Author's Note: This is a sequel to my other fic A Peaceful Afterlife. Give that a read first if you haven't already

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Chapter 1: Unconscious

The train clattered down the uneven track, the car jolting and swaying. The occupants, crammed in tight, could barely sway with it for the congestion. The lights flickered, the air hazy for the tobacco and crack smoke that hung in lazy ribbons in the stifling, still air of the cab. Over this was the overpowering stench of B.O. and sickly sweet, cloying perfume.

A subway in Hell.

The occupants were the standard fare of the lower classes in the infernal realm, imps and hellhounds mixed in with new and lesser demons, each so different in form and size as to drastically exacerbate the already cramped conditions of the train car. Any one of the frequent, unpredictable jolts would send one passenger stumbling into another, where fire or spikes or horns so some other hazardous protuberance may await them.

Tails and tentacles littered the floor, often tread on, inevitably leading to harsh words and, not infrequently, a gruesome, bloody scuffle. Such a thing was happening at that moment, in fact. Somewhere else in the car, curses and growls broke into screams and roars, followed shortly by the thick, metallic stench of blood mixing with the smokey, acrid air.

A gunshot cracked and echoed in the cramped metal car, causing a smallish fish-demon to flinch. He was alone in this reaction, nary a jolt or blink given by the jaded, miserable crowd. The fish-demon settled, his pale, lightly freckled face flushing somewhat in embarrassment as the single smooth rose-colored tentacle atop his head curled across his forehead like a coiled bang of hair. He cast his fuchsia eyes back out the window, suitcase on his lap.

He was below-average height for a demon, barely six feet tall, and was possessed of a youthful, elegant beauty. He wore snug-fitting blue jeans and a purple sweater over a black tank-top, the bands of which were visible through the wide v-neck of the sweater, exposing his toned chest. He preferred turtlenecks, but his boss insisted on a more exposing ensemble. His boss was the reason why he was sitting there at all. A low-level demon like him would otherwise have had to stand, but being in his boss' service entitled him to certain benefits in travel and other areas.

It was a small boon, but a boon nonetheless.

Unfortunately for the meek fish-demon, these boons made him stand out, and his nervous flinch had attracted the wrong kind of eyes. Blood in the water.

A low bleating tone sounded in the terminal as the train rolled in, its glowing cyan eyes glaring in the dark tunnel as it approached. A demon tossed a pair of battered, screaming imps onto the track as the train rolled in. Neither the train nor the waiting crowd gave any indication they noticed, the train rolling to a stop underscored by the gristly wet tearing of flesh and the muted crunch of bone.

"South-East Imp City," the intercom growled. "Now in South-East Imp City."

The masses shuffled out of the train and onto the terminal, dispersing as they set about the rest of their dreary pointless afterlives. The slender fish demon slipped through the crowd, careful not to tread on any bodyparts or bump into any shoulders. He hurried up the crowded stairs and out into Imp City, seemingly unaware of the trio following him. Imp City was, by and large, a stye even by Hell's standards. Garbage littered the filthy, cracked sidewalks, overflowing from garbage cans that had not been moved in so long as to have become fused to the ground by compacted filth. Imps stood in circles around blazing dumpsters, burning away the trash to 'empty' the containers. Corpses and drug paraphernalia lay scattered about like cigarette butts, the stripped carcasses of cars stood on jacks long-since rusted to the frames.

The fish-demon continued on as though his surroundings didn't even register, much less the trio twenty paces behind him, very obviously keeping their distance. The tentacle acting as his hair slithered down his forehead and over his eye. He didn't glance over his shoulder, instead taking a sharp turn down a dilapidated alley. The demonic trio broke into a sprint and skidded around the corner.

They scanned the alley, it was a dead end and piled high with garbage, but the sissy-fish was nowhere to be seen. The lead demon clapped his companion's shoulder, pointing to the slightly askew manhole cover in the center of the alley.

"Aww gawrsh, fellas," said one of the demons, walking forward as another moved off to his flank. "Looks like he gave us the slip."

"Shame," said the burly demon standing at the mouth of the alley. "I was lookin' forward to some fish'n'chips."

They silently approached the manhole, their eyes glowing above their wide, fang-filled grins. A taloned hand shot down, grabbing the heavy steel lid and hurling it high into the air. They looked down into the inky blackness, there was no one there.

"Huh," grunted one of them. "Maybe he's in the access tunnel?"

"Aw, fuck this! I ain't scraping through imp-shit for a wallet and a suitcase!" The other growled, turning away and heading out of the alley. "Let's bounce."

"Man, I actually wanted fish'n'chips…"

"We'll roll some imps or somethin', I dunno!"

After a few minutes of relative silence, one of the piled garbage bags shifted, and out from between the slimy bags emerged the fish-demon. "Phew! That was close!"

He emerged from the garbage, his clothes covered in detritus. He fished out his suitcase and opened it, revealing a pristine set of his current ensemble. In a smooth, practiced motion, slipped out of his ruined clothes and into a new set, setting off down the street as though nothing had ever happened. Before long he hailed a taxi and was gone.

Near the edges of Imp City, far away from the transit systems of the city, was an estate. It stood out against the dirty slums like a candle in the dark. In the middle of several acres of expertly maintained gardens was a vast, gothic mansion baring the sigil of a Goetic Prince; this was the estate of Prince Stolas. More than a few heads turned when the Prince announced he would be building his illustrious base of operations so near to the abject slums of the Bad End, but one of the many boons such a rank offered was that few would survive questioning the decision.

He walked in through the front door and handed the aromatic suitcase off to one of the attending staff. The butler, a short, squat imp, was hardly moved by the stench of garbage emanating from the black-leather Samsonite, and wordlessly dropped it into a nearby incinerator chute. He rung a little silver bell and another, smaller imp butler appeared with another suitcase, handing it to the fish-demon.

"Thank you, Francois."

"Monsieur Moonchild," Francois said, nodding respectfully.

Moonchild made his way up the grand staircase and down the hall, entering Prince Stolas' home office, taking a seat behind his work desk. He busied himself with organizing the paperwork, reviewing the docket, humming happily to himself as he brushed his 'bangs' over his eye. The future unwound before him, sights and sounds and impressions of his own thoughts. The phone would ring and he would pick it up. It would be an Overlord by the name of Victus, he would request that 'the feathery sodomite would stop defiling my son' and then launch into a tirade of the most unspeakably foul language, so much so that Moonchild in the present blushed.

The phone call would be interrupted by Her Highness smashing in through the door, her eyes glowing, demonic aura lashing like living flames. She would demand to see her husband who, in a display of shockingly poor timing, would exit his office with a sweaty, disheveled imp in tow. The carnage that ensued was legendary, even in Hell. Moonchild got the distinct impression that he would be one of the many casualties in the ensuing spat between minor gods.

Unaffected, Moonchild pressed a button on the phone and opened a line to Prince Stolas. "Your wife will be by in 89 seconds, My Lord. She's in a bad mood today."

"T-thank you, Moonie, you're a l-life-saver!" Came a husky, panting reply.

"Happy to help, My Lord."

His hand snapped out in an instant, picking up the phone the barest instant before it would ring. He never could quite explain it, but the mere sound of a phone ringing made him… anxious.

He just could not abide the sound, the insistent, piercing sound, carrying with it the whims of some unseen entity, their demands unknown but urgent.

"Hello, Prince Stolas' office, how may I–" He began to say, interrupted by the predicted stream of vitriol. "My Lord the Prince is indisposed at the moment, may I take a message?"

"–cut a new cock-hole in his chest and fuck his–"

Moonchild dutifully dictated the psychotic rant, smiling serenely; as far as jobs in Hell went, this one wasn't so bad. "Very good, sir. I'll see if I can schedule a call-back. Does Tuesday work for you?"

"–Rip his heart out through his asshole and shove it–"

"Understood, sir."

A low, keening cry split the air, if Moonchild still had any hair, it would have stood on end. The door burst inward, the air reeking of ozone as Her Ladyship's fearsome demonic might ionized the air. Her eyes were two baleful pits of hate, her aura a corona of rage.

She spoke, her voice underscored with the screams of the damned. "Where. Is. He."

"In his office, My Lady," said Moonchild, smiling pleasantly.

The towering owl demoness levitated towards the door, blasting it open with a gesture. Prince Stolas, no doubt having cleaned himself up by now, responded cheerily, his ubiquitous staff already having replaced the destroyed door and closed it. The ensuing spat, something about seducing a friend's son with a bottle of rosé she had been saving, was a much more reserved affair. It still sounded like a nest of nephilim screeching for blood, though.

Preferable to the alternative.

While his boss argued with his lady, Moonchild set about sorting the mail. A gentle touch of his fingers yielded a brief snippet of its history, a rush of sights, sounds, and impressions that, if observed in the traditional sense, would have amounted to a 100 second recording. This particular ability had always confounded him. In life he'd been permitted to access to an ability that allowed 10 seconds of prescience, with no capacity to change events. Upon arriving in Hell, he'd gained the ability to change the outcomes somewhat, eventually expanding his window of sight slowly but surely to 100 seconds, in addition to gaining a similar window of sight into the past. But this new ability, which Prince Stolas dubbed 'psychometry', was a mystery; he couldn't really control what section of history he observed, but every time he used it, the observed snippet was in some way relevant to his interests at that moment.

By way of 'for instance' the small box in his hands had, at some time in the past, been loaded with a small explosive device attached to a case of steel ball bearings, no doubt cast from angelic metal. Moonchild casually tossed the box down a chute labeled 'Bombs' and picked up a paper envelope. An overweight imp mailman was driving his van, hand down the front of his pants as he scratched himself vigorously.

"Fuck this itches! Fuckin' hooer looked a little crusty, I shouldn't 'a–"

He stopped the van, moist hand withdrawing from his pants as he grabbed the letter.

Moonchild filed the letter into the 'received' pile, hurriedly applying hand sanitizer.

The argument ceased, Her Ladyship stepped out through the door, her appearance impeccable, a far cry from the nightmare that had come screaming in. She glanced at Moonchild and smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile, it was the sort of smile a fox might reserve for a cornered field mouse. She ran the back of her hand down his smooth, blemish-less cheek, hooking a long talon under his fine, pointed chin, raising his gaze to meet hers.

"I love your sweater," she said, her voice now a smooth, syrupy contralto.

"Thank you, My Lady."

"I should like to see it on the floor of my boudoir once your shift is done, understood?"

Moonchild blushed and nodded. "Yes, My Lady."

With that she left, hips swaying seductively as she left.

"Ladysmith Black Mombazo!" A voice shouted from overhead.

A ceiling tile plummeted through the air and Moonchild, not the least bit surprised, adroitly moved his desk out of the way of the debris. The tile was followed shortly by a tallish Imp with huge, crescent-shaped horns landing face-first on the floor. Without so much as a missed beat, the imp rolled onto his side, head resting on his hand, a coquettish smile on his face.

"Boy, she is gonna ride your dick 'till it snaps off!"

Moonchild frowned. "Hello, Blitzo."

"Howdy Moonie!" Blitzo said, winking. "Thanks for the heads up! She was bitchier than usual this time!"

"She always gets this way when you come over."

"So, once a month?" Blitzo chuckled, rising to his feet and dusting himself off. "There's a period joke in there, but that's beneath me."

Moonchild very much doubted anything was beneath Blitzo. "Hm."

"So, what, every time Hooty has a booty call, Marm grabs the Blowfish for a nice sweaty revenge-fuck? Sounds like a sweet deal to me! Hey! For a nominal fee I could drop by here and show the bird the word more often, get you some extra quality time with your boss' missus."

Moonchild said nothing, resuming his work with the mail.

"Aww cheer up, Moonie!" Blitzo crooned, sitting on the desk, draping an arm over his shoulders. "You get to smash the choicest cloaca this side of the pentagram on the reg! Most down here would blow an exorcist for that!"

Moonchild removed the hand from his shoulder, his lip curling. "I don't even know her name."

Blitzo fiddled with an envelope, opening it. "…And? All she wants to hear you scream is 'mommy'!"

"She makes me wear a ballgag…" Moonchild mumbled.

"Y'know, I almost feel bad for you," said Blitzo, hopping off the desk. "Not really. Whatever. See ya 'round, Moonie!"

Moonchild scowled as the imp sauntered out, he hated the smarmy little imp. He ran his business at the behest of his lord, whose grimoire allowed him to conduct hits in the living realm, and yet, whenever it was necessary for Stolas to conduct his own business in the mortal realm, the ungrateful creature dared act put-upon. Ungrateful, disrespectful imp.

The door opened and out stepped Prince Stolas, immaculately dressed and pristine, were he not present for it, Moonchild would not have guessed he'd just been in the throes of carnal passion and then a heated exchange with his furious, demonic wife. On his face was his ever-unaffected smile, his upper eyes squinting in self-satisfaction. He turned to his diminutive secretary, his ten-foot height positively towering over the fish demon.

"Moonie~" he crooned, bending over and patting him on the head, talon curling around his bangs. "Splendid work, as always! You are a God-send! I bless the day silly old St. Peter had a stoke and sent you here by mistake!"

The comment stung at him a bit, for his damnation was a matter of ongoing confusion, but he enjoyed the praise. It reminded him of long ago, when his former boss would entrust to him matters of great importance. If there was anything Moonchild valued in himself, it was his dedication to fulfilling his obligations to the best of his ability.

"It's my job, My Lord. I'm honored to work for you, you've been very good to me."

It was the truth, a tender soul like his was ripe for every imaginable form of abuse in Hell. It was only his status as the Prince's secretary that kept him from being devoured or pressed into prostitution. Daily mugging attempts notwithstanding, he was as safe as a meek soul like him could be.

"Ach! Nonsense!" Stolas pinched his cheek. "I reward good work, and no one could do your job better! I–" He sniffed the air, his brow furrowing. "What's that smell?"

Moonchild started, sniffing his collar; he was certain he'd covered the stench suitably with the Prince's favorite cologne. "Oh, uh s-smell, My Lord?"

Stolas bent over, a concerned frown on his face. "Did you have to hide in the garbage again?"

"Oh, you needn't worry yourself, My Lord," Moonchild began to say. "I was just–"

"You really must learn to stand up for yourself, Moonie." Stolas said, running the back of his fingers down his cheek.

"Yes, My Lord."

Stolas smirked and cocked his head. "A gentle soul. Never did I ever think I'd find such a rarity down here. Like finding a diamond in the trash. That, and your other talents, makes you very precious to me. Do take care of yourself, my little fishie."

"I will, My Lord."

"While on the subject, did that harpy preposition you yet?"

"She did, My Lord."

Stolas chuckled and shook his head. "I suppose I deserve that. Though I will advise her to be gentle."

"Thank you, My Lord."

She was not gentle.

The ride on the train was uncomfortable, her claws had torn bloody tracks down his back and chest, the deep ligature marks on his wrists and ankles throbbed abominably. He stared out into space, expression flat. His existence was comfortable enough, his employer valued him, and he got benefits, there were others who were worse off, to be sure. But… he didn't belong here. He was a damned soul, yes, but damned for what? He'd never killed anyone, never stolen anything, he'd even taken care to rescue insects from the sidewalk! Was he damned by association?

Prince Stolas treasured his 'gentle soul' for its rarity, its novelty, but Moonchild never mistook this for kindness or actual regard; to the Prince, he was at best a useful bauble, almost a pet of some kind. The fact remained that he was condemned to an eternity in this pit, to forever be at the beck and call of cruel, aloof aristocrats, ever fearful of his more ruthless fellow denizens. What had he ever done to deserve this fate?

He flinched away from the window as someone tossed a ragged-looking hellhound from the terminal as the train streaked by, the mangy mutt bounced off the side of the train and screamed as he disappeared beneath the grinding steel wheels.

"Others definitely have it worse…" He muttered to himself. "So why can't I just be happy?"

He got off the train, lost in thought, carried along the tide of demons filing out onto the terminal. This part of the city, Pentagram City, was nicer than the imp ghettos, but was still an abject slum by any other metric. Moonchild walked down the street, gazing off into the middle distance. His apartment building loomed at the end of the block like a titanic tombstone. He sighed to himself, lost in his thoughts as shapes skulked in the shadows of the alley. He barely had time to blink in surprise as a hand shot out of the shadows and hauled him bodily into the alley and thrown to the filthy, trash-strewn ground.

"Well, well!" The voice was familiar. "Wouldja look at that! The one that got away!"

Moonchild rolled onto his back and stared up at a trio of burly demons. A leering caprine stepped out of the shadows, rolling his shoulders out, next to him was some manner of reptilian, and behind them was towering, indeterminable wall of muscle and leathery skin.

"Looks like fish's back on the menu, boys!"

"Thank goodness," said the Big One. "It's Lent and I'm craving protein!"

The Reptilian blinked and looked up at him. "It's Lent?"

"Yeah. What, just because I'm in Hell I can't practice my faith?"

"Uh, yeah! Kinda!"

"Says who?"

"Says, like, the fact you're in Hell, dipshit! Why bother with all that papist fuckery if you're already damned?"

The Big One bristled, jabbing a finger at the Reptilian. "Okay, first of all: I'm Lutheran. Second of all–"

"Will you two shaddup?!" The Caprine growled, gesturing at the supine fish-demon. "We gots us a pretty fishie to rob, kill, and eat and you chuds are discussin' the finer points 'a religiosity!"

"I just don't see the point of having faith while damned! What's the point if you's already in the bad end?!"

"Maybe I find the literature compelling and the parables actually help me maintain my spiritual health! Ever thought of that? Just because the Bible says I shouldn't kill and eat people, doesn't mean that it can't make a compelling point regarding the virtues of restraint and self-control! Maybe having a spiritual center helps to hold onto my core virtues."

"You kill and eat people all the time!"

"So?"

"So have shit for dick for core virtues, asshole!"

The Big One wagged his finger at his companion. "Now, now! I don't do drugs, I don't rape, and I'm never late for work! Besides killing and cannibalism, I observe my faith very closely."

The Reptillian threw his hands up in frustration. "Oh, yeah! You may kill a guy for sandwich meat, but at least you don't puff the jazz cabbage!"

"SHADDUP, WILL YA?!" The Caprine turned back to their quarry. "Now, where were we?"

The ground was bare, up the alleyway a figure bumped into a garbage can, stumbling as they turned the corner on the adjoining street.

"Sunnuva Protestant whore!"

Moonchild panted as he sprinted down the street, suitcase clutched in his arms. It was empty, of course, meant to hold tomorrows replacement ensemble, but it was still his and they wouldn't have it. He glanced over his shoulder, the three were in hot pursuit, knocking pedestrians out of their way as they charged after him. Moonchild squeaked and put on a little extra speed. Panic filled his veins as he recalled back to his life, back when he would find himself in these kinds of horrible situations. He'd never been scared then, even though death would have seemed a far more permanent, uncertain affair than down here. He'd never been scared because, somehow, he knew he'd be able to get out of any situation. Something deep inside him would rise to the surface and fill him with power, with will, with…

But it was gone now.

Ever since he'd come here, that slumbering well of strength had run dry, its absence in his soul a chasm, a groundless void that offered no support when panic and fear took hold.

Well, that's not entirely true.

There was… something there. Something low, feral, and desperate. The echo of that strength was distant and hollow most of the time, but it would become frighteningly fierce when sought. Every time he tried, there would be this feeling, this inexorable, unshakable conviction that should whatever was inside him rise up, it would pull him down to do so, and he would never resurface. Death in Hell, by and large, was an unpleasant but ultimately temporary affair; whatever awaited him in the hole at the bottom of his soul was something a thousand times more terrifying and savage.

So he ran.

He looked back over his shoulder again, they were barely four paces away, the Big One had a huge hand extended on a long, simian arm, fingers grasping.

Moonchild reached out and grabbed a parking meter, swinging himself off his feet and scrabbling out onto the road, into traffic. Cars beeped and screeched as he cut across the street, stopping not out of concern for him, but a reluctance to damage their bumpers. Moonchild was nearly across when the roar of an engine and a bright set of headlights bore down on him like a freight train. He turned to see the fanged grill of a huge limo streaking towards him. Lights exploded behind his eyes as the world went dark, the jolts and impacts of his body tumbling across asphalt dim memories of sensation as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Figures towered over him, sounds like voices sang in the encroaching darkness.

"…y God, are you o…"

"…Arlie! Look ou…"

Blackness.