Chapter 10 Advanced Recovery

"Hey pal, need a hand?"

"No."

"C'mon! Ya gotta let me try my hand at it!"

"No."

"It's scrambled eggs! I could do it with five hands tied behind my back."

"Get out."

"Alright, alright! Geez! Cranky-ass motherfucker…"

The bowl shook as he whisked the egg, his shoulder throbbed abominably at the best of times and it outright screamed when he raised his arm more than a hair over his chest. Needless to say, it was proving somewhat difficult to make breakfast this morning. The bowl was beginning to shift on its rims, threatening to spill, he tried to lift his wrist slightly in order to get a more stable angle. His shoulder tensed, an electric jolt of pain raced up the side of his neck as torn muscles spasmed, yanking on steel staples. Kira hissed as his elbow instinctively pulled into his side, bracing the injury. The bowl nearly flew off the counter when a pair of alabaster hands shot in from beside him, scooping the potential disaster up and to safety. He looked over and saw Charlie, she was wearing a white shirt and black pants with suspenders, her long, flowing hair done up in what appeared to be a multi-stage ponytail with at least three bands that he could see. Her sleeves were rolled up like they were the other night, when he asked her to…

He turned away from her and stared at the stainless steel counter, his own red eyes glaring back at him in the reflection; if he never saw Angel Dust again it would be too soon! If he ever relapsed, Cherri would gain a profound and revelatory new understanding of explosives.

"Whoops!" Charlie chirped, setting the bowl back on the counter. "Almost had an accident there!"

She stood there and smiled at him, bright and chipper as ever. That she of all people had seen him in such a disheveled state, heard him babble whilst in the grips of some infernal joy, so sure that all was right and well, it burned in the pit of his stomach like acid. The indignity of last night stung him, gnawed at him, and now he bore the wounds and encumbrances of his little foray with humanity, with what these people considered 'normal'. He could have erased some, if not all, of his pursuers that night, but he had hesitated; he held back to protect Angel Dust of all creatures! And now he was hobbling around, one arm useless, the other crippled, essentially helpless should Holy Diver send any sort of follow-up team to the hotel. And he would... eventually.

But he hadn't; not yet, anyway.

Why?

"What are you making?" Charlie said, looking into the bowl. "Plain Jane scrambled eggs?"

Of course! Not even Holy Diver was bold enough to endanger the Princess of Hell! …Probably. That would buy him some time to recover, to establish a bulwark, to–

"Here! I'll help!" Charlie said, grabbing a salt-shaker and moving for the bowl. "Just a little dash and–"

Kira's hand shot out and he snatched the salt from her hand. "Stop!"

Charlie flinched and stepped back, surprised at his sudden outburst.

Kira set the shaker down on the cooking station with loud 'bang'. "Never add salt to eggs before they're cooked! It'll change how they rise and ruin the texture!"

"O-oh…" said Charlie, an embarrassed blush forming in her cheeks. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

Something in her expression dug into him like fish hooks; a hot flush burned across the back of his neck, his hackles raising as a cold sweat formed on his brow. What was wrong with him? He was right, wasn't he? She almost ruined the cornerstone of everyone's breakfast. He corrected her and now he could get back to work.

'Apologize,' he thought to himself, gripped by this strange new feeling. 'You shouldn't have been so harsh. Apologize.'

'But I was right to–'

'Hm.' This strange new part of him grunted in assent, but did not relent. 'True, yes. The eggs would have been ruined, but you snapped at her and she thinks she did something to upset you.'

'She did! The eggs–!'

'–Don't matter. She didn't know. Apologize, she'll feel better.'

'But–'

'And so will you,' he said, with smug self-assuredness.

"…I'm sorry," said Kira, shifting awkwardly. "I shouldn't–I've been in a… mood. You didn't do anything wrong, I apologize for snapping like that."

"That's okay, I understand," Charlie nodded, her expression still somewhat hangdog.

The fact that she had not returned to her former bubbly disposition was bafflingly unbearable for him. He had to do something to fix this, but what?

"…lp me," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

"Excuse me?"

He gestured at himself and scoffed in exasperation. "I'm a little… disadvantaged right now. Could you please help me?"

She reached out and touched his arm, a sympathetic look on her face. "Kira, you don't have to make us all breakfast. Razzle and Dazzle could–"

He held up his hand, a playful smirk on his face. "To be perfectly honest, I'm making myself breakfast. Any extra that's left for all of you is incidental."

Charlie giggled; a wonderful, welcome sound. "Okay! You walk me through it, I'll be your hands! What're we making, Chef?"

He sighed in relief, perplexed at this sudden elation but thankful to see the end of this abrupt empathetic episode. "I was thinking bacon and scrambled eggs with pancakes and a fresh fruit salad."

"Sounds great!" Charlie cheered, saluting. "Ready, Chef!"

It was a familiar pain. The nausea, the throbbing headache, the acid reflux; they were all old friends to Husk. Truthfully, the hangover wasn't that bad, all told, but the name that stuck in his head throbbed and pulsed, the dread adding a whole new dimension of unpleasantness to his suffering: Holy Diver.

He'd always tried to keep his affiliations with the gang-scene to a minimum, what kind of lunatic is in a ripping hurry to get themselves offed a second time? Unfortunately, those very same lunatics always seemed to find him and strong-arm him into their bullshit, Grins McGee chief amongst them. The Radio Demon was bad enough, with his smug, self-satisfied attitude and jaundiced smile, but at least he seemed content enough with just fucking with people. All the torture and murder was for a jolly, and getting a kick out of Hell was something Husk understood well enough to almost sympathize with. But Holy Diver…Holy Diver was a malcontent. Ambition and lust for power were the rotten foundations of his soul, sitting at the bottom of his very being like a greasy drain in a diner's sink. A gaping hole sucking in anything and everything, guzzling all around it, never stopping, never satisfied. At one point he essentially commanded a fifth of the entire city, his name rubbed shoulders with the likes of Vox and Alastor, some brave souls would even privately compare him Lucifer himself. And it wasn't enough, never enough. God, how many people died in the chaos after his extermination? What did it say about a man when murder and mayhem followed him even in death?

But that's just the thing, isn't it?

He wasn't dead.

Word had it he tangled with Exterminators every year right up until the 'end', pummeling Angels with his bare fists and stealing their weapons. Unbelievable, but the surplus of Seraphim Steel he had at his disposal lent credence to this rumor. Everyone in his posse had some kind of angelic bling, making even the unpowered demons in his service a holy terror to fight. The rumor was that he grappled with an Exterminator as it was sublimating back to Heaven and was gone in a flash of light, never to be seen again. But now he was back, rumors be damned, and he was going to steamroll the feuding factions that had been trying to carve up his empire. Examples would be made, the streets would run red with blood.

Husk shuddered. He'd actually met the guy once, kind of. It was some twenty years ago, in the Azathoth Casino uptown. He was playing a particularly smug gecko-demon by the name of Poker Face. Aces were high and the stakes were higher; they'd been at it for hours by that point, the other players having long since bowed out, it was now a game of wills for a very deep pot. His hand was good, high-ish four of a kind with an damn good kicker to top it off, but there were better hands, and Poker Face was giving every indication that he had one.

Ah, but that was the joy of the game, wasn't it?

The prick was a master, to be sure. A master card-counter, a master at sleight-of-hand, and a master bullshitter. Husk didn't know it at the time, but the stakes were higher than he could have imagined. Poker Face had a power, you see. A particularly demonic ability that allowed him to bind a soul to his will by dint of consent to a game, but only when the game was won. Husk was no slouch himself, but even he could see the fine-toothed gears that spun behind those reptilian eyes; this game was going to be a drawn-out, bare-knuckle brawl. But Husk had an ace up his sleeve (figuratively, he wasn't no fuckin' cheat) and it was one that had Poker Face in a sweat. It was a rather brilliant strategy on his part: throughout the game he would slowly but surely get so drunk that his tells switched places or new ones took their place. He had been a hundred grand behind during the opening salvos of their mano-a-mano match, but when Poker Face called his bluff on what he assumed was his 'shit-hand' tell, he got slapped with a straight flush. After that he was wary and more than a little frustrated, something Husk had taken full advantage of with characteristic tact and finesse.

"Well?" Husk slurred, only slightly playing up how drunk actually he was. "Call'r'fold, I gotss places t'be."

"Worried your friends at the drunk tank will miss you?"

"W'rried yur ma'll take another customer if'm late."

"Fuck you, wino!"

"Fuck you, Hand-Bag, y'fuckin' loser. Your ma calls me Subway."

"Because you're a fat pedophile?"

"Cuz I got a fi'e dollar foot-long an' she pays me. Fuck your entire fuckin' afterlife, bud."

This got a good round of chuckles from the assembled gamblers watching the grudge match.

"Get fucked, Husk!"

"That's what your pop says, tuggin' his chode watchin' me fuck your ma for booze-money. Best damn bottle a'ripple I've ever drank."

"You better watch it!"

"–Is what your ma told me t'tell you. I got a video t'send you, by the way. It's four hours long and called 'Poke Her Face'. Spoiler warnin': her face ain't all that gets poked."

The audience was laughing outright now, with calls for ice and sarcastic pleads for mercy on behalf of the enraged gecko-demon.

"Motherfucking–"

"You catch on quick."

"–Prick!"

"Them's fightin' words."

"Anytime, anywhere, you shittalking flea-baiter!"

"Wanna joust? See what happens."

"Yeah? What happens?!"

"Three things; I hit you, you hit the ground, I hit up your ma for Poker Face Two: The Bigger, Better Sequel, and I ain't talkin' 'bout a video, either. You're gonna have a fuzzy li'l brother come Christmas. So, you gonna call or fold? I gotta get to it fast if you want your present on time."

The peanut gallery roared with laughter, Poker Face growled and slammed down his cards. "I call!"

"Four of a kind, seven of hearts with a ten of clubs kicker," the dealer announced.

Husk sighed and slowly set down his cards, spreading them. Poker Face's eyes had lit up as he saw four seven of clubs get laid out before him. No doubt the smug number-cruncher was calculating the long odds of him having a kicker higher than ten.

"Well… shit. And here I thought seven was a lucky number," Husk grumbled before looking up at Poker Face, a cold glint in his orange-on-black eyes; a flick of a claw revealed an ace of spades at the bottom of his hand. "Whadda heartbreaker."

The the assembled gamblers and drunks exploded into cheers and applause, money was passed about freely as someone had unsurprisingly started a pool on the game. Poker Face turned a deep furious shade of green as Husk reached across the table and scooped the whole pot over to his side.

"Well, gawrsh, Pokey," Husk said, without so much as a hint of a slur in his voice. "I guess poker just ain't your game, huh?"

"Smug sonuva–" Poker Face roared and reached into his coat pocket, grabbing something small, rectangular, and made of Seraphim Steel.

Then, he arrived.

There was no sound, no door opening, no howl of the cheering crowd, not even ambient noise from the rest of the casino. Husk looked around, confused; everyone was gone, not just the audience, but everyone else in the casino had disappeared, not even the canned music played over the speakers. A casino that had, not one moment before, been as bustling as any high class joint ought to be was now completely empty and completely silent. Silent, save for a muted mechanical click followed by a slow hiss of air that emanated from directly behind him: breathing. Husk looked over at Poker Face, who was still there, but frozen like a deer in headlights, the only indicator of life were the rivulets of sweat that poured down his face. His expression that of sheer, unadulterated terror as he stared up at something standing behind Husk, something high over his head; something huge.

"H-Holy Diver…" He whimpered.

The low, slow mechanical breathing sharpened somewhat at the utterance of his name. Poker Face gulped loudly and straightened his back like a soldier at attention. "E-excuse me! HOLY DIVER, I was just–"

Husk was trying to wrap his head around exactly how the pronunciation between the two differed when Poker Face vanished. Husk had been around the block, he'd been in Hell long enough to see all manner of teleportation, displacement, and magic whatsits to have a pretty good idea of when he was being spoofed. This was unlike anything he'd ever seen before, it was like he was there one moment and then *blip* gone. No smoke, no portals, no incantations or demonic energy, not even the sound of moving air: he had simply disappeared.

"Husk." A voice from behind called his name, he didn't dare turn around to face it for some hysterical, irresistible part of him screamed that, if he did, he would die right there and then.

The voice was low, deep, but pleasant in its slightly reverberating timbre. He could practically feel it on his back. His hackles rose as HOLY DIVER drew closer, the oppressive aura, the sheer weight of his presence, it was like being slowly crushed by an oncoming glacier. A golden guantleted hand the size of a dinnerplate set down on his shoulder, eclipsing it entirely.

"Do you know who I am?" HOLY DIVER said, his speech back-dropped by the constant click-and-hiss of his breathing.

"H-Holy–*ahem*–HOLY DIVER," Husk stammered, well-aware of how badly his 'aloof asshole' personae was buckling, but he didn't care, he was going to die.

HOLY DIVER laughed, a charming and surprisingly genuine sound. "Sharp one, aren't you?"

"N-no, just old enough to know better," Husk said, quietly. "Look, if this is about the money, I–"

"I am long past the point of caring about money, Husk," HOLY DIVER interrupted. "No. Think of this as an… aptitude test. You passed."

"I did?"

The hand patted his shoulder in a friendly, comforting fashion, those cruel-looking knuckle stubs glinting in the fluorescent light; Husk could practically hear the bones they had shattered, the fleshed they had pulped. "Indeed. It takes luck to successfully bluff Poker Face for so long, but it takes skill to get under his skin and make him lose his cool. To make him make a mistake." There was pause followed by a small, stifled chuckle. "Ahh… 'Poke Her Face'… I value luck, Husk, but I treasure skill. A man with your savvy, your knowledge, your connections. You know everyone, Husk. Half of Hell owes you money, and you owe money to the other half. Join me, and I'll settle your debts on both ends. Get me names, information, be my eyes and ears as only you can be. Help me, Husk, pledge your loyalty to me, and I can make you…" Husk gasped as his hand was suddenly raised, in his hand was a royal flush. "…Royalty. I'll let you to think about it."

The next instant he was gone and, like a flip had been switched, the patrons reappeared in an explosion of sound; the spectators cheered, the music blared, the slots rang and clamored, the clientele was blipped back into existence as abruptly as they had left.

Husk pondered if someone had simply slipped something into his drink when he looked down at his hand. Sure enough, a royal flush sat in his paw. He looked up, Poker Face was nowhere to be seen.

Husk recalled fleeing the Azathoth with his winnings and never looking back. He paid off his debts and endeavored to lay low for a while, a couple of centuries or so. After a while it seemed that HOLY–ugh–Holy Diver had let him go, he probably found someone else to fill that role or something. Still, there were times that, when things went quiet, even for a second, he'd expect to feel that huge armored hand clamp down on his shoulder.

He shuddered again, and that psycho put up with that terror for how long? No wonder he was trying to get out of Hell, who would want to get caught up in all that bullshit?

"Huuuuuusk!" Charlie called out from down the hall, her chirrupy voice a stiletto in his ears. "Breakfast is ready!"

He slowly got to his feet and sniffed the air, sure enough the rich smokey smell of bacon hung heavy alongside the low sweetness of flapjacks. He knew that if anything would chase away this babalaas it was some nice salty bacon, a mountain of greasy eggs, and a nice hot cup of Joe. And he had a new mug to break in.

Perfect.

Angel Dust struggled to keep his smirk from blossoming into a full-blown grin. He had a lot of things to be happy about. He'd turned down that killer white Bastille was trying to shove down his throat, though the ensuing horror-show probably meant he was a 'knife-on-sight' for any of the big dealers in the West Side. That was less great, but if he was serious about all this rehab bullshit, it was probably for the best. And, to top it all off: pancakes!

"Mmm! Di Molto! Mwah!" He exclaimed around a syrupy mouthful. "How do ya make 'em so fluffy?"

"Well, I," Kira began to say, before turning to Charlie, a smile on his face. "…didn't do anything. Charlie made breakfast this time."

Angel cooed in surprise as the Goat Bois gave impressed bleats and a round of applause.

"A-1 flapjacks, Chuck," Husk mumbled from behind his coffee mug.

Vaggie muttered something.

"Oh, please! I just did all the hands-on stuff. Kira walked me through the whole thing. See, you beat egg whites until they peak, then fold them into the batter! I was working under the master chef, here," Charlie said, playfully punching Kira's shoulder, causing him to grunt and grimace. "Oh! Sorry!"

"It's alright," he said, rolling his shoulder. "Just don't put salt in the eggs before they're cooked."

They shared a laugh and Charlie continued talking about all the things he'd taught her in the kitchen. Angel could care less about what constitutes a 'dollop' of creme fraîche, even though it seemed to be a source of goodnatured contention between the two. No, all that mattered to Angel was that it was bananas-good when used to make scrambled eggs. Just then, between their comfortable banter, Angel looked up and saw a sight sweeter than the syrup on his light, fluffy pancakes; Vaggie glowering at the chef and his potégé. Every time Charlie would smile at Kira, or touch his hand, or even so much as look at him, her eye would twitch. She was holding herself together well, but he could tell that she was reaching her limit. She'd obviously never liked the guy, probably something to do with him being a girl-murdering, hand-collecting serial killer, and last night's revelation certainly hadn't sweetened her opinion. All that was reasonable enough, but then add one Charlie to the mix and all the frustrated pining and ridiculous idolization that comes with her, and you've got yourself bag of cats and a bucket of water! Sweet, sweet, sweet!

Not to say that Angel took any pleasure in Vaggie's suffering in particular; honestly, he actually kind of liked her. She was a square and grump, sure, but her salt offset Charlie's sugar in that peanutbutter-and-chocolate kind of way that made this hotel hop like a Mexican jumping bean. But, on the other hand…well, Angel was an unabashed pot-stirrer, and seeing Vaggie lose her cool was his favorite pass-time.

"Sounds like the two'a'yous are makin' that kitchen work!" Angel said, smirking at Vaggie from across the table. "When the pots and pans are rockin', don't come a-knockin'!"

She grit her teeth and set down her utensils.

"It really helps to have an extra pair while I'm, heh, understaffed in that department," said Kira, flexing one hand and barely twitching the other. "And Charlie's such an attentive set of hands!"

"Cute ones, too," said Angel, winking at Vaggie.

"Better watch it around those knives though. Don't want to lose anything." Vaggie said, her tone withering.

Silence fell over the table, the only sound was that of Husk disinterestedly chewing his bacon and slurping his coffee.

"Excuse me?" Kira ventured, possibly in what he thought was a goodnatured fashion.

"Yes," Charlie said, her expression that of mild confusion but her voice was gilded with tension. "Excuse you?"

Upon hearing Charlie's somewhat disguised outrage Vaggie shot to her feet, glaring at Kira before excusing herself in a huff. "Watch your back with your kitchen buddy!"

"Vaggie." Charlie got up and followed after her. "Vaggie!"

Their argument faded away as they stormed off into the hotel, their heated voices overlapping and becoming indistinguishable noise.

"You're a real bitch, y'know that?" Husk grunted at Angel, reaching over and shoveling Vaggie's unfinished breakfast onto his plate.

"What did I do?" Angel said, faux-scandalized, turning to Kira. "Killer, did ya hear me say anythin' bitchy?"

"Well, you opened your mouth and then words came out, if that's what you mean."

"Hah!" Husk barked. "Get fucked for free, Bug."

Angel snorted and waved him off. "Ouch, Kitty, you're breakin' my heart!"

Kira blinked, confused. "Were you talking to me, or Husk?"

Angel laughed and winked at Husk. "Nah, alls I ever call Husk is 'Daddy'. He gets right into it, rough-like, makes me squeal! Ain't that right, Daddy?"

"That's right, I'm your daddy." Husk popped a piece of melon into his mouth. "Angel, you're a constant source of shame and a disappointment to me and the family."

Angel blinked in surprise, his smile fading. "…Heh…What?"

Husk adopted a crass Brooklyn accent and jabbed his fork at. "Why can't you be more like your brother? He's out there pickin' locks and whackin' Micks while you're suckin' cocks and slappin' dicks! Y'come home with prick on your breath and tracks up your arms, it's killin' your mother!"

"Husk," Angel snarled, his fist balled. "This ain't funny."

"You're telling me," Husk said, flatly, examining his claws. "Didn't even have to break out the big guns to wash the starch outta you. You hoot and snark like you've got nary a care, but you're fucking ten-ply, Bug. You wanna fuck with people and all the shit they're going through? Fine. But don't unravel like a cheap sweater when someone finds your sore spot, bends you over the table and sticks it in. Play your kiddy games somewhere else 'fore this cardshark picks you outta his teeth."

"Ya fuckin'–!" Angel lunged forward, only for Kira to grab him by the lower shoulder and haul him back. Angel spat and growled as he was pulled back, enraged. "Alky pissant fuck!"

Husk nodded at Kira. "Yeah, see, even the psycho knows better."

Kira effortlessly pulled Angel back and out of the room, calling to the Goat Bois. "Razzle, Dazzle; could you please clear the table and wash the dishes when you're done?"

"Bahh," said Razzle.

"Baah," sighed Dazzle.

Husk scoffed and reached over the table, grabbing Kira and Angel's unfinished breakfasts, scooping them onto his plate. "Talk shit, get hit, y'little…pshh!"

He moved to stick his fork into the mountainous pile of scrambled eggs when Kira's hand appeared around and corner and flipped the switch, causing the eggs to explode in a small cracking 'pop', showering Husk with scrambled egg, bacon bits, and sticky, syrupy pancake crumbs.

"Oh, what the FUCK!"

Kira smirked at Husk's roaring, garbled vitriol and turned back down the hall. Angel was braced against the wall, arms crossed tightly across his chest. Kira approached him, hand outstretched.

Angel scoffed and slapped it away. "Piss off! I don't need your fuckin' pity!"

Kira smirked. "Out of anyone in this hotel, I'm the least likely to pity you, Angel."

Angel looked over at him, a forced smirk on his face. "Yeah? Why? 'Cause you'we my fwiend?"

"More that I'm a psychopath," said Kira, leading Angel down the hall. "Pity isn't exactly my strong suit."

"Uh, yeah, right…" Angel said, walking alongside him.

Kira looked over at Angel, who was quietly glaring off into the middle distance. Husk's words must have really stung, no doubt alluding to some truth. Bizarrely, Kira found himself pondering this uncouth, abrasive, overtly prurient demon's past. He spoke like an extra in a Cagney film and was very obviously a gangster or criminal in life. A flamboyantly gay man in a 1940s American crime syndicate, how well would that have gone over? Kira thought back to his own life, how his own parents doted on him, coddled him, and eventually even helped him cover up his murders. His father, Yoshihiro, even gave him his powers for this very purpose. What would he have done without their unwavering love? How far could he have gotten without their support?

Angel had none of that. No support or approval from his people, his clan, no respect or regard, and certainly no love.

Did he turn to drugs because of it?

His family had likely either disowned him or…

A strange, heavy feeling blossomed in Kira's chest, a curious tightness that seemed to weigh him down and affect his breathing. What was it? Why was he feeling this way? Was he dying? Again? No...he thought back to earlier, to making breakfast; was this what caring for others was like? Is this what normal people went through every day? He didn't want to think about that, he wanted it to go away. But how?

"Angel…" he began to say before faltering. "…I…"

"Huh? What?" Angel turned to him, his expression flat and tired.

He reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. "I do consider you a friend."

Angel looked confused for a moment before smiling. It was a small smile, unlike any of his other grins, smirks or otherwise self-satisfied simpers. "Thanks, man."

The smile lasted for a moment before Angel remembered himself and turned away, clearing his throat. "U-uh, well, yeah! Of course ya do! Lotta people would like to call me their buddy, y'know? You're lucky I feel the same way, yeah?"

"Oh yes," Kira said, smiling as he gestured at his various wounds. "Very lucky."

Angel laughed and clapped him on the back. "S'why I don't stick my neck out for anyone! C'mon, let's head to the rec-room. I got some bloodlust to vent! Y'can be my cheerleader!"

"Sounds good to me," Kira said, following after. He felt better, lighter.

Author's Notes

Nothing sweeter than that sick, chest-tightening feeling called empathy

Oh, and don't forget to play my favorite game! Spot The (Plagiarism) Homage! Homages make it easier for creatively bankrupt people to write compelling scenes! Spot them all and win NO PRIZE!