Blitzo was absolutely hating this.
The crowd cheered and roared. The arid, scorching wind blew across the fields of Wrath, blowing through the fabric of the imp's vests, ruffling the hairs of the cowpoke onlookers. The place absolutely reeked of mud and livestock, and it didn't help that the boss had been rolling around in the mud as part of the tournament.
He impatiently tapped his foot. Stolas hadn't shown up yet. He had no idea what the crowd was getting hyped about. The imp slowly moved towards one of his neighbours, a stout, grizzled man with a giant, white mullet. He was wearing a combat jacket, Vietnam-era, with patches and emblems haphazardly sewn on. "Psst, hey." The bald CEO threw the fishing line of conversation. "The fuck is going on up there?"
"Oh, there? That there's Wally, he's jugglin'!" The receiver of the fishing line then turned towards the stage, clapping. "WOO, GO WALLY! YEAHHH!"
Blitzo rose his head up to peek, then lowered back down. This Wally fuck was juggling two balls. Two. That was enough to entertain this crowd. He reeled the line back. He caught a minnow, threw it back into the sea of obscurity. This sucked. This sucked. There was no salvaging this. He didn't even know why he was there. Just to get ogled by some Goetia he needed to suck off?
He was about to leave. There was a building he could at least go into for some peace and quiet… hell, that sounded nice right about now. Blitzo was turning to leave.
The crowd grew louder, cheering and whistling. The metal clanking of a microphone being picked up. Feedback. Finally, a familiar voice. "My dear commoners of the ring of Wrath!" Ah fuck. "Aaaand Blitzyyyy…" Ah fuck. There was no way he could leave now. The Goetia had noticed him and he absolutely knew that if he went, there'd be at the very least a chat about it… maybe he wouldn't even get goddamn paid for this shit. The bald imp hesitantly turned back around, facing the owl, grimacing.
The grimoire. Both the bane and boon of Blitzo's life, the whole reason why he was doing what he was doing, the lifeblood of his business. It glowed and shimmered, lifting up into the air, pages flipping over with the flick of the Goetia's fingers. "I, Stolas of the Ars Goetia…" The clouds parted, slowly but surely, as the moon revealed itself. "…hereby curse this year's harvest with the glow of the true Harvest Moon!" The moon, ashen in the sky, was spattered now with a blood red colouring, throwing the world into a crimson haze. Stolas, looking down at the crowd, locked eyes with his imp. Blitzo stared back. Something was wrong. The bald imp didn't know what it was. He could feel it in his stomach, his pulse quickened in his neck, his heart beating in his chest.
A crack of thunder. A burst of red. Splattered into the crowd. A Goetia fallen to the ground.
The crowd started screaming, panicking, pandemonium. They bumped into each other, toppled each other, trampled each other. Blitzo stood there, his face stained red. The world faded away. "Stolas?" He walked forward towards the stage. "Stolas?" The repetition gave no more response than the last time.
Just like that, the situation began seeping in… then crashing in. The imp's eyes widened as he screamed. "STOLAS!" He sprinted towards the stage, stumbling and lifting himself onto it. He was the only one on top. "Oh fuck… oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…"
His face was gone.
"STOLAS… SHIT, SHIT SHIT… FUCK, TALK TO ME, GODDAMNIT!" He knelt down, the river of blood soaking his pants and boots, cradling the Goetia's mangled head and viscera-covered body. "No no no no no no…" His pupils were dilated, the world deafened to him, his eyes shaking, pooling with tears. He scooped some of the detritus from the ground, trying to shove it back into the Goetia's head. "F-fuck… fuck, no, no, you'll be fine, you'll be… fuck, Stolas, answer me… please, fuck, just…" The imp broke down, clenching his eyes shut, gritting his teeth, falling forward onto the vacant body.
Striker peered through his scope. All he could hear was animalistic wailing. His grin faltered for a moment. He lowered the stock of his gun to the ground, using it to lift himself up. "Aaahh… an' there it is…" The moment had come and passed… but oddly enough, Striker didn't feel nearly the catharsis he thought he would. Aside from wrestling those chumps into the cellar, It had almost been too easy. He put the gun back into its case, closed it up, and made his way out.
Blitzo was gone. Thoughts, doubts, self-loathing. How could he have let this happen? He was supposed to protect him and yet he failed. He failed to do the one thing Stolas trusted him to do. All these thoughts were modulated into pure anguish as they forced themselves from Blitzo's mouth, incomprehensible in all but its emotional content.
Moxxie had heard the commotion, free from the cellar, and rushed towards his boss. "Sir! Sir, it's Striker, he's trying to-"
There was no one to talk to. Nobody fully present anyway. Despite this, Moxxie tried, walking up onto the stage. He looked at the body. He gagged, his hand on his mouth. "Oh fuck…" Despite this, he couldn't look away, frozen in place. After a few seconds, he grabbed Blitzo's shoulder. "Sir… sir, we have to go!"
"NO! WE CAN'T LEAVE HIM, MOXX! NO, NO NO NO NO NO-" Blitzo was absolutely rooted on the entity that once called itself Stolas, the smaller imp trying desperately to tear him off. He wailed, louder than before, and eventually his hands were torn away from the corpse. Moxxie dragged him off the ground, wrapping his employer's arm around his shoulder, and pulling him along.
Millie had gotten herself out of the bear trap, limping towards the two. "What's happenin'?" Luckily, her leg had stopped bleeding, although the movement was jostling some drips from the scabs.
Moxxie locked eyes with her. She studied his face. A few seconds of tense silence followed between the two, only punctuated by Blitzo's complete breakdown. "…we're leaving, hun. Could you… get the grimoire from the stage? And…" He let out a deep, exhausted sigh. "Don't look at the body."
Millie's expression straightened. She shook her head down once. "Okay, hun… how bad is it?"
Moxxie flicked his eyes up into her's before wandering them back onto the ground, dragging his mourning boss across the ground, the bald imp barely using his legs. "Just… go get it… please."
Millie didn't ask any more questions. She climbed up on the stage as fast as she could with her gimped leg, which incidentally was quicker than the other two imps. Her eyes scanned the scene, trying to find the book. A split-second look at Stolas' head. She averted her eyes, but the sight still seared into her. The book. The grimoire… Millie collected it and began limping back, mental blinders on her eyes, keeping her head forward.
At a slow, agonising pace, they made their way back to their van, stumbled inside, and drove off. The cordovan moon perversely gazed at them, and the trio stared back. Stolas of the Ars Goetia would curse no longer.