What the hell? He wants my- my wings?

Adam stands there, momentarily stunned to silence at the downright preposterous proposal. His hands ball into fists at his sides, sending his best simmering glare towards the ballsy motherfucker. Alastor remains unfazed, though, proudly standing tall with the same smug look.

Biting back a hiss at the aches along his stomach and spine, Adam slowly begins to take steps backwards. He'd be foolish to leave his wounds exposed to the demon, so he's careful to watch where he's moving. Wings curled inwards tightly, he's deluded himself into thinking they have, or can give, any degree of protection against harm. He continues to inch away from Alastor until something hard hits his back. He recognizes it as the same "kind of shield" the bastard had used before to protect the hotel, and a sphere of black and red engulfs them both, ensuring there's no way out.

"You piece of shit…" he growls, eyes narrowed. He itches to flee, to get far away from this threat, but he's a caged animal now. And like any caged animal, he's ready to lash out and bite. "Let me out," he warns lowly.

The Radio Demon rolls his eyes. "You're being unfair, Adam. I completed my service to you, and I expect my payment in return." The stupid little baby-antlers on his head spring upwards more, growing out of his scalp seemingly out of nowhere.

"Just— hold on a fucking minute," Adam spits out, clearly stalling. And then his mouth just keeps moving, trying to pull any reasons out of his ass to dissuade Alastor.

He'll spew out any excuse, anything that the Radio Demon could accept as a solid justification for not doing this.

"Y'know, I've- I've had them for thousands of years," Adam begins, first trying to maybe try to convince the bastard that they're not even worth the effort. "They're no good, they're worn out and the feathers get all tangled. Ugh, not to mention molting! Super gross."

Alastor cocks his head to the side, a movement Adam hopes implies intrigue, so he continues the desperate appeal.

"A-and besides, you don't even need them to fly. I've seen you! You can teleport. You don't fucking need to fly anywhere, you've got it covered!" He can hear that his breathing has quickened, his head feeling light and the world spinning. Despite himself, he laughs, but it comes out as more of a choke.

Alastor does not even blink - the smile only grows wider and more wicked. "Mr. First Man… when did I ever say I want your wings for myself?" The demon slams the broken microphone stand down, and Adam swears it shakes the ground. "Don't worry! I wouldn't dream of using those gaudy things - the color clashes so terribly with my coat, you see."

"S-so then… what…" What could he possibly want them for?

"They won't be used for a thing, I assure you!" Alastor exclaims. "They'll simply be phased out."

…huh?

So this guy doesn't even intend to use them? He just wants to take - destroy - Adam's wings… for the hell of it? Just because he can? The thought is horrifying, something that halts Adam's brain in his shock, but he can't ponder it long; Alastor swings the stand towards his face like a golf club, knocking him back.

He falls directly onto his stitched wounds, sharply sucking in air through his teeth when they scrape the ground. Swallowing back a groan, he struggles to get up, his stomach also protesting the jerking movements.

The demon gets closer, but all he can do is sit on his ass and glare. "You think I'm just gonna hand them over?" Adam barks, wings curling around his torso protectively. "Deal or not, you're not getting a fucking thing from me, cunt!"

With a snarl, he reaches for the holy light always within his fingers' grasp, thrusting his palm forward in an attempt to summon it. There's a bit of warmth that tickles his hand, but the most he can manage is a small spark that fizzles to the ground immediately, taking any confidence he'd had with it.

"Wh… what?" This has never happened before. If he was in a better mood, he'd make a joke about performance issues, but he can't even muster up a smirk.

What the fuck is going on?

He tries to bring his guitar forth in the same manner, but it, too, has abandoned him. All he can summon is a few scraps of angelic light and no music? What happened to all his juice, his power? What kind of First Man is he if he can't even defend himself here? How completely pathetic.

With a sinking feeling in his gut, he realizes he doesn't stand a chance. This is a completely one-sided rematch, even with both of them taking previous hits.

Wait, fight vs flight - if he can't fight, he has to 'flight,' right? Not even metaphorically speaking.

Adam extends his large wings, letting them stretch out for the first time since he'd been stabbed, and braces himself to swoop upwards. It should be easy, just smash through the red and black ceiling of the shield and make his way back up to Heaven. But the minute he attempts to get himself off the ground, his whole body spasms painfully and forces him back down to his knees.

With a frustrated growl, he looks over himself, noting the way his hands shake and his heart races at the slight exertion.

"What the shit was that?" he mutters, stunned at how weak he feels.

"Oh, my. You don't think I healed you back to full strength, do you?" Alastor taunts. "You specifically requested not to die - so I made that possible, and not a thing more."

Ah. So that's it. True to his sneaky little demon ways, the freak cut corners and took the words literally. Fucking loopholes - no wonder lots of lawyers end up in Hell.

Adam may not be dying anymore, but the injuries still impair him. He's still hurt and exhausted. There's no doubt the smiling creep is going to use that to his advantage - and by the look on his stupid face, he looks positively ecstatic (pun, unfortunately, unintended) as he steps closer.

"Get the fuck away from me!" Adam hates the way his voice cracks as he shouts, crawling backwards like a crab. He ignores the way his pride takes a hit from his pitiful display, but what else can he do? If he just lies here and accepts this fate, accepts that he's going to lose his wings, he'll never forgive himself.

And the part that's the most upsetting about this isn't about flying, strangely enough. Like, the lack of flight would absolutely suck, because he loves hovering around instead of walking, but it goes beyond fun. If he can't fly, he can't go home anymore, and being stranded down here is a very real possibility that makes his heart speed up in fear.

His mind rapidly connects keywords in his head, searching for another way out of this mess.

Home.

Heaven.

Angels.

My Exorcists.

…Lute! She'll come get me!

"D-Dangertits!" he hisses into the sky. "Lute, get over here, you absolute bitch! I need you!"

He forces a smirk, trying to maintain the illusion of confidence. And why shouldn't he be fucking confident? This barrier is definitely not as large as the "giant fucking shield" from the battle, and Adam's willing to bet it's nowhere near the same strength.

The only reason Adam couldn't break out of it is because it's hard to move - it'll be a fucking cakewalk for Lute. Yeah! Any second now, his lieutenant will soar in, slicing this cunt demon in half and then they can go home.

He snickers darkly, lost in the mental image of his best friend killing Alastor in a rather violent and dramatic way. She gets into the carnage too much sometimes, but fuck, he'd welcome that intensity on his behalf right about now.

The Radio Demon in question just quirks a brow in curiosity. "I don't quite know who that is, but if it's anyone on your side, I'm afraid they're not coming."

"What the fuck are you blabbing about?!" Adam demands, a tremble trailing up his spine. "Don't act like you know any of us. Lute, sh-she wouldn't fucking leave me here!" None of his girls would abandon him like this! He's their leader!

"No? Why wouldn't she? Have you taken a look at yourself? The state I found you in?" The demon sneers, chuckling like this is all one big joke. "You're dead to them - quite literally."

That's- it's got to be complete bullshit, right? Even if they thought he was dead, wouldn't they take his corpse back to Heaven? Why leave his body here at the mercy of cannibals and murderers and rapists? Why leave the First Man behind to be absolutely desecrated?

Then again… despite obviously not wanting to retreat, it isn't like they've ever come close to losing a battle before. Who knows what they would think to do, especially without their commander? Adam can't even remember making a backup or emergency plan in case they did lose - he was that confident in their victory, every fucking time.

A dark thought hits him. Could the reason there's no one here to take him back be that there's no one left to do so?

Did any of his angels even make it back home? Is Lute dead?

He remembers her crying and calling his name, but after that… it's all a blank. What happened to her after he'd blacked out? No- no, he refuses to believe that she'd died. Not his lieutenant. She's the only fucking person he can call an actual friend, after all, and she deserves better than to die down here, especially to these disgusting hellscum.

So, assuming Lute and at least a few Exorcists made it back home (of course they did), and assuming those freaks won by some stroke of bullshit luck, then the angels are probably panicking. Without all the slain Exorcists, not to mention the First Man himself, Heaven must be in disarray and chaos right about now.

"Look, I probably don't even need to point this out, but…" Adam begins, taking a shaky breath to calm himself. "If Heaven and Hell ever really went to war, there's not a chance in, well, Hell that you guys would win. So without me up there to smooth things over, they'll send as many angels as necessary to kill you vermin. I'm the one thing stopping you all from getting exterminated."

Alastor's lips stretch further up towards his cheeks, looking like his face is split in half. His form continues to slowly warp into something taller and overpowering, his whole head cocking to the side jarringly.

"You underestimate our power. You OVͣẼ̸͓RES̸̜̎T̓I͠MA̷ͧTEͥ̓ͅ yours," Alastor snarls through heavy static. "And you, the esteemed First Man? Why, you are absolutely nothing to them now. You clearly are not worth the trouble to retrieve, or else they'd have returned by now!"

"I… th-that's…" Adam finds himself stammering, his heart pounding against his ribcage at the way the atmosphere somehow gets even hotter and more suffocating.

"Without your lustrous wings, you'll look as vulnerable and repulsive as any sinner." The demon's voice deepens to a growl, venom dripping from every word. "And, frankly, I CANNOT FUCKING WAIT TO SEE."

Cold fear drops into Adam's stomach like a stone.

Dark tentacles - the same ones that healed him not long ago - slither out of the shadows, moving faster than Adam can even blink. They mercilessly wind themselves around his arms and legs, slamming him into the ground and knocking the air out of him. He lets out a sharp hiss, his hands scrabbling at the dirt and blindly trying to twist his body away from its constricts. The grip on him only tightens, squeezing his wrists and ankles so hard he can feel the circulation nearly cut off, his palms growing numb at the lack of blood flow. He bends his knees and elbows a bit, trying to brace against the ground to rise and squirm to escape, but that only makes the tendrils force him into the dirt as they strengthen their grip.

He's like a rabid animal, the way he's snarling and spitting and struggling - just a fucking insect pinned and put on display for this demonic chucklefuck to gawk at. And that enrages him, the way he's turned into a spectacle; the fury boils deep in his veins, making him screech and seize in the tentacles' snug hold.

"You - you can't FUCKING do this to me!" Adam howls, that last burst of anger rising in his desperation. "I'm the FIRST MAN! I've only done what was asked of me! I don't deserve this! Stay the fuck away from me you- you fucking! Stupid! Piece! Of! Shit-!"

Alastor snickers. "What was it Charlie said to do when we're feeling angry…? Ah, yes. I suggest you take some deep breaths and count to ten, Adam!"

"FUCK YOU!" Adam roars, his mind lost in a fog of fury. He's running on instinct now - the need to get away from danger consumes him so much, he momentarily forgets why he's been pinned in the first place. "Y-YOU CAN'T KILL ME LIKE THIS!"

A scoff. "Kill you? My, my, we're getting ahead of ourselves. I know I previously said I'd be the one to end your life, but I think I was also a tad overzealous. Fate definitely has plans for us to play a little longer. How fortunate!" The demon's tone is laced with depravity as he continues to laugh. He strolls towards Adam, and it's hard to miss the look of pure glee etched onto his ever-smiling face. "For me, that is."

Despite the scorching Hell air, Adam feels a chill run up his spine, the horror of it all dawning on him.

Alastor's having fun.

Like Adam has fun with the Exterminations.

…no, that's completely different, he reassures himself. These filthy sinners have no right to do something like this. Who does this stupid Bambi-looking bitch think he is? What makes him entitled to an angel's wings, regardless of any choices made in a moment of weakness?

He already knows the answer - demons are deadly serious about their deals. Fuck, immortal beings in general aren't shy about the gravity of them, too. (Fuck you, Lilith.)

And it's clear that in Hell, there are… rules. Much, much stricter rules than in Heaven. It's all so much more heavy in this fiery wasteland, the atmosphere itself oppressive. Adam could get away with virtually anything back home, but down here, he's just as contractually obligated as anyone to pay his dues.

He wishes more than anything he could pull out some Kamehameha deus ex machina bullshit at the last minute, but he can't. One by one, his options disappear right in front of him, and he can feel a suffocating despair begin to creep in.

"Please- please, man," he begs, the fight practically draining out of him as Alastor stands next to his restrained body. "Let me go, I can't- they're- not them. Anything else."

He can't believe that's his voice pleading with this loser, but it's like he's out of his body watching from afar. Though his brain screams to be a goddamn man and stop whimpering like this, he can't even begin to try dialing it back.

The thought of losing something so precious - not to mention the traumatic pain it would bring - is too powerful.

("That must suck for you!")

Adam's own words to Charlie in that first meeting cruelly echo in his mind. But it's definitely not the same deal, right? He wasn't sent to Hell to begin with. He doesn't belong here. He hasn't done anything wrong!

Alastor's eyes close for a moment as he huffs a deep breath, and he looks like he's savoring this very moment, Adam's fear clearly a vice he can't get enough of. Yellow teeth snap tighter together as the demon's eyes open again, the scleras black and horrifying.

"Poor Adam, you must be lost!" Alastor exclaims, his form rising to grow taller and more menacing. His antlers sprout again, thin dagger-like spikes jutting upwards. " Heaven is the place for mercy. And you know you're not there anymore."

Another dark tentacle slithers out of the darkness and secures itself tightly around both his wings. He cries out in surprise at the yanking motions, squirming to escape the tentacles holding his wrists. They only tighten their hold, and the tendrils around his wings constrict further in turn.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

There's a sound like someone's breaking twigs in half. With the immediate, accompanying pain, it doesn't take Adam long to put the pieces together, his breath hitching as a chill hits the back of his neck.

His bones- his fucking wing bones are breaking! The tentacles' strong grip is crushing the smaller ones, cracking and grinding them together. With a violent yank, the larger bones - the ones that shape his giant wings and spread out like an arm - are forcibly straightened, and another tentacle is summoned to clutch at his shoulder blade.

Gruelingly slow, the tendrils begin to pull upwards. His skeleton, being attached to the wings, tries to follow the motion, but all of the forces holding him down prevent that. It's like he's cemented to the ground with a part of him being dragged away.

Maybe it took longer than it should've, but it finally dawns on Adam that Alastor isn't just going to make his wings vanish into thin air or anything. He's not going to 'dark magic' them away. No, the Radio Demon intends to literally rip them out of his back.

Just like Vag-gie - except Lute had cut off that traitorous bitch's wings rather quickly and, frankly, pretty mercifully. Yeah, her eye had also been gouged out, and that probably sucked - but this… this was something on a whole new level.

Adam's heart sinks into further despair. He could barely stand those stab wounds - hell, he'd been willing to make a deal with a demon to end that pain. This would be a completely unfamiliar degree of suffering, one he'd never even come close to. Even being cast out of Eden, losing his wives, dying the first time, nearly the second time- none of it will compare to this.

Fuck, he's not ready! He's not ready for any of this!

(Too bad the world clearly doesn't give a shit anymore.)

It's like he's a rubber band being forced back, the delicate wing muscles stretching and tearing as he's pulled. It's basic physics, even in a place like Hell - if this continues, something will give.

And Alastor's tentacles most likely won't be the ones to break first.

"Why are you— why f-fucking do it this way?" Adam asks miserably, his voice a pitiful whine.

Alastor giggles and cheerfully points out, "You're the one who said you haven't stretched in a while! I thought I'd lend a tendril or ten to help out!"

Goddamn, Adam wants nothing more than to slice through the demon like he did before - except this time, he'd continue his attack and cut off any chance for an escape. He'd be relentless and carve the cunt into a million tiny, ugly bits - and, fuck, he'd laugh while doing it, his dark cassock stained by a mix of blood and gore.

Incapacitated as he is, it's an impossible endeavor for now. But… if nothing else, the mental image is comforting.

That is, until a purposefully harsh jerk of his wing makes the thoughts dissolve. Fresh anxiety simmers in his stomach, and he finds himself willing to fucking bargain for the best-case scenario here.

Maybe if Alastor does it like ripping off a band-aid, the pain will be over faster.

"Shit, if- if you're really gonna do it," he grounds out through clenched teeth, "will… will you just get it over with already? Just- make it quick." Nausea bubbles up in his throat, but if he pukes, he'll only get it all over himself, which will make this whole experience that much more horrid. He forcibly swallows back the bile, but it doesn't quell his churning stomach.

"No, no, absolutely not~!" Alastor exclaims in a singsong-y tone. "You really do lack discipline, don't you? I thought a musician like yourself should know there's no sense in a rushed performance. I prefer my work to be creative and thorough, thank you."

And so, Adam continues to be pulled.

It's a slow process. Intimate.

Alastor circles him like a lion to its kill, the dark eyes locked onto Adam continuing to relish the damage he's causing. But this entire scheme goes beyond embarrassment, beyond humiliation.

This is torture.

There are golden feathers everywhere, falling down like snow. A few of them land on his face and in his hair, and he's almost surprised that they're still so soft, that the touch of that filth's tentacles didn't turn them rigid or black.

The sight and feel of the feathers remind him of when he was first gifted the wings - they were a reward in Heaven for all the good he'd done on Earth. The angels and seraphims were so proud of how he'd cultivated a prosperous earth full of new inhabitants despite Eve's original sin.

And though he didn't take to them right away, being a human and not a bird, it didn't take longer than a decade or two before he was flying effortlessly through the clouds. A few years more and he forgot what it was like to be without them.

Like an arm or a leg, his wings are just a core part of his body, and the thought of being forced to live without them is unbearable.

He's once more yanked back to the present as the first strike of pain hits him, a tingle going up his spine that only deepens and squeezes him like the tendrils holding him still. His brain is yelling with not-so-helpful signals that he's in pain - yes, he knows, being aware of it isn't helping! - and he can only sharply gasp, holding his breath in shock.

There's a disgustingly wet squelch as flesh begins to forcibly separate, and the agony that follows makes Adam's whole body go rigid. Warm blood trickles down from his back, pittering to the ground around him.

His eyes are blown wide but he's not seeing anything in particular, the edges of his vision blurry. Tears pool underneath his eyelids and he's obviously not crying because men don't cry, so it must be more like… leaking. Like between all the injuries, too much blood's been spilled out of his body, so something else needs to take a turn.

That's— the natural conclusion, yeah. Makes sense.

Well, the tears continue to leak out of him freely, and he tries to ignore the burning humiliation flushing across his cheeks.

Though he's on his stomach and can't move even an inch, let alone force himself to look back, he can still get a pretty good idea of what's happening through the shadows dancing over him in the eerie crimson light. The image shows his left wing suspended higher than the right, half of its base pulled free from his spine. The other half of the left wing is still attached to him, but the tension forces it to start tearing away from his body, too.

The blood flows faster, rivulets turning to torrents of gold splashed all over the place like some fucked-up fountain. The pain flares out viciously, traveling to his shoulder blades, his neck, his legs, his arms - it lights up every nerve in his body.

The thin, spindly shadows show a macabre scene: tendons and muscles hang off the mangled wing like the roots of a tree, the surrounding bones jagged and bent at awkward angles. The sight of the carnage eerily takes Adam's thoughts away for a moment; maybe his mind is just that desperate for a break, but he's suddenly reminded of chicken wings, of all things. Like, Tuesday-special "all-you-can-eat" wings.

They're nowhere near his top tier for food, but like ribs, he can't deny the satisfaction of nibbling meat right off the bones. Not to mention all those different flavors and spice levels. He never asked where they got the chickens from up in Heaven, or if it's even real meat to begin with, and he really didn't bother putting too much thought into it.

What he did figure out, mostly from his visits to Earth, is how the birds are usually slaughtered. He wonders, in his haze of pain and torture, how much force it takes to pull their pitiful wings off their tiny feathered bodies - and strangely, he finds himself jealous that they get to be dead first.

If only Alastor had slit his throat before butchering him like this.

Eventually, his neck can't hold him up anymore, his head drooping low and forcing him to practically fucking bow. The humiliation isn't lost on him, sure, but it's barely an afterthought. The whole getting-his-wings-torn-off-one-by-one-slowly thing really takes most of his attention.

Still, now that he can't even see the shadows, he can only speculate what's going on based on what he can feel beyond the horrible pain. His eyes are glued to the ground below, and he's able to see the death grip his fingers have on the dirt. His gloves are all scratched up and torn, the pale skin and golden bruises underneath poking through some of the seams. Blood and sweat drip down from his brow, and in a fleeting moment of vanity, he wonders how ugly he looks like this.

Like he's some pathetic victim.

Even more tentacles appear - seriously, how many does this fucker have?! - and he wishes the ripping he hears is just his cassock tearing. But it unfortunately isn't - the tentacles have started to break the tips of the detaching wing apart, small bones and all. Of course Alastor wouldn't wait until it's been completely amputated to tear it to bits - the psycho has to make sure Adam's nerves can still feel every drop of pain.

Of course the damn demon needs to take his pound of flesh with interest added to the price.

More, more, more - he'll take it all, if he can.

But what really makes it excruciating is that throughout it all, Alastor doesn't stop laughing . It's a horrid, nightmarish cackle, shrill and wild and drowned in blaring static. It mercilessly echoes in Adam's ears, thrumming through his skull like an incessant parasite.

The pain's dialed up even further, enveloping him and blazing through his entire body and- and he can hear screaming, begging - is that him? He's screaming now? He doesn't even remember opening his mouth! But it is him, he recognizes his raspy voice as he tries to speak, a desperate plea in his tone as the garbled words - names - are forced out and slurred through blood.

"SERA!"

The pressure's building, his entire body paralyzed as he just… takes it. It's agony - every last second of it.

"EMILY!"

He can feel eyes on him from the sky. Whether that's just in his head or not, it does little to comfort him in the middle of the torment - they're either watching and ignoring, or choosing not to watch at all.

"LUTE!"

But someone's got to be around to see this - even if it's a sinner or an overlord. Adam can't be the sole witness to his own forced excommunication.

"FUCKING ANYONE!"

…

…why won't they answer?

A particularly violent tug makes him gag, and his eyes go impossibly wide as the left wing is detached completely. He notes the absence immediately, feeling both the mental and physical anguish of a forced amputation.

As the wing is discarded - like it's fucking trash! - the hot Hell air hits the mess of shredded skin and broken flesh left behind, burning him on top of everything else. Like he's the one boiling in the pot, like he fucking belongs here in Hell with all the disgusting sinners.

Like it's not already enough .

Fresh panic spikes through his system, followed by an overwhelming need to fix what's been done, to reverse this horrible reality he's found himself in.

GIVE IT BACK, he thinks desperately. GIVE IT BACK GIVE IT BACK GIVE IT THE FUCK BACK TO ME!

But he can't speak anymore, his tongue dry and throat raw from all the screaming. For once, Adam is silent, not even able to push out a single word. His jaw hangs open, frozen in a moment of shock as his heart jackhammers in his chest.

Thick blood then churns up from his lungs, spewing out of his mouth and splattering onto the ground to add more surrounding golden puddles. So much for not puking. God, it aches as he coughs, the sound wet and deep like his lungs had been sliced apart all over again… He tastes a foul mixture of blood, bile, and salty tears, and it takes all his strength not to immediately throw up again.

"Oh, how I wish I could've played those screams to all of Hell. I'm certain it would be quite the popular broadcast," Alastor says, but his voice sounds muffled like he's underwater. "Unfortunately, this pleasant little rendezvous will have to be ours and ours alone, Adam."

The tentacle clutching his right wing starts to stretch it further out, too, and the whole horrible process begins all over again. He hates to just let himself be eviscerated like this, but there's nothing he can do.

There's no point fighting it this time, and he doesn't have the strength left, anyway. The wing's pulled tight, the same agony coursing through his nerves, but his mind tries to dampen the agony by letting him float through a shield of brain fog.

Though he pretty much can't tell up from down anymore, he is able to hear his own gasping breaths, the feverish pants of a body in pain. Fuck, he really hopes he'll hyperventilate and pass out to escape it, escape consciousness in general, but something tells him Alastor will not allow that.

Sure enough, as if the demon could read Adam's mind, a tentacle digs its way through one of the sealed stab wounds on his back, and the sudden sting is like a bolt of lightning, shocking Adam's system and kicking in adrenaline he didn't know he still had. The half-conscious haze clears, and he's once again stuck feeling every muscle tearing, every bone breaking - along with the reopened wound.

"Ah-ah-ah," Alastor tuts. "No sleeping on the job. Don't be so unprofessional."

Though the mocking tone pisses him off, Adam can't muster up any of that anger he had before this began. Fuck, that would be a welcome distraction now, if he could just… find an ounce of rage, of defiance, of hatred… He's the type of person who gets irritated quickly - usually when things don't go his way - but now, in this moment, it's like he's not a person at all.

He's been stripped of his status as the First Man, as Adam, as a human being.

Now, he's just prey. An animal being slaughtered.

Meat.

So he lies there and accepts his role, waiting for it to be over. And through it all, Alastor never. fucking. stops. laughing.

The right wing severs with a wet pop, and he's officially left stranded. Abandoned.

Lost.

The only consolation is that he's sure he'll be killed soon. The deal with Alastor has been completed, so the demon has no more use for him. Adam was given temporary relief from his initial wounds, and in turn provided Alastor someone to mangle and turn his aggression toward. The demon could probably have some more fun tearing off other limbs, but Adam is pretty close to death as it is, and he doesn't think he'll last that long.

Before, when he'd been lying there dying from the gaping holes in his back, he'd been afraid and desperate to stop his fate.

Now, he welcomes it.

There's probably nowhere to go after the afterlife, but he doesn't care. It's better for everyone, Adam included, if he just fades away to nothingness.

The world is rapidly losing light and color, and his hearing is just about cut out - but not before a new nearby voice startles him. It's the first voice, besides Alastor's, that he's heard since his near-death.

"Wh-what the fuck is going on here!?"

It sounds quieter, feminine - though too high-pitched to be Lute's. There's a mixture of shock and horror in the tone, and he wonders who it could be.

Well, whoever it is, they can figure shit out from here. He's dead anyway. Though they're also most likely not his ally, Adam finds the new voice strangely comforting.

It's enough to lull him into unconsciousness, the pain finally muting as he hears a last, desperate scream.

"Alastor, STOP!"