Sam watched at the front doors to the Happy Hotel, as another thug was rotated out and kept an eye on the happenings. True to Sam's expectations, several of Valentino's goons had made an attempt to break into the premises when they were taking their day trip. They were never seen or heard from again, and Alastor spent the next week looking awfully pleased with himself. Since then, it was back to the quiet siege.
"Figure she's still gonna be pissed at me?" Sam asked. Husk, who was smoking with his back against the doorframe gave a shrug.
"That chick ain't got it in her to hold a grudge like you or me," Husk said.
"I was half convinced she was going to kick me out on the spot when I told her I was going to overthrow an Overlord," Sam said.
"She might be made of candy-dust and angel-farts, but she was born in Hell, raised in Hell, and is next in line to the throne a' Hell," Husk said, taking a particularly deep puff from his cigar. He played the smoke around his mouth for a moment before letting it escape in a cloud. "Much as she don't like it, violence is a fact of life here. She's just as capable of dishing it out as anybody else. More than, in a lotta cases."
"And the fact that she doesn't default to that as her Plan A is why she's such a joke in the eyes of other Demons," Sam said, shaking his head. "It would be so simple for her to be what Lucifer wants her to be. To be the Terrible Heir, to be the reason why people clamor for Lucifer's Reign so they won't need to suffer hers. Deep down, she's afraid that she's capable of it, you know?" Sam asked. Husk canted a frown at him. "To be exactly what her father wants her to be."
"She ain't got that in her. She's got a lot. More than she says, more than she likely even knows, but she ain't got that," Husk said.
"Yes, she does," Sam said, quietly. It was deep inside her, buried in the deepest corner of her psyche, with every one of her hopes, her dreams, and her aspirations piled over top of it in the hopes that they would crush that part of her to death, but there it remained. "Have you heard back from your people?"
"Which ones?" Husk asked. It was Sam's turn to cant a frown at him. "I talk to a lot of people."
"For somebody who claims not to care about anything, you hear a lot," Sam said.
"Hey, you're the one who looped me into the bullshit!"
"Did you or did you not receive twenty gallons of Wrath's best Shine?" Sam asked.
"I did," Husk's shoulders wilted, his words begrudging.
"And were they or were they not better than the shit that Alastor pays you with?"
"They were," Husk admitted.
"Great. Now stop your bitching and tell me what your people say," Sam said.
"You know, you keep this up, you're gonna have people thinkin' you're taking a swing at being an Overlord yourself," Husk pointed out.
"Let them think what they want. I'm just in this to find a way to kill God," Sam said.
"The fact that you say that to me with a straight face is why so many a' Valentino's lackeys are scared shitless of you," Husk said. He shifted his stance. "Where did you get the Infernal Talc, anyway?"
"What?" Sam asked.
"To kill Boaris, back at day one," Husk said.
"I didn't have Infernal Talc. I don't even know where to get any," Sam said. He frowned. "When you say 'dead'..."
"Double dead, straight to double-hell," Husk said. He scowled. "This more of your magical bullshit, or your Elemental bullshit?"
"It might have been Angelic bullshit, actually," Sam said quietly, taking a sip of root-beer. Husk just barked a laugh.
"You're like the third joker in the deck, you know that?" he said.
"And you're dodging my question," Sam said. "What is protecting Valentino?"
"Fine. The problem with that question is it's too fuckin' broad," Husk said. "What's protecting the rapey-fuckin'-moth depends on where you're tryin' to hit him. At his home? At Porn Studios? At Club 666?"
"Not at the latter. I promised Angel Dust and Cherry bomb that I'd let them demolish that place on their own once Valentino is dead," Sam said.
"So which? At his home? He's got twenty five floors of Hexwarded penthouses, housing ten other Overlords who will not take kindly to gettin' fucked with even accidentally," Husk pointed out. "I don't know 'bout you, but I can't punch through impish thaumaturgy with any amount 'a lead. And besides, y'might figure you're up to take a swing at Valentino, and fuck it, you just might be, but I guaran-goddamned-tee you ain't up to fight eleven of 'em."
"And at Porn Studios?"
"Might as well fight him at home, 'cause you'll be facing him, Velvet, and Vox in their seat of power," Husk said before taking a long drag. He let it stream out of his nose, which Sam knew was not exactly what cigar smoke was meant to do. Husk didn't seem to care.
"Three is a more manageable number than eleven," Sam said. "And I think I can get it down to two, if some things I've heard are true."
"You don't get it; The V's together can throw down on the level of an Ars Goetia," Husk said. "I ain't even got a good picture a' the shit they got in there. Rumor says they got everything from Seraphic Steel weapons, to bound up Revenants, to a chained Exorcist, to a fuckin' Shard of Ruin. And some 'a that shit, I ain't got any kinda counter for. You ain't on their level,"
"Am I not?" Sam asked, glaring at the goon in the distance. He was pointedly not looking at Sam.
"See? Shit like that makes me think you're going to go Overlord," Husk said.
"I have no desire to sit a throne made of broken bones and broken lives," Sam said.
"And I bet a lot of other, current Overlords say somethin' very similar to that when they set out," Husk said. "I don't know the V's stories, how they got where they did, but they had to crush a half dozen other would-be aristocrats to do it. That kinda drive don't come from a place of luxury and comfort. And when they reached the top, atop that pile a' broken bones and broken lives, they decided they liked the look of things from up there. What's to stop you from doin' likewise?" Husk demanded, an unusual heat in his voice.
"I will," Sam said.
"You'll stop you," Husk said, and barked a laugh. "Forgive me for believing that as far as I can spit. You might not'ta s'posed to been here, but the fact is Hell has a way of twisting people. Even the best of people. Fuck, man, look at what it did to me," the last bit came as a grumble. He thrust his cigar at Sam. "I'll give you your information, Sam, but I ain't in this to replace three Overlords with one. I ain't a fuckin' kingmaker."
"Well, if you don't trust me to stop me, then I will have to trust you to stop me," Sam said, staring at the cat-bird-demon. "You've been down here for half a century. You've seen Overlords rise and fall. And you know how to kill them."
"I know lotsa stuff," Husk said.
"Furious George," Sam said, watching Husk's reaction. And true to an inveterate card-sharp, Husk didn't betray so much as a twitch. "You're not the only one who's looked into people. You and George were once a pair of bullets before the flop. And then he made a grab."
"Furious George is still alive," Husk said. "Dead. Fuck it I hate terminology; he's still in fucking Hell."
"And all that George has was built by you, before he took it from you. You were the one who killed Judit the Judge. With a Seraphic Steel knife you keep hidden on you at all times," Sam said.
"You can't prove that," Husk said. Sam stared into him, though, Looked Within. And within that pall of bulletproof apathy, there was a whisper of concern, of worry. That he was going to lose another person who, in another lifetime, he could have actually called a friend. And past that, Sam could even see that Husk was checking that it was still where he left it.
"Extradimensional space just below your left wrist," Sam said.
"Alright, you've managed to actually get me interested. How in the sweet fuck did you know where I keep Rita?" Husk demanded, taking a step toward Sam.
"I can see your drive, your will. What moves you forward."
"Like that fuckin' Archangel, Raguel?" Husk said.
"Like... what?" Sam asked.
"He said he could see my 'virtue' and that it was a dried up husk. You can do likewise?" he asked. Sam paused, staring into the distance as he started to check boxes in his head. He had a second gift, or at least the spark of one, in his guts. But when Alastor jabbed him, he'd been almost surgical in nailing Sam right in the navel. How does a child receive anything from its mother? Via the umbilicus. And the last point of connection he'd had to his mother was now the point where her gift lingered in him. And it was the gift of Raguel.
Rachel Scailes had borne the Gift of Justice.
And now, it was something else in her son.
"I guess I can," Sam said. "So I'm putting it in your hands to make the number of Overlords from this endeavor only go down. If you think I'm about to make a power grab, stab me. You know it works, just like it did last time," Sam tapped his side, the wound for the moment not actively bleeding.
"If that's the way that it'll be, then that's how it'll be," Husk said. "Porn Studios is likewise a bust. It's got even stronger hexwarding. You could set off a nuke outside its front door and the blast wouldn't even reach the lobby."
"Interesting," Sam said. "And the people working there?"
"Just a grab bag of Sinners workin' the shoots, and whatever security the V's have stationed. They like their people to be... resilient," Husk said, tapping off ash.
"Then I have a plan," Sam said.
"Is it a good plan?" Husk asked.
"No, it's a godawful plan that will get a lot of innocent...ish people mangled. But it's what I have to work with," Sam said.
Chapter 22
Nobody In Hell Is A Hero
"Hey Blitz? I think I found something," Loona said from where she lounged at the reception desk to I.M.P.. Her usual phone in hand had been supplanted by using that creaky old computer that was bumming off of somebody else in the building's Wifi. Moxie was glad to see people actually listening to his precautions for once. While leeching off the Wifi of another company would still lead any particularly adroit hackers back to this building if they caught wise to the shape of what they were looking for, it at least would be focused on a different floor and possibly give the imps enough time to throw their irreplacables down a garbage chute and climb down the rope that blitz kept coiled next to his window.
"What is it Loonie?" Blitz immediately forgot the call he was on with a potential client. Which was typical, really.
"You know that Hellhound that Birch has? I figured out who he is," she said. She turned the monitor around and showed a particularly grisly photograph of a gore-covered, almost naked hound with very short, black and tan fur being handed a mug of nearly black beer.
"Why's he naked?" Millie asked, leaning around Moxie to get a proper look.
"What is he doing?" Moxie asked.
"He's just lasted a day in the Bleeding Pits," Millie answered him. "If you make it from sun-up to sun-down, you get a stout-beer at the end of it. That means that this fella's a tough one."
"He ain't that tough," Blitz said, looking utterly unimpressed by the retiring, exhausted and almost fearful look on the viscera-spattered hellhound in the picture. "I bet I could do that."
"Boss, I don't mean no offence by this but... no, you couldn't," Millie said gently.
"And how the fuck would you know?" Blitz demanded.
"I had to quit after an hour," Millie said, and rolled up one of her pant legs to show the jagged scars running around her calves and thighs, white against red. That proved to be a bittersweet memory for Moxie. It totally ruined her wedding dress. When she pushed her leg back down, she pointed at him. "And he don't look like he's 'relieved' to be outta there. Most people who last a day get treated like heros!"
"Yeah, you're gonna want to listen to her on this one, Blitz," Loona said. She then scrolled the page down, and pointed at the caption under the picture.
Unnamed Hellhound after day six of unprecedented eleven day survival in The Bleeding Pits.
"Okay, so this guy's tough, I'll grant him that," Blitz said in the most begrudging of fashion.
"No, I don't think you get it," Loona said. She then turned the monitor around, did some computer things at it, and then turned it around. Unnamed Hellhound was the unmatched champion of the Bleeding Pits amongst the Hellborn, with only Cain himself having more total days, and even The First of The Damned never managed more than 2 days in a row. And Cain had the notable advantage of being a Sinner – the very first Sinner, since Lilith's status was ambiguous – so he could regenerate any grisly injury he sustained.
The Unnamed Hellhound had made it 27 days in total, 11 of them in a row... and had never taken so much as a single permanent injury. And since the First of the Damned had 'retired' centuries ago and started doing a lot of nothing, that left his record entirely vulnerable to this unknown Hound.
"...Do they got that shit televised?" Blitz finally asked.
"Are you serious?" Loona asked.
"Actually that might be smart," Moxie cut in on Loona's disgust. "If we can see a recording of the way he fights, we might be able to devise a strategy against him instead of having to make something up when we face him."
"See? And the entertainment I get would just be icing on the cake," Blitz said.
The door then opened to the strangled yell of pain that Blitz also used as his Hellphone ring. They all turned to the door. Moxie then immediately scrambled for a gun.
Millie let out a roar and hurled herself at the lanky imp in the door, only to be sidestepped and have the door slammed behind her, immediately barricated by said imp leaning against it. "Howdy there, little one. Gonna actually shoot and not just gloat this time?" Striker said.
"I might!" Moxie said. There was a clack as Blitz chambered a round into his Luger and pointed it at the imp who was now being bumped from time to time by Millie throwing herself at the other side of the door.
"Alright, shitbird, what the fuck are you doin' back in my office after the shit you pulled last time?" Blitz demanded. Striker smiled, then, but there was something off about it. Was he wearing a glamour? He must be. Moxie reached for the bottle that Krieg had given them, and sprayed a spritz of it in the air. There was a tinkling sound, as the magic crystalized and fell to the carpet as hard, sharp pebbles. And in their wake, the real Striker was revealed. And he was only half the Imp that he was last they saw him. One eye was missing, hidden behind a slack eyepatch, and his arm on the same side was missing from the elbow down, with only a crude prosthetic hook strapped in its place. His golden tooth was missing, leaving a gap in his smile.
"You look like shit," Loona pointed out.
"I s'pose I do," Striker admitted. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to talk business without guns pointed at me, if you're still in the killin' biz."
"You'd better talk fast, big man," Blitz demanded.
"I want you to kill somebody, and I'm willing to pay a shit-tonne of money to see it done," Striker said.
"You have somebody in the Human World you want killed. You," Moxie said, his incredulity clear.
"My target ain't in the Human World," Striker said. He turned his one remaining eye on Moxie. "Now I ain't fancyin' the prospect of gettin' stabbed in the kidney again, so would you be so kind as to put a leash on yer darlin'?"
"How about I put a muzzle on you?" Moxie counter-offered.
"I'm getting bored of this conversation, donkey-fucker, so you'd better get to the FUCKING POINT!" Blitz managed to hold his composure until it crumbled at the end of his sentence.
"There's a dude here in Hell that I want you to off, and I'm willin' to pay a Deadly Sin's ransom to have it done," Striker started to reach into his jacket. Every gun pointed at him was clenched a little tighter, and a growl began to grow in Loona's throat. "Just reaching for my billfold, friends."
"You shat on the chance to call us 'friends' a while ago, bucko," Blitz pointed out. "And just so you know, any job comin' from you comes with an asshole-surcharge, which adds a zero to the end of it. So unless you're comin' in here with something that's got six digits, then you can fuck right off!"
"How 'bout seven?" he said, pulling a wad of bills and tossing it toward the desk. Loona snatched it out of the air, and then stared at it agog. Moxie did too, when he saw what was marked on the band that bound the one hundred bills. "One million even, and in exchange, I want you to kill Nathan Birch."
There was a long silence. Then Moxie started to giggle, despite himself. Loona managed to keep hers as chuckles. Somehow, despite everything, Blitz was the one who was holding his composure. Well, him and Millie, who was still trapped in the hall.
"Something I don't know about?" Striker asked, his cockiness buckling.
"Payment up front?" Blitz said.
"If need be. There'll be harsh penalties if you balk, of course," Striker said, being jostled mid word by Millie no-doubt drop-kicking the door to try to either get in or put it off of its hinges.
"Deal made," Blitz said, putting his Luger away. "Hey Mills! You can calm down, we're just gettin' hired!"
"Hired for what?" came her muffled, slightly panting voice on the other side of the door.
"To kill Nathan Birch."
There was silence. And then she started laughing, too.
"What's got you in a stink about Birch? He fuck you over somehow?" Blitz asked, his dislike instantly shelved now that there was a cool mill in the offering. Striker idly rubbed at the point where his left arm became a left hook, a sour expression on his face.
"In a roundabout way, yeah. Yeah, he did," Striker said. "Now I ain't putting a time-limit on this per se, but if I die before he does..."
"Oh truuuuust me, we've already got a bunch of shit in motion to kill Lucifer's bitch-boy," Blitz finished counting bills and verifying that they were stamped with Lilith looking sultry – because Lucifer wanted his own face to be on the most circulated currency, the 20, he gave his wife the honor of featuring on the largest legal tender, the 10,000 – and slipped them into his jacket.
"Why do I get the feelin' that I coulda hired you with a 'pretty please' and not spent my severance on this?" Striker asked.
"Naw, you owed us that from the last time you fucked us over," Blitz said, smiling with an extra degree of cruelty. "What goes around comes around biiiiiii~itch."
"I don't think I know your name, medegano," Henroin Veloce said, a cigarette hooked in the fingers that held a martini in hand. His great body was covered in coarse, grey hairs, broad where his children were skinny, strong where they were weak. He only had two eyes in truth, the others were only good for spotting things in the dark, or picking out movement. He didn't wear a shirt, because why would he? Here, his body was perfect. Still, he wore a tie. Because some things were just civilized.
"I don't think you would," the Sinner in front of him said. He was an Elemental from the look of him. Fire from his appearance. And there was something unsettling about his face. Henroin didn't like it when he saw that expression on a mook's face. It usually meant they were a twitch away from pulling a piece and taking a shot at the king. In fact, the only reason – the ONLY REASON – he let this match-stick come up to his table, was because Arackniss had vouched for him. "My name is Sam."
"Ah. So it's you," Henroin said, suddenly realizing who this was. "You're the mook what picked my boy out of the gutter after Valentino set his ass on fire."
"That I did," this 'Sam' said. Weird how it took so long to put two and two together. He might have to ease off on the martinis tonight. They were slowing him down.
"And what exactly are you standing before me, asking after now?" Henroin narrowed his eyes, leaning forward with a thickly muscled arm propping him off of the table. "Usually people who do things like that? They're looking for a boon outta me. And I didn't get to where I am today by giving away gifts. So you'd best keep your expectations nice and appropriately fucking low."
"I am here as a courtesy to your operation," Sam said. "When I leave here, I intend to offer Arackniss a part in my plan to bring ruin to Valentino. And given the torment that Arackniss was put through by Valentino's hand, I don't doubt that he will agree. But I am here asking if you are willing to give your blessing for the violence that I am about to unleash."
Henroin stared hard at the Sinner. He had to be fucking insane. To come here, after doing what he'd done for this family, and ask for that? Much as Henroin spoke a heavy-fisted game, he had been beyond relieved to know that Arackniss was saved from brutality. And honestly, he would have given much to the one who delivered him. But never let the goombahs know that. That'd make him look soft.
"So you're looking for my blessing... to feed Valentino his own teeth?" Henroin confirmed.
"I will be going after him even without it, but if it is known that Henroin Veloce, once called Henry Ragnie, snapped his fingers and okay'd the downfall of one of the most notorious Overlords in Pentagram City, I imagine that will open many doors for you," the Sinner said.
"You can stop sucking my cock, Sinner. You're not my other son," Henroin said, sitting back, taking a drink from his martini and then twisting to drag some smoke from his coffin nail. This was beyond suspicious under ordinary circumstances, to have somebody come in and offer everything that Henroin could have ever wanted.
But then there was the look in this fucker's eyes. To look in this 'Sam's eyes, it called to mind an old memory, the abject fury that Angel had shown back in '59, when he finally turned his back on them all, only more so. This was a lunatic rage. An all consuming fury that would swallow Hell whole if it got in his way. The only time in Henroin's life that he had ever seen that kind of fury was when Marco Genovese pulled the trigger and ended said life. And to be frank, Henroin had done plenty to earn the Genovese family's fury by that point.
"Fine," Henroin said. Better to have that kind of lunatic anger pointed at somebody else and not him. "You have my blessing to turn that fucker's head into a canoe, if you can manage it. But when it goes wrong, I won't lift so much as a finger to help yous, is that clear?"
"Perfectly," Sam said. He then pulled his Hellphone from where it was peeking out of his breast pocket and began to dial. He half turned away. "Arackniss? Your father is on board."
"You had all this lined up already," Henroin said, tapping a bit of ash off of his cig. He offered a patronizing chuckle. "I better watch myself, so all yous don't turn on me, next."
"Not even tempted," Sam said. He then had a moment of consternation. "Forgive me, I don't know the protocol for saying goodbye to the mafia. It didn't come up in my life before now."
"Get the fuck outta my sight, megedano," Henroin said, without much venom. Sam cracked a smile at that.
"As you will," he said, turned and left.
Henroin didn't rate this goombah's chances very highly. It'd take a miracle to crack the V's defenses. But if he was gonna offer to spit in an enemy's eye on Henroin's behalf, costing Henroin nothing and sheltering Henroin from any potential backblast while doing so, well then sign the Don right the fuck up for that.
If nothing else, it would make for an amusing afternoon when it finally happened.
Wendy found Sam looking a bit run down, on his way through the lobby. Vaggie would glare at him as he went, but such attention rolled right off of Sam's back. She'd heard Sam's declaration of war against Valentino. It was the kind of thing that Wendy had no power to intervene in, in any capacity, so she just stood at the side of it and watched. It might feel cowardly, but sometimes what seemed cowardly was the only rational choice. Sam had reminded her of that in the wake of his wounding.
He had his phone up to his ear, but he hadn't said anything the entire time he walked. So when she slipped into the elevator beside him, he was still silent. "On hold?"
"Jesus fuck!" Sam started, turning to face her. "You're a ninja, you know that?"
"Walking soft is a skill I picked up early," she said. "Who's giving you the run around?"
"Apoc," Sam said.
"Isn't him being absent this long just... really unlike him?" she asked.
"Extremely," Sam said. "So I'm just going to stay on the line until he either picks up or the phone goes out of range... which only happens in Sloth, I might add."
"That doesn't mean anything to people who can't even enter Greed," she pointed out.
"Sloth's a lot further down than Greed. As far down as you can go, right above where Betrayal used to be," Sam said.
"Right. 'Cause Hell used to have nine rings," she said. The elevator dinged and opened to their floor. "What happened to them?"
"Lucifer chucked Betrayal into the Abyss. Some say because it rebelled against him, some say just because he could. I think it's because it was a hold-out and Lucifer was getting tired of fighting against Hell after having lost against Heaven."
"And the other one?"
"Despair. Used to be between Pride and Purgatory. It's been gone longer than Betrayal. I think Satan had something to do with that. Ideological conflicts, and all," he said, and paused by his door. "Come on, Apoc, answer your fucking phone."
"Think he might be giving you the slip?"
"He might be," Sam admitted. "But how would he possibly know he had to give me the slip? It's not like he can see through my eyes or hear through my... motherfucker he probably put something in my contract."
"What?" she asked. Sam just turned his Hellphone onto speaker and put it on the kitchen cabinet, next to where, according to Angel Dust, Sam had chopped his own arm off to prove a point. What point that could be was somewhat lost on Wendy. Sam, though, pulled a drawer out and unfurled a long, densely written scroll, scribed in a language she understood despite never learning it – bonus of being in hell, she supposed.
"Apoc used fine print to put a tracker beacon on my life before. It's not beneath him to put something in that would alert him if I ever stumbled upon what really happened to Celeste Wormwood," He said.
"And who is she, again?"
"The last person Apoc found who could cross the Pride Wall. Or perhaps the first person, and I'm the last. I can't tell with somebody as good at lying as he is," Sam continued to scroll carefully through the parchment, but didn't seem to be getting any closer to finding what he was looking for. Finally, a beep hit the air and both of them turned to the phone.
"Alright, if you're that desperate to get in contact with me, too bad. I'm taking my once in a decade vacation, and I left my phone somewhere it can't bother me. If you have work, find another Dealmaker. They'll screw you over, but that's the price of impatience for you," Apoc's recorded voice came from the phone. "If you're one person in particular, look at where I met you. I left you something there to tide you over. Other than that, I'm on vacation, kindly and expeditiously piss off."
"Where he met... He's talking about you, I presume," Wendy said.
"Of course he is," Sam said flatly. He turned to her. "I'll be back in a couple hours."
"No, I wanna see this," she said.
"Leaving the Hotel for the second time in a month. You might be starting to pick up a bad habit," Sam said.
"First of all, fuck you, second of all, I had no reason to go out there when I got here. Now, I increasingly do," she said.
"Very well," Sam said with a shrug. "You know I've got no secrets from you. As long as you don't tell them to the other cyclops in the hotel."
"Do I look like a gossip to you?" she asked.
"Loaded question," he said. She followed him down and through the lobby, where he was once again glared at by Vaggie. Let her glare. Sam at least was changing things for the better. All Vaggie was doing was clinging onto a status quo which honestly wasn't that good. As much as Wendy would wish she strode out onto the street with confidence and poise, she was self-aware enough to know that they only reason she felt able to do this was because Sam was here, and Sam would crush Stefanopoulos into an ash-pile if he even showed up here.
Which he wouldn't. Being worthless had an odd sort of safety associated with it. Nobody missed you when you ran away. Nobody would come looking. And that led to another feeling of security for that notion's exact inverse; now she was in a place where people would miss her, and would tear Hell apart to find her if she ever vanished.
The first taxi Sam waved down stank of drying semen, so he waved down a second which merely stank of blood. In that one, they began to zip through the streets of Pentagram City, skirting gang-wars and weaving through traffic. "Are you alright?" Sam asked her, abruptly.
"What do you mean?"
"You're acting differently than you usually do," he said.
"It's the chains," she said, staring out the window at the scenes of Hell that they drove past. "Ever since I landed here, I've been bound up in them. Some of them I put on myself. All the rest got put on by others. And when you're chained up, there's only certain ways you can move. I spent so long in fetters that I've just... gotten used to it. Only moved in the ways I knew that I could. Now, some of them are coming off. And I can do things I couldn't before. I don't know the ways I used to move. It's been so long since I was able to, that I'm having to relearn everything. But I will."
"Good," Sam said. "It might be a bit dubious for me to agree with one of the central tenets of a literal Church dedicated to literal Satan, but fighting against despair is the most important thing you can do in Hell," he rubbed at his cheeks, which bore bright golden stubble. "I might even say that protecting your soul from ruin is even more important than protecting your meat. Especially here, where the former informs the latter."
"Oh great, now you're a philosopher as well as a scientist," she rolled her eye.
"I don't sleep very well of late," Sam said.
"I'd say you'd die if you don't sleep, but I know that's categorically untrue for Sinners," she said.
The rest of the ride had lighter topics, including an inquiry as to the status of his dandelions. To which her answer was 'they're dandelions, they're trying to take over the entire fucking garden', which Sam seemed to enjoy. Finally, the taxi deposited them in a rebuilding part of the city that if memory served had been almost flattened by the last Purge. Sam immediately departed the streets, into an alleyway between a porn shop and another, nastier porn shop.
"So this is where you landed? Yikes," she said. "At least you didn't land in the middle of a highway..."
"Did you?" Sam asked as his golden light illuminated the way for them.
"I got hit by a car less than five seconds into being in Hell. That wasn't fun," she said.
"What in Hell is for somebody with a working moral compass?" Sam asked.
"Karaoke?" she asked.
"Hard pass," Sam said. "I've got a voice like killing frogs with a wine-press, and I'm not going to inflict that on anybody else."
Wendy turned an incredulous look at him. "Are you serious?" she began, but was cut off when they reached the thing which the Goat of the Apocalypse had obviously intended for them to find. Well, the scene was a bit more complicated than that. There was a stuffed dummy nailed to a wall. A minotaur from the look of it. There was a blast mark in its belly, and a dead Sinner with Purified wounds opposite it. "What the fuck?"
"Apoc you sassy bitch," Sam shook his head, then pulled out a pocket knife and instead cut into the arm. A flash drive fell out of it. He slotted the thing into an adapter and plugged it into his phone – of course Sam had that shit ready for something like this – and turned his phone onto speaker.
"Either you're incredibly lucky or you're the one who's supposed to get this. I say incredibly lucky, because there are fourteen antipersonnel mines in this dummy, and at least two of them have something extra special in them. Anyway. If this is you, look in your other original injury and use the password 'A2LWW45#' and don't screw it up, you'll only get one try. It doesn't stand for anything, don't jump to conclusions. I figure I shouldn't leave you destitute just 'cause I'm out of town," the Goat's voice said. Sam sighed, then cut off the dummy's right horn, extracting a cylinder with a lock mechanism, and motioning them to leave the rest of the highly explosive dummy alone. Sam relistened, then did the lock. When he opened it, he extracted money. A lot of money.
"That's..."
"About a hundred thousand," Sam said, as he riffle-counted. "How long did he think he was going to have to be gone? Or is this a bribe to get me back on side?"
"Does it matter?" she asked.
"Not really. I've still got some words to say to him," Sam said. But a tired smile came to his face. "But at least now I can afford to do the really stupid thing that my plan calls for."
"How stupid are we talking?" she asked, leaning against a wall as he recounted the money.
"It'll be on the news. You tell me," he answered her.
"Wait really?" Cherry Bomb asked.
"I'm serious," Sam said, from his place in her 'lair'. While she claimed Overlordship, she certainly didn't spend on the things that one would expect of one. Her war table was just a door laid out on a bunch of stacked milk crates, with maps of Pride strewn across its surface. "The more people we use, the more collateral damage there'll be. And even if that isn't a concern, as I doubt it is for you," Sam quickly added as she raised a finger and opened her mouth, "the more people we mobilize, the more likely the V's will know that they're under attack before they actually are."
"Yeah, but... how exactly do you expect to get through Valentino's army of mobsters and Velvet's Living Dolls with just a handful of dead assholes?"
"I have a plan for them," Sam said, tapping a case with his foot where it sat next to the door. He hadn't wanted to carry the thing around any more than he had to. For all it was about the size of a luggage case, it weighed a hell of a lot more. "They'll be less of a problem than you think."
"I'm still having a bit of trouble believing you, considering your first impression," the anarchist said, crossing her arms before her chest and her one eye narrowing at him.
"What was the first thing you did when you realized you could manifest explosives out of thin air?" Sam asked, neutrally.
"Blew the fuck out of the building I was staying in," she said.
"Just because you could?"
"Just because fuck you," she said.
"I figured as much," Sam said with an amused smile. "You blew up a building, I cut off my own arm and regrew it in seconds. Just because I could. If you don't push yourself to the limits of your abilities, you never learn exactly how broad those limits are."
"Still fuck you," she said.
"You're every bit as charming as Angel Dust describes you," Sam said sweetly. She scowled hard at him. He then shut off the smile. "You're right, though; there will still be a lot of fodder that need to be dealt with, and you have exactly the tools for the job. I'm not just here to destroy Valentino. I want to salt the earth that he has tilled so that nothing may ever grow again. I want to tear down his works, brick by brick. And the fastest way to do that is by semtex."
"Fine. So if you're not crazy and you're not full of shit..." she began.
"I may be," Sam admitted. She glared but continued.
"Then what exactly do you want me to do? This isn't a scrap against Egglord. The V's are actual serious contenders."
"I'll worry about Valentino. Your job, first and foremost, is to destroy every street that leads to Porn Studios for a five block radius. I want that tarmac utterly impassable for at least an hour. And I'll need so many antipersonnel mines in every alley leading to Porn Studios that you can't make it three steps without getting your leg blown off."
"And whats to stop the bums from ruining all my set up?" Cherry asked.
"I've got somebody on that," Sam said.
"You've just got a plan for every fucking thing, don't you?"
"No," Sam admitted. "But the more things I cover, the less ways I can get blindsided."
"That's not what I meant. Were you military or something, back when you were alive?" she asked.
"I was a laborer," Sam said.
"Well you don't plan like a laborer," she pointed out the marks that he was idly putting on her maps. And true to her words, it did look almost like something you'd expect from somebody doing wargames and theory, all the way down to the notation. Sam blinked at that for a moment. Strange. But then again, he had been briefly granted the Gift of Glory, which was the Essence of Michael the Taxiarch. Perhaps some of that aptitude had rubbed off on him before he got kicked downstairs.
Or maybe he was just better at war games than he'd known from his life. After all, he'd been about three tax-brackets away from being able to play tabletop games.
He took a moment to look around, at the woman who had built loyalty into the greatest virtue of her life or afterlife. Had this version of Cherry Bomb been the one at the gates, Saint Peter's angelic counterpart would have actually had to consider for a moment before sending her to Hell. He then saw some of her merchandise. Because of course an anarchist Overlord in Hell had merch. Cherri with an I? He made a note to spell it correctly to himself from now on.
"Like I said, the more I cover, the less angles I give Valentino and Velvet," Sam said.
"You keep saying 'Valentino and Velvet', aren't you forgetting that there are three of those dickheads?" Cherri asked, tapping the symbol for Porn Studios, which was literally Vox's face.
"Vox will be away from the office at the time I intend to attack the others. And your work will keep him away from the office so he can't interfere," Sam said.
"You're putting a lot of cash on this, and I don't think you've got that much on you," Cherri said.
"I have a plan for Vox as well, if it comes to that," Sam said. He pointed at the roads. "If you see a single soul trying to traverse these roads after you tear them up, throw bombs at them until they run or until they're a smear. No exceptions. Imps, Hounds, and Fiends know enough to stay out of warzones. Only Sinners are dumb enough to run towards a gunfight."
"So what? Once I blow the streets I get carte blanch to massacre anybody I want?"
"Anybody approaching Porn Studios," Sam clarified.
"So I'm going to spend the next few days shifting ass through the sewers to set this bullshit up. How will I know when to set it off?" she asked.
At that, Sam smiled, and it was not a kindly one. "You'll just have to feel for the thud."
Business never stopped in this place.
In life, Valentino had been a fleshmonger, and in death he'd done exactly the same, but on an industrial scale. And Hell had accepted his work with a gleeful acceptance that none of his former 'companions' in life had. There was always a market for a pretty face, a succulent ass, a rock hard dick and a pliant puss.
"I'm bored," Velvet muttered where she was sprawled out on a sofa that was made of her living dolls. Valentino never really understood how she could ever be comfortable laying on people when she wasn't fucking them. But then, he didn't need to understand Velvet to value her. Another perk of being in Hell.
"So do something about it," Valentino said.
"Can I have one'a yours to play with?" Velvet asked. He'd always found it a little absurd that she chose to affect that American accent, considering her German providence. Still, he knew that the living world was weird enough that some mild insanities in Hell were to be expected. She was useful to him. That paid a lot of debts that lunacy incurred.
"Let me check," Valentino said with an affected long-suffering sigh. He checked his ledgers for the worth that he'd extracted off of his property. At the very bottom was Angel Dust, who hadn't given him a bent dime since he fucked off to that joke's hotel. And just above that was a Sinner who the market had gotten bored of a decade ago, and now was scrabbling for any penny he could earn. It still made him Valentino's lowest earner. "Cygnus Bile," he said.
Velvet sat up, clapping her hands in delight as the Doll under her winced at having the weight shift so abruptly. "Oh this'll be fun. You oughtta give me more'a yours more often."
"I just might," Valentino said. There was a buzz that hit the air, and Valentino reached with a long arm to the intercom built into the desk. "What's this about, Gwen?"
"Sir, there's somebody in the lobby here to see you. Says you'll want to talk to him," his receptionist said. Ordinarily, Valentino would immediately rip a strip off of her, first verbally and then physically, for telling Valentino what his business was, but she sounded afraid instead of confused. Valentino knew that when the hens got scared, it was likely that there was a fox around.
"Got a name?"
"Arackniss Veloce. And he's got a big sack that's squirming," Gwen said.
Valentino turned a look to Velvet, then to the intercom. "I'll be down," he said. Then, to Velvet. "Walk with me."
"Think you got through to the don's crotch-fruit?" Velvet asked brightly.
"I maybe did," Valentino said, picking up his spectacles and putting them in place. If he was going to show face, he'd might as well be spectacular. "But I've got a weird feeling. Something's off."
"You always got a weird feelin'," Velvet said.
"And I'm usually right," Valentino answered her. The elevator was much faster for them than it was for anybody else in the building – with one other obvious exception – depositing the two of them into the lobby floor. And true to Gwen's words, the stunted spider with his many red eyes was glaring at Valentino as he came into view. Looked like the spider held a grudge. Let him. If he tried anything, Valentino would set his ass on fire again.
"You want your mincing faggot, well here you fuckin' go!" Arackniss slung the sack ahead of him, then turned and started to stalk toward the doors.
"We ain't done here," Valentino said. Why did the spider-demon have a pair of sweatpants tied around his waist? Strange.
"I am," Arackniss said. When he made for the doors, Valentino snapped his fingers, and two of his people tried to stop the spiderling. And Arackniss answered by grabbing both of them by the neck and then slamming both of them face-down into the floor so hard that they cratered. That gave Val a moment's pause, as the spider kicked the doors open to the security annex and strode out. He took a step forward, his hackles raised, but only made that one step before Velvet darted into his path and spread her arms, blocking him.
"What is it?" he asked.
"That didn't sound like burlap on granite!" she blurted, spinning so her back was to Valentino.
"What did it sound like?"
"Skin on granite," she said. His concern was now deepening into suspicion. She knew the sound of every fabric, conventional or not, against any surface. She was the Great Couturier of Pride, Fashion Incarnate. And despite his distinct lack of such things, he trusted her in this.
"Open that bag," Valentino ordered. One of his people came to the side of the squirming bag, reaching down to open it. And then, with a horrifying sound that he'd only ever heard once before, ever, the well dressed cat-demon was consumed in ruinous hellfire, flashed into ash from his head down.
With a crackling sound of a glamour giving way, the sack disappeared, replaced with a standing sinner with burning hair that blazed electric blue, glaring directly at Valentino with electric blue eyes. He was almost naked, just wearing boxer shorts which were stained with blood that leaked from a scabby wound on his side.
"What the fuck..." Valentino muttered. Then he saw what that Elemental held in his hands.
It was a Davy Crockett 20 kilotonne Nuclear Mortar Shell. With a twist of a wrench, the Sinner disabled the last safety that thing had, and then without a single word said, began to spike it like a football into the floor at his own feet.
Velvet had just enough time to pull the Angel Satin from her pocket and throw up up and over them, before the blinding, beyond white flash filled the lobby, and nuclear hell blasted through the entire building, vaporizing every Sinner not under specific protection or in a room not hexwarded against such ruin, including the one who had thrown that first stone.
There was a blackness and a silence that almost dwarfed the white and din that came before it. Velvet stripped the Satin away, to show the building as it had become.
There was no Sinner, there. Now, there was a being of living, blazing white fire, that glared with even more hate than the Sinner who had stood there before it had.
So it was going to be that kinda day, huh?
I don't know why you always say there are no heroes in Hell.
I can see four of them from this vantage alone.
... Or perhaps five.
-Attributed to Yaldabaoth