Chapter Text
When Lute wakes in the infirmary, she is alone. She blinks groggily at the gray ceiling, awareness slowly trickling in like sand through an hourglass.
Her head is fuzzy, likely from the medicine they’ve been giving her for the pain. She can tell that it’s wearing off; her arm feels like it’s swarming with ants. Lute spends the first few minutes of wakefulness scratching the damn thing through thick bandages, slowly easing but never erasing the unpleasant feeling.
She tries to piece together memories from the last few days, but it’s a struggle.
After returning from the failed extermination, the healers attended to the wounded exorcists. The hotel attack killed 33 of the 50 elite soldiers; most of the survivors suffered injuries.
The decision to let her sisters be healed first was instinctual, but it was worth it. Most of those injured weren’t debilitated by them, the way Lute was. She is the only one with a missing limb, despite the high casualty rate. Even with that, it will be back in time. The medicine necessary to heal such a grievous wound was not stockpiled, the healers having seen no need to do so. After the exorcists’ failed incursion, they’re completely out, needing to start the lengthy cultivation process necessary for such powerful herbs. But she at least got some of the miraculous substance. Her shoulder was regenerated, that arm ending in a stub just below it. It would take several years, but she would have a flesh arm again soon enough.
Five years is nothing to someone who’s lived for two millennia.
The same could be said for her sisters, but Lute would get a prosthetic and be mostly fully functional. It’s much harder to replace an eye, from what little she remembers over the last few days. She isn’t the first to lose a limb up here, even if it’s been some time since the war produced such injuries en masse. Prosthetics were necessary until the limbs could be restored in full, and there was one that mostly fit her needs, requiring only minor modification.
So her sisters are healed, and Lute is left with an appointment with the healers to be fitted later today, even if she doesn’t remember when.
Hopefully, she wrote that down; her memory is still fuzzy.
That isn’t a usual side effect of the medication she was given, but ripping your arm off and then having metal grafted into it isn’t a usual injury, so the amounts are quite different. All she remembers are bits and pieces from the last couple of days, images and conversations seeming to bleed from her mental grasp like water through her fingers. There’s a flash of the texture of sand on her cheek, but then that, too, is gone.
She remembers visiting the healers when they first got back. Eva was blind in one eye—that’s the only injury she clearly recalls in her current state. Most of the other sergeants were hurt as well, though thankfully, none were killed. There was some conversation between her and the head healer, but Lute could barely concentrate through the throbbing headache she had at the time. Between that and the fuzzy memory, she only knows what happened because she was told after the fact by Eva.
Lute was told of the prosthetics they still had, lying in wait for the day they would become necessary once more.
The one she would be fitted with is fully functional and made of angelic steel. There was a conversation about its combat effectiveness, but she only remembers requesting that some modifications to be made. Hopefully, she was coherent enough to ask for something useful. It’d be just her luck to ask them to add a custom knife sharpener or some nonsense while so out of it for various reasons.
Lute sits up in her cot, white blankets shifting with the movement. She rubs her face blearily, steadfastly resisting the pull of exhaustion on her barely healed body. There is work to be done. She can’t lie here forever.
The funeral won’t—
The wave of grief knocks the breath out of her, and Lute curls forward on the bed, over her legs.
Adam is gone.
Her commander, the man she’d pledged her loyalty to for two millennia, lay dead in Hell’s wretched grip. The First Man. He was irreplaceable, a monument to Humanity, a relic, a teacher, a friend. He was many things, but to Lute, he was everything.
And now he is dead.
The tears surface before Lute realizes, her traitorous eyes unable to hold back the damned things. Her only arm wraps around her torso in a shitty approximation of a hug. After a moment, she turns to grab her pillow, squeezing it to her chest. Lute curls around it, pushing her face into the gray fabric to muffle any errant sobs that may escape.
She lies there for a minute, crying uselessly into her pillow. For just a moment, the grief is unboxed and allowed to flow out of the wounded angel. Lute allows herself to feel the tumultuous emotions that she keeps hidden away.
A thump from outside. “Ow, fuck!” someone yelps, followed shortly after by another, “Hey! It was an accident, chill,” from someone else. A moment of silence, then Lute hears, “I’ll show you an accident, you little…” as they move away from the door.
Lute quickly puts the pillow back in its original position, flipped over to hide the tear stains. She wipes her face hurriedly, wishing there were a mirror of some sort anywhere in this fucking infirmary. Her eyes are likely bloodshot, face flushed gold from crying. She can blame the former on waking up, but not the latter. Still, Lute puts herself back together again, grabbing a napkin from the box on the side table.
She can’t be seen like this, not by anyone. She’s not weak, some crying little waif that can’t control herself. Lute has to be strong—there’s no other option.
The mask slides back on, the paper-thin veneer holding, at least for now. But Lute knows that it’s not strong enough; she’ll have to distract herself somehow until this passes, and she knows just the thing.
Lute thinks of Vaggie, her bitch, and that shitty hotel.
The despair is much worse than the anger. Anger is familiar, and she languishes in it, allowing it to fill her until there’s nothing left. No despair, no weariness, no exhaustion. Only the rage, burning red-hot in her veins, filling every limb with taught energy, is left behind.
Lute thinks of what she’s going to do to them when she goes back down there. The suffering she will inflict, how much she’s going to enjoy torturing the lot of those insignificant fucks. She would probably start with the fingernails. They’re easy targets, cause a lot of pain, and they grow back eventually. They wouldn’t live long enough for that to happen, but still. Lute will still certainly be tearing out Vaggie’s other eye. That hasn’t changed, even if the former sergeant got the upper hand last time. She’s still losing that eye, but only after her demon bitch loses both of hers.
She will make sure the last thing they see is Lute, a smile on her face and gospel on her lips.
They will know justice at Lute’s hand.
Lute sits on her infirmary bed, staring off into the distance, fantasizing about everything she’s going to do to her enemies. She doesn’t know or care how much time passes, preferring to daydream about justice rather than cry about things that can’t be changed.
It’s not until there’s a knock at the door that Lute jolts out of her reverie, wiping the smile off her face. Lute looks around quickly, but everything appears more or less in order. She doesn’t know who it is, but has a couple of guesses.
“Come in,” Lute calls to her visitor. Guess one proves to be correct. The massive hand could only belong to a handful of her sisters.
Even with the tall ceilings and doors, Eva still has to duck her head to come in. Lute is slightly above average for an exorcist, and she barely comes to Eva’s chest. The mountainous woman is at least twice the width of Lute, with muscles to match. The black pixie cut further contrasts their appearances, though the polished armor is the same between them.
Eva is the highest-ranking sergeant, only outranked by Lieutenant Lute and Commander Adam.
Well, now only by Lute.
“How are you feeling?” Eva asks, coming to a stop at the foot of Lute’s bed. Her deep voice is very familiar, having worked so closely together over the last millennium and change.
“Fine,” Lute replies with a straight face. She’s not sure if she believes the answer or not; can’t tell if it’s the truth or a lie. She’s feeling well enough to do her job again, which is all that matters.
Judging by the rise of Eva’s eyebrow, she is also not sure about the response, but she wisely drops the subject.
Lute glances at Eva’s right eye, inspecting the fresh scar from afar. Pale yellow spiderwebs cut through her black eyebrow, neatly bisecting the hair. It’s only barely visible against her alabaster skin, but it was a much gorier sight several days ago. Taking shrapnel to the eye socket will do that to you. Lute thinks it’s courtesy of the cyclops of the hotel, the bigger one that barely wears clothes. Lute looks forward to repaying the courtesy to the ugly bitch, preferably by shoving one of those bombs she likes so much into her.
“How is it?”
“Fine,” Eva replies. “Thank you,” she adds a second later, voice sincere. A rare thing for the usually stoic sergeant.
Lute nods in return, and nothing more needs to be said. It’s easier to replace an arm than an eye. If the circumstances were reversed, Eva would do the same for her.
“I’ve been keeping the girls on task, we’re making good progress. Are you ready?” Eva asks, nudging her head towards the door.
Lute will have to be. She shifts in the bed, ready to go, when she realizes she’s still in a gown. “Nearly.”
Eva glances pointedly at the cot next to her, wordlessly directing Lute to the spare uniform that lays upon it, perfectly folded. Lute hadn’t noticed it, too far inside her head to pay attention to her surroundings.
Mistakes like that got you killed. She has to pay more attention.
Lute nods, getting out of bed finally. Her feet touch the cold tile, and she represses a shiver. It’s only when she puts her hand on the new set of armor that Lute realizes she doesn’t know how to put a glove on with only one hand.
Eva does not comment on her pause, only taking a step back from the bed, towards the door. “I’ll be outside when you’re done.”
Lute nods, still mapping out knee-high boots and full-length gloves and how to put them on. Thankfully, Eva does not offer to help.
She knows better.
Instead, she stands outside, guarding against anyone coming in to witness Lute’s struggle with something so basic as fucking dressing herself.
It takes close to ten minutes to put on the new set of exorcist armor, when it should only take one or two. Most of that time was spent tugging on the glove with her teeth, for lack of a better option. The glove is at least clean, but her mouth still tastes like failure and leather. It’s still not enough. The normal perfection that Lute demands cannot be obtained with only one hand.
The thought is enough to make her jaw ache from the pressure, fist clenching in the slightly off glove that now sports teeth marks in several places. Just when she should be at the apex of her power, taking control of the exorcists after Adam’s death, being the leader they need in the wake of such a tragedy…
She takes ten minutes to dress herself poorly. Lute would have someone’s ass if they showed up to training looking like she does now, would likely make them strip and dress in their armor five times in a row, any imperfection restarting the counter.
Lute takes a minute to breathe, staring at the floor as she struggles to rein in her rampant emotions. Anger and despair fist-fight for dominance, and she has to fight both of them harder still to control them. She will recover. This isn’t forever, even if it feels like it already.
Things will get better when her prosthetic is on. The thought lifts her spirits, if only somewhat.
Nothing can be done for her left sleeve, the long fabric dangling limply from what remains of that arm. She contemplates tearing the excess cloth off, tying it in a knot, or doing anything else, but decides against it. Lute has wasted enough time daydreaming and bellyaching. She needs to get a move on. She bends over to grab the hospital gown, then remembers too late that she can’t fold it with one hand, and chucks it across the room with a scream.
Useless.
If Eva heard her outbursts, she makes no mention of it when Lute finally leaves the infirmary. She pushes open the blue door and nearly bumps into the larger woman’s back.
Eva steps aside to let Lute out, and they walk, circling the courtyard as Lute asks questions.
The exorcist barracks are roughly square, with three sides consisting of quarters for most of the exorcists.
They reserved the front for the entrance hall, office, armory, and infirmary. From the outside, the entrance hall is the only feature, with only thin, long windows on the first floor. To the right of the entrance is the armory, then the office further down. To the left is the infirmary. The upper floor is for the seven officer rooms, with the Sergeants and Lute being allowed private quarters and their own shared bathroom.
Not that Lute uses hers, since Adam got her an actual house, next to his. She doesn’t remember off-hand who uses her spare quarters, but they’re certainly well-behaved, lest they lose the privilege.
Storage and miscellaneous utility rooms take up any remaining space in the corners, and the empty middle of the square consists of a massive courtyard.
The area is currently a hive of activity, with exorcists running to and fro across sandy soil as they rush to build things for the funeral. A large wooden structure in the back for the pyre, and in the middle, a rectangular stage.
Adam was always torn between a pyre and a Viking funeral for what he considered ‘the most badass’ way Humans handled bodies. Considering they didn’t bring back any of them, and in the interest of keeping things reasonable, she decided the former was better.
It wouldn’t be enough—nothing could ever be so for The First Man—but it’s all she can do.
That’s not to say the funeral is just for Adam. 33 exorcists, along with the commander, had died, and all of them would be honored for their sacrifices tomorrow evening. Lute knows all their names and has centuries’ worth of memories with some of them. Memories are all she will have now. She’s not the closest with most of her sisters, being who she is and having the rank she does, but they are still her sisters, and she mourns them regardless.
Lute and Eva have almost completed a circuit of the courtyard when they see the interior door to the entrance hall open.
Lute is at first happy to see Sera, but then represses a groan when she sees the other one.
Emily.
Why did she feel the need to follow around the High Seraphim like a lost puppy? The adults are talking. Leave your childish dreams of rainbows and unicorns far away from Lute.
“Go help them with the stage. I’ll handle our guests,” she orders. Eva nods and walks away dutifully, leaving Lute to be the diplomatic one.
What a joy.
She approaches at a brisk pace, not wanting them to get any ideas about talking to her sisters, or vice versa. For all that her sisters are good at what they do, they don’t talk to anyone above Adam for a reason. Lute getting bitched at for a private making a lewd joke in Sera’s vicinity isn’t something she feels the need to repeat. She hopes this is quick. There’s a lot to be done, and entertaining guests is only going to cut down on the time she has for more important work. Not that she would say such a thing out loud. She has decorum, after all.
Lute sees the moment they spot her and has to move her arm in an approximation of parade rest to hide the way her fist clenches. She can recognize the look in their eyes well, and it makes her want to scream.
Pity.
Sera is at least subtle about it; the widening of her eyes and the glance towards the void to Lute’s left are her only reactions. But Emily gasps, looking horrified as she stares at the limp sleeve. It’s not until Sera elbows her that she reins it in, returning to a normal stance. But the pity in their eyes does not leave, especially Emily’s.
Lute wants to spit in both their faces. How fucking dare they? She fought in Heaven’s name and was wounded during it, but she is still alive. She has more now than Adam and 33 of her sisters ever will. Lute isn’t a weakling, despite the loss of her arm. Give her the prosthetic, and she’ll be stronger than ever. She’s still the lieutenant, not something to be fawned over. She’s not fucking useless.
“Good afternoon, Your Highness,” Lute directs only to Sera. “How can I help you today?” she asks, glancing over at Emily for the briefest of moments.
Lute can be nice if it’s required. She’s not even chewing out the younger seraph, even if Emily very much deserves it. She might do so anyway if Sera wasn’t here, but the only thing worse than pissing off her boss was doing the same to his boss. That, and the seraphim are fairly high up on the angelic hierarchy, so getting on their bad side is ill-advised. Even if some of them make it tempting.
“Hello, Lute. We wanted to give our condolences for the deaths of Adam and the other exorcists,” Sera explains, looking appropriately sympathetic. Emily nods at her side, the same emotion turned up so high it hurts Lute to maintain eye contact. The seraph looks like she’s going to cry any second, ugh.
“Thank you. We are…” Lute turns to look over her shoulder, checking the progress on the structures behind her. “Preparing for the funeral.”
Sera nods politely, hands clasped in front of her. Emily takes a step forward, eager to speak, and Lute represses a sigh.
“Can anyone attend?” Emily asks, looking between them.
Lute takes a second to think, looking at the ground. She hadn’t intended for anyone outside the exorcists to come, but she isn’t necessarily opposed to it. And really, the least Adam’s boss can do is show up at his funeral. In his position, she would expect Sera to show up. If Lute died, she would hope that Adam would organize hers, but she knows better. He enjoys them—well, the badass ones—as a concept much more than a harsh reality. After the service for his wife and son, he’d sworn off attending them entirely, not that she blames him. The task would be delegated to Eva, who would shoulder it without complaint. “Of course,” Lute offers, looking up just in time to catch the end of a look that Sera gives Emily. She didn’t catch enough to know what it meant, but it didn’t look pleasant.
“There is… much to do following recent events. When will it be?” Sera states, glancing up at a loud clatter behind Lute.
The lieutenant ignores it, her blood pressure rising rapidly. Recent events. That is one way to describe the outright murder of The First Man and 33 exorcists. Lute keeps the snarl off her face, but it’s a close thing.
What the fuck does Sera know about loss?
How dare she reduce the deaths of so many to ‘recent events’, as if giving it a nice name is any better than calling it what it is? But Lute knows better than to pick a fight about such a thing, especially with her boss’s boss of all people. She has to take a calming breath before she opens her mouth, being careful of the burning wrath on the tip of her tongue. “Tomorrow evening.” Lute almost leaves it there, but decides that’s not enough detail, doesn’t get into how awful this truly is for them. The wrath in her chest bubbles up, but she vents the pressure only a little as she explains. “The funeral pyre will be for show since Hell’s cannibals have eaten the corpses of both Adam and my sisters already.” She doesn’t technically know if that is true, but it’s guaranteed to be, given who they were fighting. Lute plasters the most pleasant smile she can onto her face, feels it grow genuine when both Sera and Emily give horrified gasps.
Yes, let them see what Hell is truly like. Cannibals, lowlifes, murderers, and drug addicts—the lot of them. Do away with the petty delusions of how grand the hotel is and show the ugly truth.
Then give Lute carte blanche to burn it all to the ground.
“I see. Thank you for the invitation. I’m sure you have a lot of work to do, so we will leave you to it. We will talk about your report after the funeral.” Sera takes her leave, hand resting on Emily’s shoulder as they walk.
Lute gives a tight nod at the dismissal, happy to be separated from Sera and her dumbass sister. They were all bleeding hearts, except for Sera, but Emily was likely the worst of them. But it doesn’t matter. She’s already sent in the preliminary report, and the viewing orb will be accurate, anyway. Sera already sees what Lute does: that Hell needs to be struck down while the iron is hot. They won’t be expecting an attack so soon after the last. Their guards will be down, and they will be defenseless. Pulling the Archangels out of retirement will ensure the day is theirs, and Heaven can finally rid Hell of every last Sinner and Hellborn.
Let The Fallen One reign over a kingdom of ashes, as he deserves.
She watches the seraphim leave through the entrance hall, wanting to make sure they’re gone. She doesn’t enjoy the higher-ups being on the barracks grounds, and will breathe far easier in their absence.
“Lute.”
She jerks slightly, turning to see Eva right next to her. “What?” she asks, not liking how long the other woman watches her for.
“Do you remember when you’re supposed to show up at the Healer’s Office for your arm?” Eva asks, blank-faced.
Shit.
“No.” Lute sighs irritably, trying to force her brain to remember the fuzzy events from the last few days. She’d been asleep or otherwise out of it for far longer than she wanted to be.
“Any time this afternoon, they said,” Eva supplies after a moment of her thinking in circles.
Lute nods, the information slotting into place. “I’ll go now. Keep them in line until I’m back.” She gives the order firmly, thumb jabbing over her shoulder towards the stage.
Eva nods, taking the dismissal in stride. She leaves to inspect something or other, leaving Lute alone to fly across the capital of Heaven.
Lute takes a moment to inspect her wings before she leaves, and is pleased but confused to find them in decent condition. The lieutenant is pretty sure they weren’t in the best shape when she came back from Hell. Someone likely preened them, which brings mixed feelings. Lute is happy not to have to do so with one arm, but she doesn’t like not remembering who did it. Hopefully, it was one of the sergeants, and not some random healer or one of her other sisters. Ugh.
But those questions are for another time. She has an appointment to attend. A quick flap of her wings brings Lute airborne. The wind under her wings is refreshing, even if the flapping of her left sleeve is immediately annoying for several reasons.
She already knows where she has to go—the healers being across the river, near the Main Portal. Not that it gets used much these days. Travel to Earth is rare unless you’re a cherub. Exorcists utilized the portal Adam made on the outskirts to keep hidden, and nobody goes to Purgatory unless they absolutely have to.
Lute growls as the flapping sleeve begins to irritate her stub, slowly drawing an ache from nothing.
Hopefully, this is quick.
It isn’t.
It’s evening by the time Lute leaves, but she’s too elated to care that much.
Gray angelic steel plating—thick enough to stop most blades, polished to a mirror shine—covers the prosthetic. The strength is incredible, even if she hasn’t had the chance to truly use it yet. She had crushed a full glass bottle with barely a thought, but that wasn’t a proper test.
They warned Lute that the fingers were a little less dexterous and slightly clunkier than her originals, which is an issue, but she can likely work around it. The main drawback is that it’s twice as heavy as her flesh arm was, and slightly bulkier all around. Lute won’t be able to wear her armor’s sleeve over the prosthetic, and thus settled for just cutting it off at the connection between metal and flesh. She also can’t wear a glove over it, but she doesn’t see the need to. Despite being told not to shower with it on, it’s supposedly fairly liquid-resistant, which is for the best, considering its intended purpose.
Especially given the carrying case in her pocket, metal bits rattling inside. Most of it is for the cleaning supplies, but there’s an additional part that has all of her attention. She can attach razor-sharp claws to her fingers as needed, letting her rip and tear anything short of steel with ease.
Just the idea is enough to bring a grin to her face, picturing what the claws could do as she flies back towards the barracks.
They’re a little inconvenient for everyday use, being both big and sharp enough to be an annoyance, but that’s fine. She would only wear them in one place, anyway. They’d be overkill here; capable of doing severe damage to her sisters. If she were doing live spars, maybe. But even then, she has more control over her weapons than the claws, so it would be a while yet before she did so, if ever.
As Lute comes into sight of the barracks, she can see the progress made from afar, courtyard lights illuminating the two additions.
They both appear finished, which is great. The metal stage has multiple people on it, milling about on the structure like it’s their newest toy. They only pull that out every year or two, so the soldiers always enjoy hanging out on it. The pyre is much less popular, the stack of wood presenting a much more boring and morbid place to spend time on or around. Not that Lute blames them, she isn’t going to be doing so either.
Eva has been an efficient taskmaster while she was gone.
Lute spots the giant woman easily, leaning on the railing of the upper walkway nearest the pyre. She descends quickly, eager to show off and test her new arm. She lands with a clunk, boots hitting the metal catwalk a little harder than necessary. Eva appears unfazed by the sudden swoop or harsh vibration.
“What do you think?” Lute asks, brandishing the prosthetic. Eva inspects it for a moment, yellow eyes roving across the polished metal. Lute remembers then to take out the claw attachments as well, and the sergeant nods approvingly.
“Looks like it can do some damage,” Eva notes, glancing at the ground below.
“Definitely. I just have to get something to—“ Lute stops as Eva points past her, to the right of the pyre.
Her confused look vanishes as she spots the two wooden training dummies set up conveniently nearby.
“I assumed you would want to test it on something,” Eva explains, tone shifting just enough for Lute to tell she’s amused.
Lute chuckles, thinking about how she wants to do just that. “I knew you were my favorite for a reason. Come on.”
She vaults over the railing with ease, intent on her target. Eva hits the ground behind her a moment later, the vibration enough to rattle Lute’s teeth at such a close distance.
Deciding to just go for it, Lute dashes in for a gut punch. She nearly stumbles with the extra weight, not used to being heavier on one side. It connects with a pleasing thunk, metal caving the wood with ease. She pulls the fist out, splinters coming with it. Not bad. Lute expected a bit more, but the punches aren’t the main act. Still quite useful in close quarters, should it come to it. Eva would still do more damage, but the sergeant is the strongest of all of them, so that’s not a surprise.
She decides on the claws next, and takes a moment to screw them on. It’s not something she can do on the fly, given that it occupies both hands and takes some time, but that’s fine. Once they’re all on, she goes for the face. They tear into the wood satisfyingly easily, gouging deep divots into the training dummy. That’s great. They will work well against any Sinner and require little effort to learn on her part. Slightly inconvenient to put on, but that can be handled easily.
That leaves the grip, something she was told was incredible. If a full glass bottle requires no effort to obliterate, surely bone would be easy to crush?
Lute walks to the other dummy, wanting a fresh target for this part. Her sisters gather nearby, wanting to see her new arm in action. They look down from the railings, chattering idly as they wait.
Well, hopefully, this isn’t disappointing.
Lute grabs the head, opting for simplicity. If this doesn’t work, she’ll—
Solid wood crumples like paper under her steel grip. Splinters fly in every direction from the sheer force of it, one embedding just below Lute’s widened eyes. She slowly retracts her new arm in awe, turning the palm towards her to watch bits of wood, pulp, and sawdust fall to the ground. Her sisters shout in surprise and wonder, slowly fading into background noise. She can barely feel the slow trickle of blood slide down her left cheek, her mind already far away, down in Hell.
Lute pictures crushing Vaggie’s head like an egg, blood and bone and brain alike giving way underneath her steel grip. Or squeezing her neck, leisurely choking the breath out of the traitor, the slowly ratcheting metal continuing bit by agonizing bit until her trachea collapses under Lute’s unforgiving strength. The viscera of her enemies would stain the angelic steel, crimson nectar pouring from the gaps between her fingers. Bodies dropping lifelessly to the ground, nothing left inside but meat and failure.
Oh, yeah.
This will be perfect.