and housing!” she exclaims as reorganizes her flashcards.

 

Seviathan types away on his phone before he looks at the blonde. He looks at her as he fumbles around the many diagrams and hand drawn pictures.

 

“I don’t even see the huge deal. So a few sinners live on the streets. Aren’t they used to that?” he says dismissively.

 

Charlie scoffs. “Not a big deal? The imps and Hellhounds have been pushed out of their territory in Pride, there’s refugees being push to Wrath, there’s an increase in Soul Deals, and-and I-I explained this in slides 26-40 how-,”

 

“Whoa, whoa babe!” He puts his hands up in surrender. “OK, you know whatever you want, I’ll support you.” He gives her a sweet smile; it is full of promise and love.

 

He walks up to her and claps his hands on her shoulder. She takes a deep breath, counts to four, and lets it out. She lays one hand on top of his and smiles.

 

“Thank you, Than,” she says as she weaves her fingers in his. She looks up at him with her eyes full of hope. “But what do you think?”

 

She rests on the edge to hear her finance’s opinions.

 

“You know the Von Eldritch family is behind you every step of the way.” he says, giving her a reassuring smile.

 

That’s nice. Her shoulders slump down a little and her smile wavers before she picks it back up again. He supports her; that's good.

 

It should be good.

 

He kisses her cheek and gathers his things. 

 

“I got to meet mom, soon. She wants me in the boardroom today for this meeting.” He says as he throws on his jacket. “I’ll see you at the presentation tonight.”

 

At least, she can count on his support.

 

She waves to him as he leaves her room. She sighs and moves to her bed. She falls on her back in the fluffy blankets while her legs dangle off the edge.

 

This is a big move. Her plan requires a lot of support. 

 

The blonde fidgets with her fingers. Support. She needs support. If her parents would just… stay in the same room together long enough to listen to her, then maybe she wouldn’t be as nervous as she is now. 

 

Princess Charlie's hands are clammy as she flips through her notecards for the hundredth time. The words, which had once flowed so easily, now seem to blur together, making her question if she would remember anything when the moment comes. Her usual confidence feels like a distant memory, replaced by the fear of stumbling over her words or forgetting a key point in front of the Sins. She knows the material well, yet the thought of all those eyes watching her makes her heart race.

 

All of the royals have a play in Hell’s ever growing influence. However, there is a usual focus on growing Hell’s power. Her plan…

 

She sighs.

 

She pops up out of her bed to pace around her room. 

 

She is, at least, in a very lucky position. As the princess and the heir to the throne, she does have a lot of pull, even if she doesn’t tend to manhandle her subject as expected. She prefers a more positive approach! Ever since she was able to get a hand on a Seligman book, her view on life really changed. 

 

Her mother teaches her to inspire and her father instilled confidence but neither of them were pacifists. They never taught her any peaceful solutions to the growing problems in hell. They mostly gave up on sinners and hellborns… They are expected to lean towards blood and mayhem. Being the most powerful beings in Hell, all it takes is a threat to put anyone in line. Charlie learned about connections and solutions being solved through dialogue and understanding through the many philosophy books written by humans that found its way to Hell. In her daily life, Charlie’s aversion to violence manifests in her excited and empathetic demeanor. She likes that about herself, at the very least. Many creatures she came across are often struck by her unwavering patience and her refusal to resort to aggression, no matter the provocation. However, she can still get angry; she just doesn’t like using her powers in such a way. She likes being a peacemaker, always striving to maintain harmony and understanding among her family and friends… if she had friends.

 

She often faces tension with Hell denizens who view her pacifism as naivety or weakness.

She just doesn’t tend to manipulate or maim others to set her plan into motion, like most demons in hell. It's not like she isn’t used to violence, she is a natural born demon, she just tended… to avoid it as much as she can. 

 

It’s probably why she never made many friends.

 

Well, there’s Seviathan! And his sister… and… oh.

 

“Hmm,” the princess hums to herself. She rubs her hands together and flicks with her nails.

 

Well, like Seligman said, a positive outlook leads to positive outcomes. Her plan will be so inspiring that demons, sinners and hellborns across the seven rings, that like minded individuals like herself will come together to make her dreams come true and help the creatures of Hell. Then, they’ll have picnics, go to movies, play that game with a donkey… she doesn’t know how it works but she’ll look it up.

 

She takes a deep breath, counts to four, she lets out a breath, and counts to four again. 

 

It’ll be great! It’ll work out.

 

–

 

Charlie’s hair is pulled back and out of her face. Her bangs are clipped back and tucked behind her horn. She is dressed in more formal wear. The end of her sleeves act as a cape as they hang off and flow to the floor. Her blouse is tucked into her pants. Her pants are pulled up high. Laces decorate the front and act as a belt. She wears her family’s necklace. She smooths it over, making sure it's flipped to the correct side. It will be so embarrassing if it looks crooked in front of everyone.

 

She paces the small hall. Her hooves click against the marble floor.  Charlie paces back and forth in the back hallway, her mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. The walls, adorned with intricate artwork and bright lights, seem to close in on her. This is a bog day- the culmination of years of planning, studying and dreaming. She pauses at a large window, staring at her reflection. The anxiety etched on her is undeniable. Her hands are clammy, and she feels a tight knot in her stomach. What if they laugh? No, they will laugh, even if not to her face.

 

Yet, amid her fear, there is a flicker of determination. She has seen the Pride Ring change in the past century. She seen the devastation that is constantly being ignored by the privileged, even herself. Charlie knows it won’t be easy. Pursuing her dream had come with countless sleepless nights and so many moments of doubt. However, the thought of giving up is just too unbearable. 

 

“Duckie!” her dad appears from behind her.

 

She jumps at the sudden introduction.

 

“Oh, dad!” she exclaims then straightens her shoulders.

 

Lucifer smiles as drags her into a tight hug.

 

“Are you ready?” He asks. “ It feels like it was just yesterday when I had to clean up all your hellish spew. Now, look at you, stepping into the underworld!”

 

“Oh, I have my flashcards, diagrams, and a slide show! I also prepared this musical number-,”

 

“That’s nice sweetie but don’t you think this is… uh bit much?” says Lucifer. The usual presentation didn't usually have so many visual references.

 

Charlie scratches at the back of her hand and glances away from her dad.

 

“Is mom coming?” asks Charlie to avoid the topic. Her mom enters in and out of the Pride Ring. She often disappears for months after their separation.

 

“Oh..uh. I thought she would’ve- I’m sure she’s coming.” Lucifer stated as drums his fingers against his cane.

 

A black portal appears before them. A tall blonde with curled horns steps through before it disappears. Lilith, the Queen of Hell, the First Sinner, the Mother of Chaos, enters the backroom. Her smile is light and her posture is poised. As elegant as ever, she turns her attention to the king. 

 

“Lucifer.” she says tightly, a frown gracing her features.

 

“Lilith,” he greets back in the same manner. He takes a step back.

 

The queen turns to her daughter. She smiles as she approaches the princess. She smooths out the loose hair on Charlie’s head. She holds her daughter’s face in her cupped hands and kisses her forehead. 

 

“Look at you. You certainly look prepared. I can’t wait to hear what you have in store,” says Lilith.

 

“Thanks, mom,” says Charlie.

 

Lucifer clears his throat. “Well, it is almost time. I’ll see you in there, Char-char.”

 

Her mom nods in agreement as they enter the royal theater.

 

Charlie takes a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. This is her passion, her calling. She can feel it. She won’t let fear hold her back. Her past, her family, her power has shaped her into who she is today and she, at least, owes it to herself to see it through. As she continues to shuffle on her feet, a resolve forms. No matter the outcome, she’ll give it her all. For herself, for her people.

 

An announcement rings through the royal hall. “Introducing, the heir to the throne, the child of Pride, Princess Charlie Morningstar.”

 

She straightens her back. She files through the door. She enters the center of the large theatre. It is surrounded by a stadium. The sins sit at the top, all of them. Right, she’s the princess, the antichrist, of course they are all here. The rest of the small royal families, from each ring sit on the lower levels, right below their respected sins.

 

As Charlie steps in front of the stage, she stumbles on her hooves. “Oops, oh, sorry.” She lets out a nervous laughter. She quickly stands with her back straight to save face. The deathly silence isn’t helping her embarrassment.

 

She takes a deep breath to settle her nerves.

 

She begins. “Hell has a big problem. Our people have been suffering. As the human population grows, so do our sinners. The pride ring has become overwhelmingly overcrowded and we have limited resources. It has given rise to smuggling, Soul deals, and territorial wars. Imps and Hellhounds have been pushed from their homes and have crowded into the other rings… which are smaller and have less resources…oh, I thought I wrote that better.” She clears her throat and darts her eyes away from the questionable gazes.

 

She continues, “There are sinners that have been damned for miniscule crimes. Sinners have been sent down here for suicide, tax evasion, homosexual relationships, different religions. A-anyways, we as the royals and lords of the Rings have an obligation to help our hellborns and our sinners.” Pause for dramatic effect . “I propose a rehabilitation for our human souls to enter Heaven!” Murmurs and gasps start to break out. “We can convince-,”

 

“Whoa. Are you serious?” came an Australian voice. “Ha! The more souls we lose, the less power we have.”

 

“That may be true but not a problem,” says Charlie. She smiles to herself. She is prepared for hecklers. “But as a sin, like yourself Mammon, can feed off the sins no matter who it is. Having them down here-,”

 

“We’ll still  lose our power,” he states firmly.

 

“But we don’t need it. Even without the souls, we’ll still be powerful. Each sin will still rule over their domain. With Heaven’s help-,”

 

“Heaven? HA!”

 

The talks among the attendees increases. That’s ok. She’ll just have to reel them back in.

 

“I hate to agree with Mammon,” says another sin, the avatar of Lust, Asmodeus. “And I really do, but we didn’t fight a war because Heaven is open minded.”

 

“We’re still at war,” says a deep, graveling voice. It is the Wrath Sin, Satan. “Our influence over mortal souls is in direct conflict with Heaven.”

 

“That was hundreds of thousands of years ago. Heaven has new authorities, and things change. None of you were the same after all that time,” says Charlie. “We will gain an audience with Heaven, form treaties, and have them agree to take in rehabilitated souls.”

 

“Even if that nonsense is possible, Heaven will never agree,” says Satan. His eyes narrow down at the princess.

 

Charlie feels her face heat up. “It’s not nonsense! It might be a working theory, but it doesn’t mean it’s not possible. If we just go to my slides and well crafted diagrahms, you will see-,”

 

“It is nonsense. I can’t believe you interrupted my nap for this,” says another sin, the avatar of Sloth. She is slumped over her seat, looking more bored by Charlie’s presentation than upset.

 

“I don’t think you’re going to get anyone on your side from upstairs, sweetie,” says Beealzabub, the sin of Gluttony. “This project is big and ambitious, and I love that, but I don’t think it’s possible.”

 

“Think? We know it’s not.” The anger bubbled under Satan. He sounds tired of arguing.

 

Then, Mammon says, “Who is even goin’ to agree to this? You know how many whackers enjoy livin’ down here?” 

 

“Well, the long-standing Von Eldritch family has agreed to help sponsor this!” says Charlie with more confidence. Support builds more support. “Seviathan can speak on his approval and belief in the plan.”

 

Seviathan eyes become wide. He takes a quick look at his parents before he shrinks down. He looks from right to left, avoiding eye contact.

 

“Than?” Charlie whispers. Her cheeks burn as she looks at him, the harsh words from the Sins and Seviathan’s silence ring in her ears. She feels a new wave of vulnerability, a type that doesn’t fill her with relief. It is a sharp sting at her heart that floods her body. This shock gives way to hurt and confusion. Why won’t he say anything?

 

“Well, of course, they agree. Aren’t you married or somethin’? Don’ wanna be sleepin’ on the couch.” Mammon scoffs and dismisses what she says. His words gave rise to more voices speaking over; an uproar interrupts through the large hall.

 

“This is ridiculous-,”

 

“I’m not losing my influence-,”

 

“This is a fool’s paradise-,”

 

Charlie breaths pick up. There is a light tightening in her chest, like an invisible band slowly constricting around her lungs. Her breaths start to come in shallow, rapid bursts, and the air is struggling to go in and out of her lungs. She needs to slow her breathing; she needs to get a grip. Her heart is pounding furiously against her ribcage, each beat amplifying her sense of doom. Despite the vastness, the room seems to shrink. She feels the bodies getting closer as their faces begin to blur into an indistinct haze. She grips and crushes the cards in her hands. They start to wet when her palms grow slick with sweat. 

 

“Get a grip, get a grip!”

 

“Enough!” A commanding voice cuts through all the chatter. It cuts through Charlie’s jumbled thoughts. The Queen of Hell stands tall from her throne. “Charlotte is the Princess of Hell, all of it, and you will give her the respect she deserves. Your presence here is for formality and insight, not constant interruptions and insults.”

 

Her deadly, cold glare makes the room still. Those who are standing up, sit back down and take their place.

 

“Lilth-Your Majesty,” says Satan. “We mean no disrespect. This is unorthodox, even for us. The princess finally comes of age, and we have to follow a pipe dream-,”

 

“You’re all dismissed,” interrupts Lucifer. His voice is steady and cuts through like a cold knife. His hands stay folded and his legs crossed. He did not move throughout the entire presentation. He never takes his eyes off Charlie. Instead of being animated and percipient, it is cold and unreadable.  It makes her nervous.

 

Satan is shocked by the dismissal. “My king, brother-,”

 

“I said dismissed.” he says more firmly, never looking at the rest of the sins and royal families.

 

With magic, by flight, or walking, everyone leaves the room, one by one. As the hall empties, Charlie’s pounding heart relaxes. Her cards drop to the floor as she exits to the backroom. She presses her back to the wall and falls to her backside. She breathes in, counts to four, breathes out, and counts to four. She feels like she’s on the verge of tears. “ Come on, demons don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry.”

 

She hears two hush, harsh voices through the door as they come close. She can make out the bickering to be her mom and dad. They haven't been able to stay in the same room lately without arguing. She feels as if this separation, this space they said they needed, isn’t doing any good. Her parents enter the hall.

 

She stands to her feet and brushes the dirt off her formal wear. 

 

“Charlie, your mother and I have been talking,” Lucifer starts. More like arguing. “We don’t know if this is possible-,”

 

“Are you serious about pursuing this?” interrupts Lilith.

 

Charlie fixes her posture. She is deathly serious.

 

“Yes! I think our people will benefit from a humane, positive solution to our overpopulation problem!” says Charlie. Despite everything, she tries her best to come off confident. This is something she had always wanted to do. 

 

“Our people are awful, Charlie,” comments her dad. Her mom sighs but doesn’t disagree. “There will be sinners taking advantage of you, lost causes, and you’ll be far more exposed than any other royal.”

 

She is ready to argue for her cause. “Maybe-,”

 

Lucifer raises his hand. She halts.

 

Her parents look at each other for a moment, a silent decision comes together.

 

“Despite what we, or anyone else thinks, we will support you as much as we can,” says her mom. “However, just like all of the royal heirs, you are to complete this trial yourself. And when you fail, then you will pursue more… a different endeavor.”

 

“I know, mom.” says Charlie. She feels a little hope circle around her.

 

“We’ll give you our vacation home in Pentagram city to set up shop,” says her dad. Charlie lights up. The center of sinners is going to be perfect!

 

“We’ll have to provide security,” Lilith says to Lucifer. Her dad tenses.

 

He sighs. “I'm still holding a trial with the Royal Guards.”

 

“Well, when we finalize a guard, we’ll assign one to you,” Lilith sighs. “Then, you are free to pursue this.”

 

She is free to pursue this.

Notes:

I rewrote this chapter 4 times! I really wanted the sins to argue and be upfront about their disapproval without sounding like they're talking down. I'm really trying to teeter on Lilith and Lucifer's imperfect parenting and the love for their daughter, without them sounding unreasonable.

Finally, Princess Charlie makes her entrance. You're going to hear her refer to a lot of philosophers and psychologists. I had to learn this so now you guys do too.

Hope you liked it. Her outfits are on my Tumblr.

Chapter 6: Behind the scenes

Summary:

Lucifer has to prepare for Royal Guard trials

Lucifer stands by the doorway, his hands rest on top of his cane, as he awkwardly watches Lilith pack her bags and give orders to the palace personnel. The room is filled with uncomfortable silence, breaking only by the occasional rustly of clothes and the clink of zippers. The commons keep themselves quiet, no whispers pass between the servants. Lucifer shifts his weight from one to the other, unsure of what to say or do. His eyes follow her every movement, the reality of their separation has long sinked in. However, this feels…

 

Memories of happier times flash through his mind, making the present moment feel even more surreal. He opens his mouth to speak, say something , but no words come out. He stands there, a silent spectator to the dismantling of their shared life. Lilith spends her time looking through her treasures and wardrobe, barely lifting a gaze to the man in the doorway.

 

“You should stay,” he says to Lilith, finally. But he really shouldn’t have said that.

 

“We’ve talked about this,” she says as she maneuvers around her room.

 

“Charlie is making her first big debut; you should be here,” he says.

 

Lilith sighs. “Put that with my accessories,” she tells her mistress of the robes. “You’ll be here.” She doesn’t stop herself from picking out her best clothing. Her valet lifts things up to her for her to approve or dismiss..

 

“You should be here. She’ll need you,” says Lucifer. 

 

“Like she needed you?” She snaps at him. The Queen of Hell finally turns to face the King.

 

Lucifer swallowed. “That’s not-,” he stopped himself from saying anything else.

 

“No, go ahead. Finish it.” She rests her hands on her hips. “Say how it is isn’t fair. That you, the king of Hell, have to do your job and look after your daughter.”

 

The laundress and other commons did their best to make themselves small and scurry around, packing the queen’s bags with clean clothes.

 

“You don’t get to just check out and think… everything will be fine.” She sighs as she clasps her hands together in front of her. “I need this, Lucifer.” her voice is quiet. It is devoid of authority and the usual bravado she always carries.

 

Lucifer frowned at himself. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He reaches to take her hand, but he stops himself. He places his hands behind his back and rubs them together. He didn’t notice the disappointment in the tall woman’s eyes.

 

He wants to say something. He wants to be charming and suave. He wants to say something, to at least break this heavy silence. He used to get himself out of anything, to persuade those around him. 

 

Now, he can’t say anything.

 

“I’ll be sure to say goodbye to Charlie, before I leave,” she turns away from him. She grabs a clipboard from her servant and goes over her list.

 

Say something, you idiot!

 

“OK,” says Lucifer as he summons a portal. “Good luck. I hope you’re happy.”

 

Lilith turns her head ever so slightly. Her smile is soft and small. “Thank you. You too, duckie.”

 

With that, Lucifer steps through the magical exit and enters into the family castle on the outskirts of Pride. It was large and grand, decorated with gold and white. Despite the hundreds of employed commons and Royal Guards, it feels empty.

 

A growing feeling at the pit of his mind starts to grow. It is dark and overbearing. Like he should crawl into bed and never get out. 

 

No, no, no. 

 

He can’t keep letting down Charlie. He has to finish sorting through this mess. Lucifer begins to walk through the halls aimlessly. He is careful to avoid his bedroom or else he’ll end up staying there forever. 

 

He needs guards. He ended up executing a fifth of them. He has to stay focused.

 

“Your majesty,” says a royal guard. “Paimon is here.”

 

That was quick. A tall owl demon takes graceful, long strides as he walks through the foyer. He holds his head high, his hands are kept by his front, and his cape flows with each step. He’s escorted by a royal guard and his personal imp servant. Paimon Goetia is a formidable ally, with the magic of wisdom and precognition. He has always been loyal to Lucifer, even before the fall.

 

His personal servant receives a tap on his back. The imp clears his throat and says, “His royal Highness, The keeper of knowledge, and events-,”

 

“Yes, yes. Hello, Paimon.” says Lucifer as he cuts off, he is sure, would be a long introduction. Lucifer didn’t see the need for the theatrics.

 

“Your Majesty,” says the Goetia as he takes a deep bow. “As soon as I heard your call, I rushed my way over.”

 

“Yeah, you did,” says the King as he stares at the tall bird. “I wasn’t expecting you for another few hours.” He turns to the imp valet. “Hi, Marion.”

 

The imp smiles and takes a deep bow. Lucifer is almost afraid he’ll tip forward.

 

“Oh, yes,” says Paimon nervously. He straightens up and lets his cloak fall in place. “I figured it was important to be here, uh, early. We have a great deal to discuss and update each other on, your Majesty.”

 

Lucifer tightens a hold on his cane. “I guess,” says the blonde. He has been absent lately, downright avoidant, really.

 

“Well, what can a loyal Prince do for his Majesty? I will do my best to fulfill any and all requests,” says the owl.

 

“Thanks,” says the fallen angel awkwardly. “We’re waiting on someone.”

 

“And who will that be?” Paimon asks. There’s a tinge of disappointment in his voice.

 

Lucifer answers, “Oh, my-,” He stops. What is Husk? He can’t say he’s the captain. His sort of captain? His guard? His servant? His spy? “He’s my informant. However, I guess I can call him early.”

 

“Oh, no need!” Paimon is quick to say. Lucifer gives him a questioning stare. “Perhaps, we can take the time to converse and catch up before your guest arrives.”

 

Lucifer doesn’t know how much he wants to be social. He supposed it has been awhile since Paimon had been invited. Lucifer was - is still stuck in this funk he can’t pull himself from.

 

Paimon clears his throat. “What have you been doing?”

 

Lucifer shrugs. “Walking around,” he says nonchalantly. 

 

“Great! A stroll through the garden, perhaps some tea, while we talk.”

 

It is a rather serene afternoon. The head of the Goetia Family and the King of Hell enjoy a customary tea in the palace’s ornate garden pavilion. The air around the castle is full with fragrant aroma of blooming hell roses and freshly trimmed hedges. Magic blocks out most of the sulfuric smell that permeates the afterlife. As the two sip their delicate porcelain cups of tea, they exchange stories, insights on matters of state and shared anecdotes from their travels. Well, Lucifer mostly listens, as his self isolation doesn’t really spark much of a conversation. Paimon is consistent in talking about himself so the blonde is able to avoid the awkward acknowledgement of his pathetic hobbies of making ducks and feeding the ravens. 

 

After finishing their tea, they rise from their seats and begin a leisurely stroll along the gravel paths, the sound of their footsteps blend with the gentle rustling of the rotting leaves. Avoiding talking about himself, Lucifer is able to lead Paimon back to the entrance of the castle. He’s sure Husk will arrive any second.

 

Lucifer and Paimon walk side by side as they re-enter the parlor. The fallen angel is quick to notice a pair of red wings from the corner of his eye. Husk is being escorted by a royal guard inside. His hands are tucked into his large pockets as he leans back on his heels casually. He looks casual. He is dressed differently than how his servants prepared him during his stay here. His button up shirt opened on the top, sleeves rolled up over his wide forearms, and suspenders straightened over his shoulders. There’s a velvet bag clutched in his hand. The cat is a bit more relaxed than when he first stayed in the castle. 

 

He sees the cat sinner talking to a royal guard. The king wonders if he’s telling crucial information until a snort and a giggle escapes the demon guard. She laughs and quickly brings her hand over her mouth as Husk smirks. 

 

Huh, Lucifer thinks. He’s starting to get along with the Royal Guards now. That's good.

 

Lucifer doesn’t know how much he can take the tension between his old recruits and Husk.

 

Lucifer walks towards them. Paimon is quick to pivot to follow. As soon as they are close to the other pair, they take notice. Husk’s face turns passive. The Royal Guard straightens her stance and bows to the royalty.

 

“Your Majesty. I was just escorting Husk to you,” she says she keeps her head down.

 

“Thank you. I’ll take it from here,” says Lucifer. At her dismissal, she stands straight up and turns to leave, but not without sparing a glance at the sinner. Husk matches her eyes and continues to watch her as she turns and leaves.

 

“Uh, my King,” says Paimon. “What is a sinner doing in your castle?”

 

“Oh, this is Husk.” Lucifer uses his cane to point to the cat sinner. “He’s been helping me sort a conspiracy. That’s why I called you here.”

 

Husk dips his head in a bow. “Your Highness,” he greets. The cat looks down at the imp that has gone unnoticed as time passed. “Hey. Name’s Husk.”

 

Before the imp could open his mouth, Paimon’s voice cuts through the air.

 

“Yes. Curious. Why would you need the help of a sinner?” says Paimon.

 

Lucifer opens a golden portal. “Perhaps, we should take this… not in the middle of a hallway. You can enjoy yourself, Marion,” says Lucifer as he steps through to teleport. Paimon follows soon after, while Husk comes through after him. The imp is quick to relax his shoulders and saunters off to find something to eat.

 

The three are in a room with no windows or doors. The walls are decorated in protected ruins. There is a long table with chairs, one seat at the head and a row of them on either side. A room that has become all too familiar the past few weeks. A room for secrets and shadowy discussions.

 

As the three make their way in further, the king moves to sit at the head of the table and Husk strolls after him and takes a seat on the right. Paimon is aghast at such blatant disregard of proper protocols. As soon as he opens his mouth to speak up, the king stops him.

 

“Are you going to sit down?” asks the king with an eyebrow perched. 

 

Paimon clamps his mouth shut. He moves with long strides to the seat left of Lucifer. 

 

“I’ve called you here because I’ve been dealing with a… an issue.” The king removes his hat, setting it down to run his fingers through his hair. “The captain of the Royal Guards has planned to kill one of the royal members in the sloth ring, along with some of her subordinates. Carnivale’s family has been a target of regicide. Two months ago?” He turns to Husk.

 

He shrugs. “Close enough. Six weeks,” states the cat as he pulls a flask from his pocket.

 

“Right. So six weeks ago, the heir was targeted by heavenly steel. We believe there is more to this assassination. The captain has since been neutralized.” Lucifer rubs his hands together. Work is so much easier.

 

Paimon eyes are wide with shock. “The Carnivale family?” They were the ones to oppose St John, a formidable foe in their constant battle with Heaven. They’re absence would quickly weaken a formidable defense in their Kingdom. “Aria did this?”

 

Lucifer nodded. He spares a glance to Husk, who remained neutral in expression. “Husk, here, was there to stop her. He was in Sloth and took the initiative to end the attempt.”

 

Husk raises a brow at the word ‘initiative’. What? It is true.

 

The owl prince let out a sound of disbelief. “But a sinner can’t leave Pride unless… You’re working with a smuggler?” There is no way this cat had a royal passport. He didn’t even look like a Supreme Overlord, let alone being important enough to grant such a prestige.

 

“We prefer the term tradesmen,” Husk cuts in. Lucifer grins at that.

 

Paimon pulls his face into a look of disgust, before he quickly fixes himself and turns to the king. 

 

“You should’ve called me. There’s no need to call on a mortal soul.” says Paimon. The owl places a hand on the blonde’s shoulder. “I am one of your oldest friends.”

 

Husk lets out a barely contained snort.

 

Paimon whips his head around to glare at the sinner. “And what, pray tell, is so funny?”

 

Husk holds up his hands in surrender. “Nothing, nothing. I said nothin’.”

 

Lucifer frowns. “Be that as it may,” he removes the hand from his person and gives it an awkward pat. “Husk has been helpful. He’s been acting as a head informant. Together, we were able to come up with a plan to rebuild the Royal Guards, with better contracts, and a way to navigate this.”

 

“Ah,” Paimon fixes his cloak and straightens himself in chair. “And I am here to review the plan?”

 

“Not really,” says Lucifer with a wave of his hand. He didn’t notice the drop in Paimon’s face while Husk clamped his lips together to hold in his laugh. “I need you to help me with preparing for the Royal Guard Trials. Normally, this is held by the Captain, but I’m without one. Your knowledge, strategies, and trades have started this and I would need your help.”

 

The owl prince hums in delight as pride overtakes him. “Anything for His Majesty. And him ?”

 

“The guards have been following his plans and he’s been using his own connections to gather intel.” Lucifer pauses as he thinks of the best way to describe Husk’s unique position. “He’s been acting as a shadow captain of sorts.”

 

The cat sinner snorts. “I’m almost like an overpaid placemat,” says Husk dryly. Lucifer snorts and snickers. Husk flashes a grin at him.

 

“Haha,” Paimon laughs, perhaps a bit too hard. “More like a- like an overpaid-uh,”

 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” says Husk as he rests his chin in his hand.

 

Paimon crosses his arms. “You didn’t even let me finish!” he exclaims.

 

“Were you going to say pussy?” asks the sinner as he quirks a feathered brow. He looks bored.

 

“Uh-well-no, of course not.” There is a silence as the two wait for his joke. “Well, you’ve ruined it, sinner.”

 

Husk hums. “Well, I’m sure it was a good one, Your Highness, and very original.” The owl glared at him.

 

“You petulant, little-,”

 

“Great!” Lucifer interrupts as he clasps his hands together.  “We have a bunch of recommendations, some volunteers.” 

 

Lucifer uses his magic to pull up tons of profiles and the thorough research collected by their current intel. The two pick up one of each. Husk pulls out a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket. Lucifer blinks. He doesn’t remember him wearing them before. He does remember him having to pull pieces of papers further away from his face.

 

Husk points a claw to him. “Not a quip about the glasses.”

 

The king snorts. “I wasn’t going to say anything, gramps.” The cat rolls his eyes.

 

“Look who’s talkin’,” says Husk as he looks at him over those frames. The fallen angel smiles. 

 

After hearing a crackle of paper from Paimon’s direction, Lucifer focuses back on work. There were always hellborns looking to climb the ranks of Hell, being a royal guard is considered a cozy job. There are sinners who risk fighting in the war to escape the trenches of Soul Deals very common in Pride.

 

“There’s a curious recruit I want to start with. She’s a sinner, or she claims to be,” says Lucifer, pulling up a file of a young woman. “With what our informants have to say, I believe she’s an angel. She’s been fighting on our border, working under Wrathful colonals”

 

Paimon snatches the file quickly, before Husk could even close the one in his hand. She looks like a moth demon, with wings and antennae. She has gray skin and an eyepatch over her left eye.

 

“Well, if that's the case, we should just kill her. She states she fought in wars on Earth, but she could easily have been a Holy Soldier. She could be a spy; they’ve tried that before.” Paimon says dismissively.

 

Lucifer nods. “I guess you’re right.”

 

“What makes you think she’s an angel?” Husk asks as turns to Lucifer.

 

“There’s always a trace of holy magic from those above, even the fallen,” says the king.

 

Paimon waves the file. A haughty smile graces his face. “Yes, if you are perceptive, you could easily tell-,”

 

“So how do you know she hasn’t fallen?” Husks interrupts without turning away from Lucifer. He completely ignores that snapped pen in Goetia’s hand, while Lucifer is completely oblivious to it. He’s a little too lost in thought. After spending a month together, the king picks up how his lines of questions end up as advice or ideas.

 

The king drums his fingers against the table. “I guess there isn’t really an announcement, but you could see them fall down. It is rare these days.”

 

“Rare doesn’t mean impossible,” says Husk. He takes a sip from his flask. “I say you let her through.”

 

Paimon uncharacteristically snorts. “You’re just asking to be handed over to Heaven. You don’t know anything about her.”

 

“Mind sharing?” The cat looks up at the owl prince. After some inaudible mumbling in Latin and the king’s eyes on him, Paimon slides the file over. The cat scans over the stapled papers.

 

“Why?” the king asks Husk. He looks over the sinner as he leans back to read the papers.. 

 

“Do you know the saying: ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’?,” says Husk. He is genuinely asking.

 

Lucifer scrunches his face in thought. “No,” he says. There have been so many different idioms in the last thousands of years and they change between different cultures, languages, and generations. Gay used to mean content in the United states; now, it means homosexual! He can not keep up with all these new lingos.

 

“Well, when she’s workin’ for ya, you can keep a better eye on her. Find out what she’s all about. Feed her false information, if she is a spy.. Is this her real name?” The cat mutters the last sentence.

 

The blonde taps his chin. “What do you think, Paimon?” he asks the Goetia.

 

He grunts. “I suppose he’s right. It is risky, however. I sense an unpredictable future around her.”

 

Husk shrugs. “The bigger the risk, the higher the reward. We can keep her in specific circles, with your most loyal guards.” The cat sinner sets down his elbows on the table. “But it is your call, Your Majesty.”

 

“Right.” Lucifer taps his fingers together. He hasn’t been this involved in recruitment for…so, so long. He’s a little rusty, out of practice. However, a balance is being disrupted. And, this is for Charlie. “I’ll let her go through the trials. However, if she steps one foot out of line, we’ll end her. Paimon, after this, I need you to read into possible futures. Can’t be too careful.”

 

They look through tons of files. Hellhounds and Imps come in droves; hardly any of them are born into money, status, or protection. They fight in armies and climb the ranks in hope to land something more cushy like this. Being a Royal Guard does require skill, but you’re hardly putting your soul in danger. The tradeoff being signed into a strict contract. 

 

They shift through each application. Some are immediately thrown out, others are selected to go through the trial, and the rest are waitlisted. Husk wants one of his own in the ranks; he promises the same contract as everyone else. Paimon argues. However, Lucifer has to agree. It makes sense.

 

After much delegation, the advice and arguments coming from two opposing sides, Lucifer thinks he exhausts himself enough. He teleported all three out of the room into the main hall.

 

Paimon respectfully bows. “Your Majesty, I will perform the rituals and have a full report before the start of the trial.”

 

It honestly is a relief. “Thank you, Paimon,” says Lucifer. “Your help means a lot.”

 

He beams from the praise. “Of course, anything for you. However, after my help with the Royal Guards, we should have dinner. It was nice to catch up this evening.” Paimon says with hope and anticipation.

 

“Oh!” Lucifer blinks. He rubs under his chin. “I guess that should be fine. Husk, are you staying after the recruitment?”

 

“Actually, perhaps,” Paimon says. He glares down at the sinner before his gaze softens at the king. “I’m thinking your informant would be bored of politics and our usual banter.”

 

“His whole job is politics?” Lucifer questions.

 

“Oof,” Husk says loud enough for them to hear. He rocks on his heels and avoids looking at the two royals.

 

Paimon frowns and glares at the cat sinner. “Right. Well, I suppose that’s fine.” He grits through his teeth. He turns and snaps his fingers. 

 

The imp from before appears at his side. His eyes are wide and stumbles on his feet from the sudden appearance. He quickly wipes the crumbs from his face and straightens his bowtie. 

 

“Valet, we’re leaving,” says Paimon with authority. He bows once more to the king. “I’ll be awaiting our next visit, Your Majesty.” With the final goodbye, the Goetia and his valet disappears in a slew of magic.

 

“Ugh.” Lucifer hears from the sinner. The cat’s face is pulled into a frown. “I’ll head out, Your Majesty.” He makes sure to tack on the title at the end.

 

“Were you antagonizing him?” Lucifer's question stops Husk in his tracks. 

 

“He was being an asshole. Like, I was trying to step on his toes,” The cat frowns and crosses his arms. Or he tried to, but his possession in his hand stops him. “Oh, right. This is for you.” He reaches out the velvet bag to the king. He takes it.

 

“Oh, thanks. What is it?” asks the blonde..

 

“You said you never had blue wine before, so I thought you’d like to try it,” the cat says.

 

Lucifer remembers that conversation. Husk asked how he got human food and Lucifer asked what his favorite was. Then, it turned into a conversation about favorite drinks. Husk prefers… bourbon? Whiskey? (Is that the same thing?) The king told him he liked wine. He usually imported from Gluttony; his personal favorite was a Blue Honey wine crafted from Beealzabub’s best combs. There is no better stuff. Husk says the closest to it is a blue wine from up top.

 

“You got this for me?” He asks. He must've told the cat three weeks ago. His face scrunches up. He couldn’t even bother to remember the cat’s name when they first spoke, but the sinner remembers how he was curious about this drink. He didn’t think he'd get a gift out of it. 

 

Husk looks at him. His golden eyes are steadily trained on his face. “Yeah. Is that ok?”

 

“Oh, no, no-uh- it’s more than ok.” He stumbles over his words. He didn’t mean to offend him. “Thanks.”

 

“You should chill it. It’s fuckin’ warm now.” Husk says as he turns to leave. “I’ll see you at the recruitment.”

 

Lucifer squeezes the bottle. “Yeah, I will.”

 

Notes:

The slow burn is slow burning.

Also I wonder who they're talking about, I wonder who is up next.

Also, the fandom's decision to make Paimon a simp for Lucifer is golden. I had to include it haha

Hope you guys enjoyed the latest addition. I'm gonna take the time to fix the tags later.

Chapter 7: The Trials Part 1

Summary:

Vaggie has been selected to try out for the Royal Guards

In the stomach of a cramped, ever growing city, there is a young fallen soul that is heating up cheap noodles in her cramped, dreary apartment. The building itself is old, with faded brick walls that seem to absorb more darkness than they reflect light. Her apartment, wedged between two identical buildings, is a narrow space where every inch is accounted for, thought hardly used to its full potential.

 

The ceiling feels lower than it actually is, pressing down on her as if reminding her there is no escape from the weight of her circumstance. Its weird; she is already so short. The walls, once painted a cheerful yellow, have since gulled to a sickly, muted tone. The paint is chipped in places, exposing the gray plaster underneath, and a persistent damp spot in the corner adds to the general air of neglect.

 

Her furniture is sparse and mismatched, collected over the years from second-hand stores, street corners, and dumpster diving. A small, threadbare murphy bed is pushed against one wall, its springs creak in protest whenever she sits down. She has a coffee table, scratched and worn, stands before it, cluttered with old magazines and half empty sups of cold tea. The single window in the room, covered with thin, faded curtains, offers a view of a narrow alleyway, where the red sun struggles to penetrate. On most days, the light that down manages to enter is weak and feeble, casting long shadows that make the apartment dark and confined.

 

Vaggie sits down on her murphy bed as she sits on the edge. Today was a quiet day. She just completed her six month long tour, battling on the edge of Hell, coming home only a couple days ago. She let someone crash here so there’s still some left over mess. Every comrade says it is easier to let a homeless guy stay in their apartment when they leave. Word travels fast in these crowded dark apartments. Someone will hear that you’re gone- then boom! Everything in your apartment is gone. It happened in her first year here.

 

Getting a house sitter is much less of a risk. They make sure nobody breaks in and they can live there for free. It took her several tries and dozens of apartments to find the right person.

 

She’s a sweet girl. A nomade. When Vaggie is home, her sitter travels the seven circles of hell. It made for a perfect arrangement. She had some luck down here. She just wished she would clean up after herself better. 

 

She sighs. This is Hell, Vaggie , she reminds herself.

 

Vaggie is eating her ramen while watching the only cooking show to not have cannibalism. The young woman hears a firm knock on her door. She puts down her food. There is another sharp knock; it was no mistake. THe fallen soul snatches her eye patch from her bed and quickly ties it on. She crosses her small studio. She grabs a knife from her counter and hides it behind her back as she creeps to her peephole. It is dirty and the glass is braising but she’s able to make out the black uniforms, the masks, and the painfully, perfected stance of two hellborns.

 

She quickly opens her door, but she doesn’t remove her chain. She looks over the two demons; on their chest is the royal emblem.

 

“Vaggie Sanchez.”  It isn’t proposed as a question. She states it so nonchalantly, like she couldn’t be mistaken.

 

She glares. “It’s Vaggie. Who are you?” she says as she twirls the knife behind her back.

 

“You’ve been selected to trial for the Royal Guards,” says the other guard. His voice also holds the same poise and unemotional tone. “You are to come with us immediately.”

 

“And you expect me-,”

 

“We appreciate your skepticism but you either leave with us now or forfeit your spot. Bring what you have on you. The knife you’re hiding will be fine.” Vaggie stiffens. The guard is quick to turn her back and make her way down the hall. The other follows right after.

 

Is this for real? She’s been selected? There’s a little dizziness that enraptures her. The young moth fidgets with the knife in her hand. She makes a small bounce on the heel of her foot. This could easily be a trap. How many soldiers wait for an opportunity like this? Any of her comrades could’ve overheard her mentioning these trials and sent someone to lead her into a trap. They made the uniforms, pulled off their walk– ok. That’s a little too convoluted, even for Hell.

 

The soldiers keep walking. Fuck it.

 

She turns to look behind the door and goes to the closet. She throws her knife in the sink and let it fall inside with a clang. She quickly pulls a spear from the back, a utility belt, and a flashlight. Vaggie opens her door, steps out and locks it, all five of them. She can only pray that if she fails, she doesn’t come back to a broken in apartment or worse, a squatter.

 

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” she calls out.

 

She breaks into a light jog to catch up with the two as they make it to the stairwell. She weaves after them as they duck under hanging wires and pipes. They climb down the tapered stairs. They exit to a dark alley. It is maze here in the Pride ring. In the center of Pentagram City, the largest epicenter of the entire ring, there’s a pulse that can be felt in the closeness of the streets and the press of the crowd. The sun struggles to reach the ground here blocked by the tangled web of laundry lines and towering apartment blocks that lean precariously overhead.

 

It never ceases to amaze how fluid everyone here moves through these alleys with such fluidity that comes from years of navigating such tight spaces. It wasn’t like this back home, where everything was precise and acuity. Vendors call out from stalls that are barely wide enough to fit their goods, selling everything from barely fresh produce to electronic parts. Anything can sell down here. Vaggie learned that very quick, many sinners did.

 

The alleys are alive with the sounds of the city. The clatter of pots and pans from a nearby food stall mixes with the steady hum of conversation, punctuated by the occasional honk of a scooter squeezing through the throng. Above it all, the distant murmur of the city’s traffic serves as a constant reminder of the world beyond these narrow streets.

 

They finally enter the main street. Right as the alley opens, lies a large black van. The side doors slide open without hesitation as they step closer.

 

“Please.” The guards gesture to the open doors. She steps and gives it a quick. There’s already a couple of demons sitting inside. There’s a driver, she notes. She climbs inside and slides into one of the rows. One guard enters right after her. The other climbs in the passenger seat.

 

“A spear, huh?” says a sinner, sitting across from her. The sinner gives Vaggie a sharp smile. Her one pink eye glows. “I went with a shotgun myself.” Her wild purple hair bounces as she gives a manic chuckle.

 

Vaggie frowns. She doesn’t know how she feels about that laugh. She chooses to ignore her and looks around the van. She scratches at the leather seats.

 

Doors shut close. This is it.

 

__________

 

Vaggie is certain this will be her moment. She knows it's been years since she has seen her, but she can’t get her kind eyes out of her mind. She needs to thank her in some way. This is the closest she’ll get to the Princess of Hell.

 

Earlier, she was driving around in a van. It was mostly quiet, a few conversations tossed around here or there between different passengers. But it was mostly uneventful. The drive was long and if she wasn’t on edge, she could’ve fallen asleep. 

 

There was a scary thought that maybe she should’ve. That maybe they’ll throw her right into the grueling trials. But it stopped as soon as they arrived here at the barracks.

 

A dozen trucks and vans pulled into the edge of the pride ring. They released a few more hellborns and sinners. They were all escorted to a checkpoint.

 

“For those who brought weapons, please label them and check them in. They’ll be return to you at the start of the trial,” announces a guard.

 

They all lined up at different tables. Vaggie dropped her spear and utility belt off. She keeps her flashlight. She doesn’t know if it counts as a weapon, but literally everything Hell did. She shrugs to herself and keeps it in her pocket.

 

Next, they’re lead into a dining hall. All various foods and drinks provided.

 

Someone complains about no alcohol. 

 

Vaggie keeps to herself for most of her meal. She sits next to some imps. The three carry on a lively conversation Fine without her. She listens. They seem to know each other, fighting side by side for years. Vaggie does a scan around the hall. No one from her division is here. She knows at least three others applied but they aren’t here. She’s the only one that made it.

 

After dinner, they are instructed to sleep.

 

“Get your rest. Your trials will start first thing in the morning. You are all expected to wear the uniform on your bed.”

 

They each claim a cot. On each cot, there’s an all black uniform. It is nothing crazy. It is cargo pants and a fitted long sleeve. The ones that were caught off guard earlier are already changing; their clothes aren’t appropriate to sleep in. Vaggie decides to sleep in her own clothes. It’s only sweatpants and a t-shirt. 

 

She stares up at the ceiling above her. The dimly lit  barracks buzz with nervous energy. Rows of cots stretch across the room, each one occupied by a recruit lost in their own thoughts or soundly asleep. The air is thick with tension around her, a mixture of anxiety and anticipation that seemed to cling to the walls. She reaches for her left socket. She traces the bone right under.

 

Vaggie sits up on the edge of her bed. She doesn’t go anywhere. She just has this need to sit up. Fuck, is that weird? Is she doing a bunch of weird stuff the night before her test? She lays her face in her hands and lets off a groan. She can feel it- cold biting fear creeping into her guy. She tries to push it aside. Tomorrow will be the real trials- the one everyone here has worked years towards. Great, now her leg is freaking shaking.

 

“Hey,” a voice whispers from behind. Vaggie turns around to see an imp woman giving her a toothy smile. “You okay, hun?”

 

“Oh, uh, me? I-I’m fine,” says Vaggie as reassuring as she can. It’s just that her leg won’t stop shaking!

 

“You don’t sound fine,” says the imp. Her wrathian twang rings out a softness that isn’t often heard down here, but Vaggie still frowns. “Hey. I’m nervous too.”

 

Vaggie turns to look at her knees. She clasps her shaking leg.

 

“Yeah…” She says and lets out a sigh. “Just… trying to keep a clear head, y’know?”

 

The imp woman hummed. Neither of them say more. What is there to say? They all knew this is what they signed up for. The instructors drilled into and commanders built up what she needed to be for the next day. Because the trials aren’t just a test of skill, but of willpower and loyalty. The whispered rumors of recruits who never made it back, who cracked under the pressure, haunt the barracks like ghosts.

 

“They say the first trial is the worst,” says the imp, breaking the silence. Her voice is flat, as if she is stating a fact rather than expressing an opinion. “No one ever talks what it really is.”

 

Vaggie turns back to look at her. Her gaze is down. She’s focusing on whatever her hands are playing with.

 

“Probably because no one wants to remember it,” Vaggie replies, her voice tinged with nervousness. “Or they’re too messed up to talk about it afterwards.”

 

“I heard it’s the last one,” says another imp next to her. “Recruits drop like flies. Oh, crumbs, I might actually get sick.” He sits up from his bed. He ruffles his white hair and takes a deep breath.

 

Vaggie swallows hard, trying not to think about the rumors. Some say it is a grueling obstacle course designed to break your spirit before you even reach the real test. Others whisper about the psychological games, meant to turn your mind against you. Whatever it is, it is made to weed out the weak, to find those who can keep going even after everything inside screams for them to stop. Vaggie shakes her head. She needs to focus on her goal.

 

The imp woman lights up before she turns around to face him. “Oh, don’t worry, Mox, we’ll do great.” She sounds more confident than them. “We’ve trained for this and fought the front lines our entire lives.”

 

That’s right. She’s been stuck here in Hell for 10 years. She drew her sword for this place. Fought against her own brethren.

 

“Yeah,” says the fallen soul. “If you can dodge holy steel, you can be royal guards.” Vaggie smiles at the two imps. They return it.

 

The woman smiles a bit bigger. “Right. We’ll get through it.” she says as she beams a smile at Vaggie then turns back to the man.  “Just like we’ve gotten through everything else.”

 

But even as she nods her head in agreement, Vaggie isn’t sure if she believes those words- not completely. The trials are different from other recruitments. It made sense. If chosen, that someone can guard royalty -big names- like Goetias, Sins, the head family itself. There’s a price that needs to be paid to get that close, tucking behind closed doors of worldly influence. Out there it won’t just be about following orders and hitting targets. It would be about power - power earthlings can’t even fathom.

 

“Yeah, and while you fucks are yappin’, some of us are trying to get some fuckin’ sleep!” bellows a voice across the room.

 

The imp, Mox, says, “You’re being louder than we are, Blitz.” He rolls his eyes as his nervousness is replaced by annoyance.

 

“You’re all too loud. Shut your shit up!”

 

“Who fuckin’ swears like that, dick sucker?”

 

Groans and moans echo through the hall. Recruits start waking up and complaining. There’s a few swears thrown and then immediate hushes. Vaggie quickly ducks into her covers. She didn’t mean to start this. This is embarrassing. It’s not even her first day and it feels like she’s already messing up. Soon, their fussing calms down and they all start retreating back into their covers.

 

As minutes tick by, sleep remains elusive. The anticipation is too strong, a relentless pressure that refuses to let her rest. Vaggie closes her eyes, trying to force herself to relax, but all she could see are the shadows of what is to come- the unknown trials that will push to limits that didn’t know they had.

 

Tomorrow, she will find out. She will pass. She has to pass.

 

___________

 

She takes in a deep breath and rubs her thighs harshly with anticipation. She feels herself being jostled as the truck hits a bump. Before they all climb into these large utility trucks, they were each given a small breakfast sandwich, coffee or tea, and a bottle of water. Vaggie tucks her bottle into one of her very large pockets. Everyone here was instructed to blindfold themselves. She can hear the gears turn and feel sharp turns, but she can’t see anything.

 

She squeezes the seat under her.  Her knuckles are white against her gray skin. She is pressed too close to the neighboring bodies. Today is the day. The trial she has been preparing for, dreaming about and dreading as soon as her colonel signed off on her request form. It is finally here. It isn’t just a test; it is a gateway to see her again. To finally thank her. 

 

She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but her heart keeps racing, each beat echoing in her ears. All those comments of determination and self-doubt mix in a whirlwind of emotions.  No . She has to focus. She feels two harsh bumps rock all of them as they drive further down into the depths. How long have they been driving? It feels like a while has passed. Perhaps, four, maybe five hours have gone by? Damn. Where are they going?

 

There is a silence in the metal tank. The weight of what is at stake presses down in the cabin. The pressure is immense and she can feel it tighten around her like a vice around her chest. She slowly takes a deep breath, in and out. She shakes off the fear that gnaws at her, but it slings a little too stubbornly, refusing to let go. What is this? She has never been so worked up before. Is it the thought she might fail? Is it the thought she might succeed? If she succeeds and she’s able to return the favor, will it be enough?

 

She sits up, straightens her. She presses her back into the leather seat.

 

She can do this. She’ll focus on this. Get through the Royal Trials, she’ll pass, and find a place among them. Let everything else be agonized over after.

 

Her body jerks as there’s an abrupt stop.

 

”All recruits, please exit,” a voice calls from the front.

 

Vaggie is careful as she is escorted off the truck. They are gently pushed to walk forward and until they are told to stop. She can hear the heavy trucks shift gears and drive off.

 

“Good evening everyone.” A voice not too far calls. There is a small pause. “You may remove the blindfolds.”

 

Vaggie removes the knot from the back. She blinks as the red sun hits her eyes. One by one the recruits take off the cloths. She sees the hellborns immediately bow and she follows right after. Is the king here?

 

“Hmm. Respect is a formable ally. You may raise your heads.”

 

As Vaggie raises her head, she is greeted by the sight of a tall owl, graced in royal purples and blues. The cape is pieced together by the twilight sky. She doesn’t match his eye. Holy moly! It is the Goetia head! He hosts the trials? Her heart is going to explode out of her chest.

 

She takes in her surroundings. They are in a desert area where a glaring heat from the sun beats around them. The atmosphere looks a bit more orange. She isn’t in the Pride Ring anymore. Wrath maybe? It makes sense. All training is done here. 

 

Her whole body is casted in a shadow, everyone is. There’s a large dome in front of them. It is almost as large as a town. Vaggie can barely make out the top.

 

“You have all been selected for various reasons. Your skills, intelligence, strength, and loyalty to the armed forces lead you here. Your fight along the lines lead to mistakes, learning, relearning … but in here, I expect perfection.”

 

With a snap of his fingers, tables and racks appear with weapons strewn across them. Vaggie’s eyes immediately fall on her spear.

 

“Ready your weapons,” Paimon says as he gestures to the row. They are quick to grab their guns, bullets, knives, and swords. She looks around the tables as everyone around her snatches up their tools and check them over. Shit! Where’s her utlitity belt?

 

“Um, Your Highness,” another sinner bows as she boldly speak up. “I don’t see the weapon I brought in-,”

 

“Everything that has been checked in, I have brought,” he states but nothing more. He is quick to turn to lead them into the dome.

 

If that is the case, then someone stole her tool belt. She grips her spear tightly. Does she tell him? Would he care? Seeing how he is quick to dismiss the other sinner, Vaggie isn’t sure to bring it up. She keeps quiet as she walks in after the prince.

 

The metal doors open behind him. Vaggie tightens her fist. They walk into the dome. It had its own ecological atmosphere.

 

Stepping into the vast, enclosed dome, where the atmosphere is thick with humidity and the air is heavy with the earthy scent of wet soil. The dome itself is dimly lit, with only faint beams of light piercing through the dense canopy above. Massive trees with gnarled roots tower overhead, their leaves creating a thick, almost impenetrable layer that filters the light, casting everything in a mysterious, greenish hue.

 

The ground is covered in a rich layer of moss and fallen leaves, and the sound of water dripping from leaves echoes throughout the space. Vines hang from the trees, twisting and curling around the trunks, some reaching down to the forest floor, while others stretch out across the dome like natural bridges. The vegetation is lush and overgrown, with large ferns, thick underbrush, and exotic plants with dark, glossy leaves.

 

Small streams meander through the landscape, their clear waters reflecting the dim light, creating an almost otherworldly glow. Occasionally, you might catch glimpses of movement as small creatures dart through the underbrush or flit between the trees. The air is alive with the distant calls of unseen crows and the rustling of leaves, creating a soundscape that is both soothing and slightly eerie.

 

Despite the darkness, the dome feels alive, teeming with the energy of one of Earth’s rainforest. It’s a place where nature reigns supreme, and where the boundary between the natural world and the artificial structure of the dome feels blurred and uncertain.

 

“You will begin with a survivor and physical test. Good luck.”

 

Then he disappears with a shine of magic.

 

Wait… that’s it?

 

“That’s it!?” the imp, from last night, echos her thoughts. Blitz, she remembers. 

 

The natural lights quickly shift; they’re bathed in a night so bleak, everything green looks black. Growls and moans echo through the area. They’re coming from a distance but all over. Anyone who brought a weapon is quick to brand them. Safeties click off, and melee weapons draw out.

 

The sound of distant horrific animal noises is unsettling, echoing through the environment with an eerie resonance. It starts with a low, guttural growl, deep and rumbling, like the earth itself is trembling. This growl builds slowly, reverberating through the air and sending a shiver down her spine. 

 

Vaggie searches in her pants. She quickly pulls out her flashlight. She taps to turn it on. There's scratching sounds of matches lighting up and clicking sounds of lighters turning on. There are a few others that turn on their own flashlights.

 

Then, Vaggie hears sharp, piercing shrieks—high-pitched and agonizing, as if something in unimaginable pain is crying out. These shrieks are followed by a series of bizarre, unnatural clicks and hisses, like something is lurking just beyond sight, communicating in a language not meant for demon ears.

 

In the background, there’s a constant, unnerving rustling, as if the underbrush is alive with movement. It’s the sound of something large and predatory moving through the foliage, but Vaggie can’t tell exactly where it’s coming from. Occasionally, there’s a crashing noise, like trees being toppled or heavy bodies colliding, the force of which makes the ground seem to quiver beneath her feet.

 

The sounds ebb and flow, sometimes fading into an almost eerie silence before surging back with renewed intensity. Each time they return, they feel closer, more threatening, as if whatever is making these noises is slowly closing in, drawing nearer with each horrifying cry. The overall effect is one of deep, primal fear, tapping into ancient instincts that tell Vaggie to run, to hide, but there’s no escape from the relentless, terrifying sounds that surround her.

 

Swish!

 

Vaggie quickly whips around and chases her light after that sound. There’s a rustle in the bushes. She quickly whips around to shine the light in the direction. She is face to face with a row of teeth.

Notes:

Vaggie is finally here. Next chapter, we'll see different POVs of those participating and watching the trials. Thanks for reading. Please let me know what ya'll think, what you like or don't like. <3

Notes:

I’ll probably share my sketches. I’m new to this site and only follow a few fanfics so if anyone has any suggestions for tags please tell me.