Piano Concerto No. 2, Op. 18: I. Moderato

Moxxie's first thought was that he felt a little chilly, he didn't remember his covers being this thin. His next thought was ' my head hurts.' quickly followed by 'Why does my head hurt?'

It was around this point that he finally opened his eyes. The room he found himself was definitely not his own. Several more thoughts occurred to him. He'd never actually been shown where he'd be sleeping while working. He also highly doubted this was it. If anything it looked more like a guest room, or a makeshift medic ward. The smell of disinfectant in the air confirmed that. Rich people had rooms for just about everything.

The most prominent thought that occurred to him though was 'Oh no' as he slowly gathered himself, memories included as the morning brain-fog began to clear. Moxxie remembered bleeding on Stolas' table cloth and being caught trying to hide it by his father, before getting "disciplined" then and there.

It explained why his head hurt at the very least. But this all meant he was all but guaranteed to get fired the second Stolas knew he was awake. A servant bleeding on a table cloth, probably staining it, on their first day there was an exceptionally bad move.

Moxxie slouched as he ran the situation over in his head. What the hell was wrong with him? All he had to do was set the table, an amazingly simple task. Yet, he instead had somehow managed to absentmindedly grab a bunch of steak knives by the blade and squeeze them in a death grip until he sliced his palm. To top it all off, he only noticed it because of someone else saying so, he hadn't even felt the pain until he dropped them.

Moxxie had expected the stress to get to him, having all those weeks to wait before the operation started gave him all the time in the world to consider the possibilities. All the ways things could go wrong. This though, having this kind of response to the stress? He didn't see that coming.

While he was deep in thought, he barely noticed the door to the room he was in opening. Walking in, was Stolas. The owl somehow seemed even taller than the first time he'd seen him earlier at dinner, to call it intimidating would be an understatement. It was just one of many constant reminders that Imps were the ants of the underworld. Not just underclass, but literally lesser than the rest. Even Hellhounds, which despite being technically the lowest class of all, if you even considered them a class, were still often easily stronger or more powerful than imps. At least, the ones that didn't die before age ten were stronger.

Moxxie's mind circled back to the present though, his memories slowly returning to him.

"Oh, you've woken up. I see I got here just in time."

Moxxie held his breath, watching the Goetic demon silently walk to the end of his bed. He panicked, wondering if he was supposed to say something before reminding himself of the golden rule of servitude; speak when spoken to.

Stolas just stared at him, like he was waiting for Moxxie to talk. "Uhm… How are you feeling?"

Moxxie stumbled over his own words. "Fine, good. Well, my head hurts and I have no idea where this is, but good."

"I suppose that makes sense. You're in the infirmary. My… father struck you, knocked you out. You regained consciousness briefly, but fell asleep shortly after."

"I don't remember that."

"Naturally. It's normal, I'm told so at least."

"How long was I asleep?"

"Only an hour. The examiner said you were probably just tired."

"...Huh."

This was not turning out to be the berating Moxxie expected.

"I would like to apologize to you for my Father's behavior. I'd have him apologize himself but I'm afraid it'd be easier to defeat Heaven than for my father to admit to his own shortcomings."

Moxxie couldn't believe his own ears. A Goetia. Apologizing. To him .

"Sir, I appreciate your consideration, but shouldn't I be the one apologizing? I bled on your tablecloth—"

"As disappointing as that may be, I don't think such behavior deserves a violent response. I'm sure you had plans to clean it eventually anyways."

"Well, of course—"

"Then there's no need to worry. I'm already having Butler take care of the stain. But there is one more matter to discuss. Who are you?"

Moxxie gulped, "What, exactly, do you mean by that, sir?"

"I know my staff like the back of my hand, little imp, and you're a very new face. Who are you, and where did you come from?"

Moxxie held his tongue for a moment, desperately trying to recall his made-up story through his still-foggy mind. Part of him wondered if Stolas was being intentional about this timing. Interrogating him just as he'd woken up, while he was still too tired and groggy to think clearly. If so, then Stolas was smarter than Moxxie had given him credit for. Moxxie had never thought Stolas was a fool by any means, but he never thought of him as clever either.

"I'm waiting." Stolas said, sounding slightly more intimidating than before.

"I'm Moxxie, sir. I got here today, I was sent as a gift" Moxxie coughed, "from Stella."

Instantly, Stolas' eyes narrowed. "From Stella you say…" He began pacing to the door and back, "And you're sure you're not here to kill me or something? Did you poison my dinner or stab my back?"

"She's trying to marry her way into royalty and you're her only avenue of doing that, why would she want you dead?"

Stolas glared at Moxxie before shrugging, "I suppose I can't really argue with that. What about you then? Do you want me dead?"

Moxxie paused, both to come up with a good answer, and for dramatic effect. "No. I don't want to go back to her."

That seemed to resonate with Stolas, the sternness in his eyes almost immediately washing away. "...Is that so?"

"Of course. She killed dozens of servants in her adolescence. How am I ever supposed to feel safe serving someone like her? I was her personal bodyguard, I never got a chance to get away from her."

Stolas looked on, "Believe me when I say I understand. She has always been particularly frustrating to deal with."

Moxxie just nodded.

They were both quiet for a moment, Moxxie trying to see just how much Stolas believed his story, and Stolas seemingly deep in thought.

"Well, if you look past my father's behavior and such a rough introduction, you are welcome to remain in my employ. I wouldn't want to put you back into Stella's hellish servitude. Not that many other Goetia are any better."

"They're not all bad though, right?"

Stolas turned to him, "This is Hell, Moxxie. Goodness doesn't exactly fit here."

"But Hellborn aren't Sinners. Sinners are the ones who're verifiably evil, or at least were. I just live here, the Goetia are just in charge. You can't all be evil, right?"

Stolas paused his pacing at the window, "Yes, we're not naturally 'evil,' whatever that word might mean to another. But, it takes a special kind of person to be in charge of Hell. 'Goodness' doesn't really lend itself to the position."

He certainly wasn't wrong. The Geotia seemed to live in a world of their own, completely unrelated to the going-ons of any hellspawn in their domain. The only thing they "ruled" were whatever abstract concepts they held dominion over, and however many legions of hell they were allotted. Living under them was a strange game of pretend, mock-ups of a society all in vain attempts at a life with full knowledge that their whole purpose was to one day drop everything and serve as those very legions, if and whenever that day arrived. A Goetia's only concern was if there were any hellspawn at all, not their living conditions or rights. Traditional morality didn't fit well with that kind of leadership… which made Stolas all the more of an outlier.

"Are you just the only decent Goetia then?"

Stolas seemed to hold his breath for a moment. "Yes, I am. Just decent. Aamon is good. Caim is good. Orias… was good."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring up—"

"It's fine. I would have been reminded anyways, Aamon is quite insistently sending me invitations to his ball. On the anniversary of Orias's death no less."

Moxxie's eyes lit up, "Are you going?"

"No."

"But, why? You just said Aamon was one of the few good Goetia you knew."

"It's still a ball. A party. A mass collection of other Goetia, all as insufferable as the next. He'll be greeting guests, I'll have no one to talk to but self-absorbed pricks. Satan forsake me, I might even have to run into Stella's brother."

Moxxie slowly moved out from the bed he was in. His head still ached, but it felt necessary. "Sir, if I may—"

"I don't expect an Imp to understand the kind of complexities that royalty brings into what would otherwise be simple socializing. Status events like these—"

"Are often to show off wealth, power, demonstrate a new advantage, or otherwise goad others into slanted alliances or submission."

Stolas froze for a moment, "Buer's Guide to Socialite Survival, page 42."

"I found it in a dumpster when I was little." That was true, Moxxie smiled a little at being able to tell the truth.

Stolas chuckled, "I think you may have found my copy then."

"Would you please hear me out sir?"

Stolas turned to face him, "Alright."

"You don't really think Aamon would hold a ball just to brag, right? On the anniversary of Orias's death?"

"I suppose not—"

"Aamon is a good person, he wants the best for everyone he knows. If he's doing this on the anniversary of Orias's death, then it must mean something. He wouldn't choose something like that so flippantly. I'd bet that he wants to do something about the tension between all the Goetia and bring everyone together again."

Stolas was listening intently now.

"He's inviting you so insistently because he wants you to be there too. Kind knows kind, I doubt he thinks of you as part of the problem. Rather as an ally, or even a friend. You should be there for him, support him. If the Goetia are so insufferable to you, you should hold on to whoever you can."

Stolas eyed him at those last words, before looking again. For the longest minute Moxxie had ever experienced, he didn't say a word.

"You… are quite insightful for an Imp."

"Thank you, sir."

Stolas sighed, "I suppose you make a good point. I haven't gone to a ball in years though, I'm not sure how the reaction would be."

"With any luck," Moxxie said, "It'd be a sign to other decent Goetia that they can show themselves too."

"You're starting to sound like Aamon."

"I've read some of his stuff."

"Found it in a dumpster?"

"No, I saved up a lot for it actually."

Stolas chuckled again. "You're certainly an interesting little Imp, I'll give you that. Fine then, I'll go to the party. Now if you're feeling well enough to be lecturing me, then you should be well enough to get back to work. Butler should be in the laundry room."

"Yes, sir."

The rest of that night had been weirdly comfortable. After joining Butler in cleaning the tablecloth, he was shown to where he'd be sleeping.

The servants quarters were something like a dormitory. Everyone had their own bedroom, it was small, but not to Moxxie. A bed, a desk, a clothing drawer, a window, a mirror, bathroom, plenty of open space, and it was all to himself. The showers were communal, which was nothing new.

However, there was a lounge, and it was the coziest place Moxxie had ever seen. Large plush couches, reading chairs, bookshelves lining the wall, a nice little table. All wooden furniture with humble metal trim. All of it centered around a fireplace. To top it all off, the servants quarters were accessible only through the servant halls, making this all somewhat like a hidden clubhouse, or a secret hang-out spot.

It felt more like a home to Moxxie than anywhere he'd ever lived. He hated that. The first time he felt like he genuinely liked where he was, and it was temporary. Built on a lie, his time here was limited, and he didn't even have a week here.

Aamon's party was only four days out, three not counting today. That wasn't much time. But it was enough time for Moxxie to get lost in the facade, just enough to enjoy himself. The lies came easily to him, sometimes too easily for his comfort, but perhaps he was just playing the role like a good actor. Years of watching theater from the rafters finally paying off.

It got to the point that he didn't really mind his daily tasks, it was something to do instead of sitting in a booth with no air-conditioning, and he could appreciate that.

Currently, that meant taking out the trash. Which for obvious reasons was his least favorite, but he didn't mind it too much. It gave him an opportunity to breathe in that nostalgic smog-ridden city air. The smell of cigarette smoke and piss was like the mark of the city, and it was damn near the only smell he'd known since his mind popped into consciousness around three or four years old. Though it was less pungent in Wrath than here in Pride.

After tossing the last of the bags into the dumpster, Moxxie paused for a second. He might've been fine, but regardless he got tired every once in a while. It wouldn't kill him to take just a minute to himself.

"Psst, buddy, hey."

Moxxie glanced behind him, nearly letting out a shriek before recomposing himself. "Dammit Huey, what're you doing here?"

"Sorry," he said with a toothy smirk. "Came here on the Don's orders. Got some info, need some info."

Moxxie nodded, "Alright, make it quick."

"Have you convinced Stol-ass or whatever to go to the ball yet?"

"Yes, actually. On the first day."

Huey raised an eyebrow, "Satan's balls dude, you're quick. How'd you manage that?"

"I bled on his tablecloth and his dad smacked me around a bit."

"Is that supposed to be a metaphor?"

"No. What else?"

Huey glanced around before whispering, "We've got some intel saying that there's gonna be a Holy Weapon at Aamon's party. If you can get your hands on it, you should be able to kill Caim."

"Wait, me?! I thought you guys were going to do that!"

Moxxie shushed him, "The plan's changed, we can't get in there without pulling too much attention. You'll have to go with Stol-ass—"

"Please just call him Stolas."

"—Stolas and find the gun yourself. Shoot the dame somewhere private and we'll be around to help dispose of the body."

Moxxie was on the verge of a panic attack just trying to wrap his head around this new "plan," if you could even call it that. "It just sounds like you're making me do all the work!"

"Hey! Intel don't grow on trees ya little squirt!"

"I'm convincing Stolas to go to the party, I have to find the weapon, kill her, and then help dispose of the body! How is that not most of the work?!"

"We're all putting our necks out here Mox, you're not the only one risking their life for this gig. You have any idea how many people I had to kill to find out about the weapon?"

"Fine!" Moxxie threw his arms up, "Whatever! Do you have any idea where the gun's gonna be?"

"Apparently it's the whole point of the party, should be on display or something."

"That 'or something' does not fill me with confidence."

Huey shrugged, "One way or another, you're gonna have to wing it."

Moxxie didn't like it, not one bit. "Some 'plan' this is…" he muttered. "If that's everything, I need to go."

"Right, yeah, I uh… I'll see ya 'round Mox." Huey said before vanishing into the alleyway.

"You too." Moxxie sighed, desperately hoping it might relieve some of the tension in his shoulders. It didn't. In fact, it only seemed to worsen the more he thought about his current situation. He'd really gone and gotten caught up in his own fantasy of working for royalty, he even started enjoying it. But things were going to get rough, very soon. It wasn't as simple as vanishing once Stolas left for the party anymore.

"Damn it…" he muttered.

"Excuse me?"

Moxxie froze, then turned around. Somehow, he hadn't noticed Butler showing up.

"Uhh…"

"You certainly enjoy wasting time out by the trash."

Moxxie gulped. How long had he been standing there? Did he see Huey? "My apologies, it… makes me nostalgic."

Butler raised a brow in what appeared to be genuine concern. "The trash makes you nostalgic?"

As far as lies went, this was one of the easier ones. "It's embarrassing, but yes. I won't bore you with the details, it just reminds me of when I was younger, makes me lost in thought."

He never even thought twice about the trash, why should he? No one else did, no one thought twice about him. Save for Huey, but he wasn't really a role model for intelligence.

"Right, well, best stop daydreaming then. There's work to be done, Stolas has decided to attend Aamon's gathering this weekend, and there are preparations to be made."

"Of course."

A/N: Sorry for the shorter chapter, but a lot more work was done behind the scenes. The story is pretty much finalized at this point from start to finish. Now I just have to write it, y'know, the hard part.

What I'm posting now is essentially a rough draft, and expect that I'll probably do some bigger changes to all the chapters before uploading the final chapter.