A small, creaky lift slowly meandered down, its front and sides practically open, mesh grating being the only thing keeping the three occupants from scraping the brick walls grinding past them. One of them, much taller than the others, a beaming yellow grin, let out a chuffed laugh. "We shall have no issues! The guards wish for as little trouble as we do."

Moxxie looked up at the towering sinner. "…why are you helping us, sir? You… you didn't need to."

Another cripplingly polite laugh, muffled through the airwaves. "Why, just think about how vastly entertaining it would be! Two lowly imps sneaking into the Goetia Assembly, either to save one of them or… to get caught trying, exposing how easy it is to get inside! Ohohoho."

Millie squinted. "…yeah… entertainin'."

As the lift approaches the bottom of Alastor's headquarters, the sounds of rabble begin to make themselves known. It's hard to know what they want, what they're saying… but they're there. The Radio Demon's eyes bulge out of his head, and his grin turns into an awkward, yet still perpetual, closed smile. "Oh dear. There appears to be some commotion outside!" The lift shifts still. Alastor opens the mesh grate, stepping outside. The ground floor was empty. Even his receptionist had abandoned post.

The yelling was unlike the other times the imps had experienced it. Instead of sheer chaos, the hue and cry of a population scorned, it was instead a triumphant rhythm. Three words, over and over. The heartbeat of a crowd. Order. Alastor, upon hearing this, narrowed his eyes… yet did not hesitate to move forward. Steadily, the chanting grew louder, both from the three's approach and from the mob itself.

The door to the outside was opened wide. A group of hellborn and sinners, diverse in their background, their upbringing, their beliefs. All of them stood to a simulacrum of attention and shouted at the top of their lungs. The rhythm, the war drums, reached their crescendo, the air filled with a raucous thunder of defiance. It could finally be made out. One of the old cries of the Media War. Alastor's eyes widened upon realising what he was hearing.

"Mors ad Vox!"

It was 1966. The rain had slicked the ground into mud, perfuming the air with wretched miasma. The land was pocked with craters, barbed wire, corpses of all stages of decomposition. The debris of failed offensives. The riflemen were standing straight to attention. Their uniforms were caked in dirt, boots and puttees ruined from the trenches.

The Radio Demon walked through, hand behind his back. His uniform, red and black, was a stark contrast to the suit he presently found himself in. A greatcoat, tail floating behind him as he marched through the winding dugout. Leather boots riding up to just below the knee. A stern, unsmiling, tired expression on his face. He inspected the small group that had assembled before him.

A general gestured towards them. "These are the men, sir." Alastor looked in the officer's eyes. An imp, short, stout. He was no older than twenty. This war had been the state of affairs for close to seven years; this was the most experience he could get onto the front lines. The soldiers presented to him were even younger. Children.

He mustered a smile, a grin, pacing back and forth. "Fantastic. You have all done a tremendous job repelling Vox's advances… and I believe everyone here deserves a medal for it." The general offered him a small box. Alastor took it, opened it up.

A whisper to the Radio Demon. "They don't speak English, sir."

As he withdrew one of the medals from its spot, he froze, then nodded. "Right." As if nothing had happened, he continued, marching towards the first soldier. He inspected him. His juvenile eyes gazed coldly into the distance. An imp. He couldn't have been more than eleven. White marks surrounded the yellow of his bloodshot sclera. Swallowing whatever disturbance he felt, Alastor pinned the medal on his ruined, baggy uniform. "Bene fecistis."

The child stood to attention and, at the top of his lungs, yelled their call of war. "Mors ad Vox!"

The entire line shouted out, a heartbeat, a synchronised cry. "Mors ad Vox! Mors ad Vox! Mors ad Vox!"

The two imps that had accompanied Alastor downstairs were too young to remember the Media War. Truthfully, many in the crowd grew up in a world where the war's consequences had already solidified, where business as usual had been established and, aside from the turf wars in Pride, the anarchy after had subsided. Even so, the call was erupting out of them, and it was almost certain they knew what it meant.

Alastor rose his hand. The calamity was shut off almost immediately, and the mob intently listened to the former overlord's words. "Why, it warms the cockles of my heart that there are so many who still support my cause. Truly, it does." A few moments of tumultuous pause. "But you must understand… the war is over! I'm bound by treaty not to join and, well… it might cause… problems if I broke my word. I'm sure you all understand-"

Before he could finish, a couple of imps pulled something out of their jackets… and brandished it at the Radio Demon.

A thunderous crack.

The von Eldritch guard posted around the semi truck where Kriego sat fell to the ground. The barber cowered into the back, shook by the noise. It was as if lightning had smited the legionary, and it was painfully clear both by the absence of a head and the soldier's inability to stand back up what had happened. A von Eldritch had been killed; Kriego had been taught that they were invincible.

The single crack of energy gave way to multiple. Legionaries screamed out, shot at the source of the 'lightning', but soon they dropped their weapons and hastily retreated. Some were smited as they ran, and it was here that Kriego got his first glimpse of what was causing the raucous cacophony.

A blinding beam of light. The imp had to squint, as any more of its sight would sear his eyes. What was emitting the sharp pillars of energy came into his view. Several imps holding…

…angelic weapons. Moxxie recognised them immediately. They were now pointed directly at the Radio Demon. In response, the sinner leered, his everlasting grin growing broader. "…what, is it 'Mors ad Alastor' now?"

One of the gunmen emerged from the crowd. A grizzled man, thin. If it weren't for his bulky, torn fatigues, his bones would almost certainly show. His voice, deep and bug-like, rattled the air. "What if we forced ya?"

"…pardon?"

Still cowering in his corner. Still waiting for the cracks and pops outside to subside. Soon, a group of imps slipped into the semi truck's back, scanning it, implements of regicide at the ready. Kriego threw his hands up when the muzzle of a blessed rifle flagged him. "Ey, ey, ey, I ain't- I ain't wit' 'em!"

An imp in a haphazard uniform of vaguely green clothing. He was chastised by one of his compatriots and lowered the rifle down. A few seconds of pause before he spoke in a deadpan. "Run fer it."

Kriego stood up, hands still by his head, darting his eyes back and forth. "Aight, don't gotta ask me twice… tha fuck is goin' on? Why do ya got-" His words were interrupted by gunshots in the distance.

The rebel looked back before returning his gaze to the barber-surgeon. "Did I stutter? Go! Go go go!"

"Ey, aight, aight!" In record time, Kriego scurried from one end of the semi to the other, jumping out and observing his surroundings.

It wasn't just one man with a blessed weapon. For every one imp that had a regular weapon, another one had a glowing rifle or revolver poised to kill the unkillable. On the ground was the convoy of von Eldritch legionaries meant to guard and guide imps into their quarantine. They laid unmoving.

As he saw what was happening...

…a pit formed in his stomach. How many hellborn now had access to these sinner-killers?

At first, Moxxie had assumed this was some transient disturbance, one that would resolve as all of them did; the revolt would either get killed or go home. Something was different about this. Now, the scorned had a method to exact their retribution.

The fatigued, starving imp continued. "Ya. Nobody would blame ya fer breakin' yer precious treaty if ya had a buncha imps holdin' ya at gunpoint."

While the Radio Demon wanted nothing more than to dismember those who dared to point a rifle at him… as the cogs turned in his head, he realised that this was actually… this was necessary for the both of them. A cough, then a chuffed laugh, modulated as it was. "…no comment." The two innocent imps. He looked down at them, then back up to his hostage-taker. "Let these two leave and I'll go willingly."

A grandfather clock in the reception hall. Its pendulum swung like a metronome. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The hostage-taker nodded. "…got yerself a deal." His eyes flicked to the imps and he quickly, abruptly tilted his head to the side. A gesture to go.

Moxxie and Millie, their hands in the air, began walking into the mob. As they did, the crowd pushed in. The Radio Demon disappeared with them.

Once again, those words rocketed out of the cohort's very core.

"Mors ad Vox! Mors ad Vox! Mors ad Vox!"