A/N: I felt I should probably post the first true chapter a little early so you could all properly judge the tone most of the story would take. For the most part expect chapter P.O.V.s to rotate between Damien and Gregory, though certainly where needed other characters will get their time in the sun. For those who broke my review-cherry, thank you very much! And of course...love to my Betas.
"I'm not concerned about all hell breaking loose, but that a PART of hell will break loose... it'll be much harder to detect." George Carlin
WPW Chapter 1: Of Hell and High School
Another beautiful day in Hell, the teen thought sarcastically, jaded observation matching his expression, as he took in the macabre landscape through the filthy and warped pane of glass that served as a window. For a studied moment Damien focused a single heartfelt wish to be somewhere else, anywhere else but here trapped in a stuffy room, in the stuffier bowels of Hell. A cough from the other side of the room, diverted Damien mid wish, and he turned away from the glowing red orifice, to focus on his most unpleasant observer.
"Something out there more interesting than the nature of celestial bodies Damien," his lecturer queried in a tone equally expressing derision and irritation.
"What could be more interesting than defining the faces of the moon, and their influence on enchantments?" Damien chose his words deliberately to mock his overbearing teacher, yet their sarcasm was only half-meant.
The truth was that as boring as it could be learning the nature of a celestial body not even visible in Hell, the view out the window of the static dim city grinding away in its endless cycle of tepid un-life wasn't much of an improvement. It was just something different, and slightly more enjoyable than a full four hours staring at his dried up stick of a teacher, while silently counting down the minutes till lecture ended.
That dried up stick heard the sentiment behind the words, but didn't bother to rise yet to the half-hearted challenge. The upstart boy was itching for a fight, but his instructor saw no need to immediately satisfy that desire. Rising to the bait would just mean shouting, arguments, and eventually fake apologies on both sides later, under the watchful eyes of the boy's overseer, Penemue. There were other methods of fighting back with less risk of repercussion and he chose the most malicious one available, homework.
"Very well then if the topic holds such an interest to you perhaps after the lesson you'd like to stick around and write an essay for me detailing the eight phases and their specific affect on the strengths of demonic and divine spells?"
Outrage widened Damien's eyes as he saw his precious free time threatened. Normally dark crimson irises flared briefly with inner fire and his pale complexion reddened slightly to match.
"You can't do that, it's…it's not fair! The recently deceased are arriving soon, that's about the only NEW thing that ever happens around here! I promised Cer I'd take him out to scare them a little!"
"I'm sure there will be plenty of more terrifying greetings being arranged for them, than a spoiled princeling and that thing you play with. Dis was built to be inexorable, it ran well enough before your birth, and things will go on quite well with or without you precious presence mucking things up for the day," his teacher responded, a sneer on his face the only sign of his internal gloating at striking home so well.
"You can't talk like that to me," Damien warned, rising from his seat to lean forward over his desk. One hand balanced on the ebony surface of the stone table, the other was clenching and releasing at his side in poorly hidden frustration. "I'm the son of Satan! My father wouldn't stand for it!"
"Wouldn't stand for it?! That's rich! He wouldn't stand for exactly what?" the Fallen angel countered maliciously raising one delicate hand in demonstration.
"He wouldn't stand for the implied slight I made to a son he doesn't even bother to interact with? Or perhaps wouldn't stand to be bothered by something as simple as me setting his brat straight? Or he wouldn't stand for you yet again dodging your responsibilities? Or he simply wouldn't stand for anything, because he was too busy being bent over on his back by his mortal toy of the week?"
Each verbal jab was punctuated by a lifted bony finger as his teacher marked off his points.
"Do you want to go chase him down and find out if your father has time to waste on the disappointing fruit of his loins? Please entertain me and go crying for Daddy to save you from your responsibilities." At last satisfied, his instructor leaned back and prepared to enjoy the aftermath of his damaging barrage.
Each point scored home, and Damien flinched with each finger's rise. Damien's free hand had left distractedly left his side now, to run through tangled and unruly onyx hair, twisting his fingers to comb the mess straight from the crown of his head to the tips near his ears. He wrestled with his thoughts while doing this, trying to calm the anger long enough to find a sufficiently effective response to the insults. Still the grain of truth laced in each point was salt in his emotionally bare wounds. Damien's struggle for a verbal response to throw in the face of his gloating teacher was a quickly lost battle. In this contest of wits he was far outmatched, the Fallen Host had spent their immortal lifetimes raising the exploitation of weaknesses in others to an art form. Damien's seventeen years of sheltered isolation were poor preparation against one of their number. Giving up at last, Damien released a grunt of singed pride and decided to escalate the fight to a plane he felt more proficient in.
The free hand at last left his hair and extended, clenching into a fist. A film of fire coalesced around the threatening appendage, red and orange ropes of flame coiled and twisted with a life all its own an inch above his skin.
"I don't need my Dad to defend me," his finally found a suitable reply and proffered it in an ominous tone, "I can handle myself well enough."
His teacher was about to unleash another long rehearsed string of dispersions on the unlikeliness of that particular topic, when the door to the tower smashed open, catching student and teacher in surprise. Into the midst of the argument walked the two Fallen angels for whom all of Dis, save Satan himself would give way. Azazel and Penemue strode into the room mid conflict themselves, two Fallen so equal in power and devotion to Lucifer, and yet as different as day and night. Their own words were quickly choked back, as they took in Damien's blazing fist, as well as his teacher's smirking expression, in a single shared glance.
Azazel was a perfect example of an Avenging Angel, average in height for one of the Fallen, though he seemed larger than his six feet with broad shoulders and massive arms framing his body. His face was chiseled but locked in a permanent scowl, strengthened by the square steely jaw that loomed over a tree trunk of a neck. Beside him Penemue appeared the smaller, though he stood nearly head and shoulders above his Azazel. Penemue was a near match to Damien's instructor in his frame, all angles and slim lines. Even his face held a sharp raptors nose, and pencil thin mouth. About the only things the right and left hand of Satan had in common were the obsidian wings, shoulder length straight black hair, and granite grey eyes that were at this moment participating in twin expressions of stern disapproval.
Penemue, as Damien's overseer, was fully aware of the daily schedule, as well as the enmity between teacher and pupil, so he was perhaps the least surprised of all four within the room. Armed with this knowledge he was the first to react, breaking the awkwardness by tossing out a casual and deliberately bland, "My, my ,my."
The words echoed in the silence before Penemue continued, now certain of everyone's attention.
"I don't recall the nature of the moon being this charged and exciting a topic. Clearly there have been some changes to the curriculum since the last time I reviewed it. Perhaps we should let Sariel finish this lecture before interrupting Azazel?" The last was said with a casual turn of his head to include his companion.
Spurred by the question Azazel, recovered next from the shock and merely grunted out a terse reply, "This can't wait. Our business is most pressing Penemue, you know this."
Penemue nodded his agreement, "Sariel," he glanced at Damien's instructor, allowing a hint of disdain to creep into his voice, "You're dismissed. We have need of Damien's time."
Damien spared a moment to gloat at Sariel's hurried departure, before Penemue's heavy gaze turned to him. In an instant the blaze licking at his fist banked out, and Damien wasn't entirely sure if he or Penemue was responsible for the fires rapid snuffing. Sullenly he lowered both hand and head waiting for the lecture that must surely come. Unwilling to brave his guardian's eyes, Damien became absorbed in studying his shirt, a tattered black tunic. It was sleeveless of course, only the Fallen walked around Hell with absolutely no care for the heat. As the silence thickened he subconsciously squeezed himself into a smaller target, long arms tight against his adolescent frame. The arms, though lengthy and stretched for his height, were built more like Azazel than Penemue. Unlike the warrior, his muscles were not thick knots of rope, but wiry cords twined tightly on the biceps above each elbow. Thin fingers graced slender hands, and slipped easily into dark black pants, as Damien's body continued the futile act of trying to shrink in on itself into nothing, braced for the expected diatribe on proper behavior and responsibility. All in all the sight was rather pitiable to Penemue, the Fallen who took the most active interest in the well being of the boy. A wave of disappointment swept Penemue, at both Damien's continued refusal to take his studies seriously and the quickness with which he was wilting before the Fallen, all fight gone out him.
Damien's ears perked up with surprise when he heard Penemue release his breath as an unexpected and weary sigh of regret.
"I suppose you are right, Azazel," Penemue skipped the lecture entirely, and turned to the Fallen with whom he had entered. "There is no sense keeping him here any longer. It might be best for all parties if we went ahead with your proposal."
Now thoroughly off balance Damien's head shot up in surprise, to meet Azazal's piercing and judging stare, a look that always seemed say in no uncertain terms, that everything the angel saw fell short of his expectations. The fact that Azazel directed this sentiment at all of the world and not purely Damien, was lost on the boy. He felt twin stabs of envy and shame as he looked up at the two angels. It was an unenviable position to be surrounded every day by beings who strove for and lived within perfection, displaying endless patience and absolute grace in every act. Worse when one was a teen stuck in that awkward stage of life where one's own body betrayed you, growing uneven. At such a time even the simple task of walking became a game of dodging invisible obstacles and tripping half-steps.
His weighing observation complete, Azazel further compounded Damien's consternation with his next words: "Indeed. Hard to believe sometimes the boy's got the blood of the Morningstar in him with that small stature. Let alone the moodiness and strange sullenness. The boys not going to suddenly start acting like he's descended of the Prince of Darkness, if you keep him cooped up in these towers. Somewhere in there he's got to have all the Pride of his father and certainly he has some of the fiery spirit, but none of the experience and restraint to temper it with. He knows he's ready for something new, fledglings are always most restless before their first flight."
Damien felt each of the unintentional slights in Azazel's words and self consciously his hands came together as he rubbed his thin wrists, while his back tensed. His slim shoulder blades, depressingly wingless, contracted towards each other.
Ever observant, Penemue, caught Damien's motions, and understood the underlying distress. Unlike Azazel he directed his words to the boy rather than over him, "Yes perhaps this isn't the right atmosphere for you Damien, and..." Penemue's gaze drifted out the same window Damien had been looking thorugh earlier, though his eyes did not glance down but outward to the high walls of Dis and the demon hordes beyond. Lips thinning in distaste he finished his interrupted thought, "And perhaps it won't be the safest place much longer either. Very well Azazel, I yield the point in full. Go tell Satan I've agreed with your assessment. He'll be in his bedchamber at this hour I'm sure."
It was Azazal's turn to grimace and in a grumbling voice he complained, "He's found a new toy? I'd thought I might finally get him to inspect the walls today, the atmosphere of Hell isn't exactly conducive to any longstanding structures, and I could use the help reinforcing them."
"At least he no longer lets the toys play at ruling, be happy for that much," Penemue countered, though his tone expressed undertones of agreement, and equal distaste.
Damien squirmed at the casual discussion of his father shamefully ignoring the defenses and needs of the city for his sexual pleasures.
Penemue called on his of course 'perfect' memory for detail, "Still the new one— its name is Steven, if such things matter— is a bashful one. If you act quickly, you could catch them mid foreplay, before Satan is too caught up. It would surely spoil the mood of his pet for the day. Satan won't be fit company for your wall inspection or for anyone else for the day, but it will free up his schedule for a few hours. Just make sure you prepare an escort for Damien before you and Satan inspect the city defenses. If we're to do this let us be done with it this day before things beyond the walls get any worse."
Azazel might have bristled at the implied tone of command from one who was technically his equal, if he wasn't busily digesting the information provided. In a quite impressive act of facial contortion, his mouth managed to look even grimmer, a feat Damien would have thought impossible if he had not just witnessed it. The angel girded himself for the unpleasantness ahead and walked out the door as a man going to an execution chamber.
In the serious silence of Azazel's departure, Penemue returned his piercing gaze to his charge, his sharp beak of a nose and rustling wings giving him the appearance of a falcon studying a squirming mouse. "So young Damien, you caught all of that I trust?"
Too much of it, Damien thought uncomfortably, and his inflection was flat with sullenness, "I'm being moved out of the Towers. I can guess that much, but what else was there to catch? Unless you mean my dad's sexual habits or the fact that as bad as he's acting, I'm still somehow an even bigger disappointment for not being enough like him or the rest of you."
Penemue recognized the signs of a moody Damien, and decided to head it off quickly. Once in full pout, a sullen Damien was hard to talk too, usually because talking involved one-sided conversations carried across a locked door, over loud glaring music. Situations like that, attempting to coax a teenager out of a black mood by giving a pep talk from a hallway where all who might pass by could observe, were terribly embarassing breaches of dignity for the ancient Fallen.
"None of that now, darkling," Penemue decided to use an old pet name even if only to nettle the growing youth with irritation, "I personally think you being not enough like your father is a good thing."
Whether it was the nickname or the clearly earnest sentiment, Damien snapped out of his self-pity almost instantly. As was said before, the Fallen are skillful artists when it comes to playing the emotions of others though Penemue preferred to work such on Damien only when absolutely necessary. The boy was not a fool for all his apparent disinterest in the world around him, and Penemue had no desire to earn the boy's resentment should he be caught in his deft manipulations.
"Things will certainly be more exciting for you I think." Penemue offered first the information he knew would most please the boy. "Azazel has proposed to your Father, that it might be best if you and Satan weren't in the same place with all the trouble lately. He wants to move you someplace far from this mess, rather than keep all our eggs in one basket, as the mortals say. Earth, I believe is the destination he had in mind."
The last traces of dark mood gave way as Damien's face lit in an uncharacteristic grin. Clearly excited he issued forth a torrent of questions as quickly as they entered his mind: "Earth, as in sun and snow and air and trees earth? I'am going to get to visit the surface? They'll allow me to pass beyond the Obsidian Gate? No more lessons or lectures?"
"Yes, yes, technically you always have been, and no," Penemue responded truthfully to the barrage.
Damien paused a moment, trying to remember the order of his own hastily presented questions, and trace down that final no. "I'm still going to have lessons on Earth?! You're sending me up with Sticks-for-Bones aren't you?!"
Damien could already feel the brief good mood fading under visions of how much worse his teacher would be with the actual celestial bodies visible in the sky. He would spend all night forcing Damien to ponder their motions. The moon was bad enough, but at least it only had 8 phases. The countless lessons on stars had gone on for what seemed like forever, consuming six months of his life in tedium. Damien wasn't sure he would ever look up at a night sky and not feel the agony of wasted hours spent memorizing constellations and the signs and incantations that depended upon this pinprick of light or that one for potency.
"He has a name Damien—Sariel—and he really is one of the most knowledgeable teachers below Heaven, on the arts of the night. But to calm your fears, no, there won't be any Fallen up there. We are most certainly not capable of keeping a low profile. The second a black feather touched blue sky, the blazing eyes of the Dominions would seek us out. As long as the forms are being maintained, the neutral powers won't abide a full-blooded angel of either Host to physically walk the earth in anything but a spiritual form."
The response temporarily drove out worries of lessons, by a more pressing question. "But why won't they mind me? I mean I know they didn't before, while Christ was there, but when Dad threw the match for Earth, I had to go back down too? Didn't I?"
Penemue's face was all smug satisfaction as he answered. "Technically, Damien, but technicalities can be worked around with enough leverage and we have some here thanks to Jesus."
The name struck a sour chord in Damien's mind. In Hell he was an unwelcome pain in the ass or disappointment to most of the Fallen Host, while his opposite, if the Bible was to be trusted, was escorted from chamber to chamber of the Shining City by flights of adoring angels. His admiring subjects probably laid out a path of rose petals for him to walk on and washed the path behind him clean with tears of joy. All while composing hymns of praise for the son of God. He had seemed normal enough to Damien the first time they'd met, but even then all the adults had spent their time kissing his ass, while Damien had been forced to earn every inch of respect he could claim from the children.
Penemue caught the shift, and rightly guessed at the reason for Damien's discomfort, but felt no need to enlighten Damien to the true nature of Christ's own unwelcome presence in Heaven. Penemue might respect the heavenly scion for his particular brand of cunning and acumen, but he was also by virtue of his birth an opponent of the Fallen. Penemue saw no reason to go out of his way to build a point of mutual sympathy between the sons of God and Devil. Instead he expounded on his own brand of genius in the solution to the Damien on earth problem:
"Christ didn't ascend after the fight so the Balance never fully righted itself. Then in the disastrous attempt to seize earth a few years back, I caught the hint of some meddling that was most definitely divine in nature. I have in the time since done some investigating. Christ has apparently been employing half-angels, cobbled together with human souls that allow them to take on mortal form and walk almost undetected among the earth. It's ingenious really they are virtually undetectable probably from the composite blending of corporal human soul with—"
The words grew longer and Damien found himself lost in detailed explanation of divine alchemies and schemes. All he could make out around the buzzing of nonsense was that Jesus was still on the earth, and had found a way to sneak angels in to help him. That and apparently he was walking around actually being Jesus, no hiding, no cloaking his presence. Then as Penemue finished he caught something in the string of weighty words that he did understand. Something that made dreadful and terrible sense.
"Did you just say no one would find me only if I didn't use my powers? And only as long as I'm close to Jesus?" Damien cut through the long winded explanation angrily, his face twisting in a scowl. "No powers?! You're going to send me to the surface with nothing to defend myself? And I have to go back to South Park?!"
"As I just said," Penemue repeated himself testily, "Anonymity is the best defense we can afford right now. You go up and start tossing around sparks, and it would turn into a race to see who could get to you first the Host of Heaven, or the Horde's of Hell. The only place where you could hide is near someone who casts a big enough shadow, and I'm afraid that only leaves Christ."
"I'm not afraid of them; I shouldn't have to hide like some coward!" Trickles of smoke rose from Damien's fingertips. He resisted the urge to demonstrate just how strong he was, knowing it would not impress Penemue, and might do his argument far more harm than good.
Penemue raised one eyebrow at the foolishness of that statement and the infantile streamers of smoke. He jabbed one elegant finger out the window forcing Damien's face to move and take in the city walls and their prior words about the threat that lay beyond.
Deadly seriousness laced the angel's next words:
"I know you're not half as unobservant about what's going on around you as you pretend to be boy. You really don't want one of those Demon Princes getting it in his thick head that you'd make an excellent bargaining chip or snack depending on whichever fancy struck it first. As for the heavenly Host, they might not directly harm you, but I doubt you'd find an eternity of imprisonment an improvement over the current state of things."
Damien bowed his head in defeat, and Penemue let the sympathy he felt at last creep into his voice.
"I'm afraid the best solution is to just pretend to be a normal young man. Which by the way is why you'll still have lessons. I believe all mortals your age are expected to be taking some form of mass education right now. High school, they call it."
"So that's it?! I finally get out of here and you're sending me to high school, and its going to be in South Park." The last Damien muttered with resignation. All this time hoping to get out of here, and it finally happens and their just moving me to a Hell with a different name.