IT HAS BEEN BROUGHT TO MY ATTENTION THAT WRITING CONTENT FOR THE SECOND PERSON (USING "YOU" AS THE MAIN PRONOUN) IS NOT ALLOWED ON FANFICTION, AS BIZARRE AS THAT IS. IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO READ THE FIRST CHAPTER AS IT WAS ORIGINALLY INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN, PLEASE CHECK OUT MY TUMBLR. OTHERWISE BE CONTENT THAT I JUST REPLACED EVERY INSTANCE OF "YOU" WITH THEM," AND "YOUR" WITH "THEIR." IT WILL BE A STRANGE READ IF YOU DO.

TUMBLR: embodiment-of-pride/772941137729224704/a-beginning?source=share

Fuck. Of course they would end up in Hell. They should've known that Heaven would be far too strict when it came to letting people in; unless they repented for every little FUCKING thing that they had done up to the moment they died, they would be sent here. Fuck everyone who had the misfortune of being unable to confess their sins or ask for forgiveness before they had a terrible accident. And of course, fuck they in particular if they just didn't happen to believe in the right religion. GODS DAMMIT.

From an outsider's perspective, they had probably died in one of the coolest ways that somebody could die: fighting off a pack of wolves trying to save someone. But from their point of view, it was one of the stupidest.

They had been on a camping trip somewhere in the Frozen North with their parents and little sister, intending to ski for a majority of their time up there. They had insisted that their family should stay at a lodge, but their parents didn't want to pass up the chance to live out the camping experience fantasy. However, due to their parent's lack of knowledge of the area, multiple mistakes compounded into a single disaster that had been the cause of their death. They had gotten lost several times, there were multiple failed attempts at starting a fire (thankfully they had known how to tell which branches would be too wet to use in the snow), and the final nail in the coffin was that they hadn't thought to store or dispose of their leftover food somewhere safely.

"…And then the wolves came," they thought to themself as they sat up and began walking the streets of Hell. That had to be where they were; Hell. No way they would have just teleported from the frozen fucking wilderness to a city of constant screams, where monsters walked just out of view, the sky was blood red, and had a FUCKING PENTAGRAM! They made sure to avoid going anywhere near the monsters, even if they appeared to walk bipedally and wear clothes. No fucking way they were going to get caught by a demon and tortured.

Their parents had been able to call rangers for help as they realized the wolves were after our food. They had been able to get their little sister out of their tent, and get her to their parents, but by then they had been completely surrounded by the wolves. However cool they thought wolves had been before then, that meant nothing to they now. Especially after how painful they made their death. If only they had stayed in a lodge…

Just then they were able to catch a glimpse of their own reflection in some broken windows of some abandoned building they were walking past. They stopped, not recognizing themself.

They had the head of a wolf.

They screamed at their own reflection and jumped back, mistakenly worried that somehow the wolves that they had fought back on Earth had found they, here to kill they for good. When they looked around, they were relieved to see that no such animals were around. Then they groaned at what that must've meant. As they approached the broken glass yet again, they were disgusted to see that the wolf face that they had seen was their own. Great. Fucking great. Just when they had acquired a new hatred towards wolves.

As they examined their form more closely, it was revealed to they that they were more than just an ugly face. They had stark white fur, with grey patterns running up their forehead and canid ears. Their eyes were a commanding pale blue, almost glowing. Their neck and collarbone were covered with fur, disappearing beneath the familiar black winter coat that they had worn when they died. However, it would seem that it was undamaged, despite they distinctly remembering being their limbs being torn from their body. They looked down at their hands, relieved to see that they were still functional and not some fucking paws. The backs of their hands held a similar grey patten as the fur on their forehead, and their white fur-covered fingers seemed to shoot out from this, giving the illusion of grey fingerless gloves. Their fingers ended in sharp black claws where their fingernails should've been. They slowly turned their hands around, fearful of what the other side would look like.

They had FUCKING BEANS!

Thank the gods they didn't completely cover the underside of their fingers; they retained the flexibility in them. In fact, their fingers felt almost more flexible. They closed their hands into fists, feeling an amount of strength that was alien to they, as they flexed their arms underneath their jacket, causing it to strain against their new muscle.

"Damn," They thought. "At least being a furry comes with some upsides. Wait. AM I A FUCKING FURRY!?" They screamed internally. "No, I'm not a furry," they told (lied to) themself. That was what they called deranged people who wanted to fuck animals and dress like them. Just because they suddenly looked like all of the pictures of people's furry personas didn't make they a furry. Did it? Fuck.

Their mind still racing with questions about their furry status, they looked past their hands and saw that the lower half of their body was almost unrecognizable. Their legs bent at unfamiliar angles, pants straining against the new form. Their feet were still in the winter boots they had worn when they were alive. They were too scared to take them off and see what their feet looked like.

"Yup," they thought to themself again, "This is Hell."

Several Weeks Later, at the Off-Brand Starbucks…

As they spent more time in Hell, they discovered it was unlike what they had been taught to fear by Christian zealots. This was, not, in fact, a flaming pit where demons tortured sinners. This was just a flaming pit with sinners that tortured each other, through the inevitable continuation of consciousness and societal expectations. So basically, just Earth again.

They discovered though, that Hell was even more classist than Earth; there was a whole fucking hierarchy. Demon Royalty was at the top, followed by sinners forever stuck in the Pride Ring, followed by most Hellborn, then imps, and then finally hellhounds. Sinners ended up taking an appearance, unwillingly, related to the manner in which they died. And holy (unholy?) crap did they pull the shortest fucking straw that they died to wolves; they looked like a hellhound, and were treated as such. Sinners and Hellborn alike treated they like refuse; they were barely able to convince the few "people" they actually took the time to talk to that they were actually a sinner, and not a member of the species at the bottom of the FUCKING totem pole. Not that it mattered. Most people didn't want to listen to some excuse a hellhound tried to give them to not treat them like shit.

hellhounds were treated like pets, security, rabid animals, slaves. They were spat at, kicked, petted without consent, scratched, teased, FUCKING MUZZLED at one point. They were expected to have an owner. If they didn't, people would treat they worse, given that they had nobody to report them to. Hell, if they hadn't been older than 20, they might've been kept in a fucking pound.

Luckily, this worked in their favor, if only to give they a fraction of convenience. Because almost everyone thought they were a hellhound, they had been able to find multiple jobs that didn't ask they to sell their soul to an Overlord. At least, not one that didn't take it by the hour regardless. That was another position on the totem pole; Overlords. Overlords were able to amass power by making deals for souls. Honestly, the idea intrigued they enough that they were willing to try and become one themself over time. Not like they didn't have plenty of that in eternity. They just had to come up with a pitch that would convince sinners to actually give up their soul to they.

These kinds of ideas swam in their mind as they tried to get through their shift at the off brand "BarkBucks." Christ on a stick was that name condescending. They had oodles of time to come up with pitches as they talked to the patrons, much to the chagrin of their boss at this particular franchise. They were always able to play it off as a curiosity of Overlords, rather than actually trying to get people to sell their soul to they.

"What would a fucking hellhound know about having a soul?"

The way they said "hellhound" made they want to leap over the counter and strangle them.

"That's rich! I might take that idea for myself. Not that they could stop me, MUTT."

(They were actually lucky enough to see that sinner try it, and promptly get their head caved in.)

"An interesting thought. I might've given it more credit had it not come from a slobbering dog."

That one in particular stung the most. They couldn't refute it because they were still pretending to be a hellhound to their boss.

"Where's my fucking coffee?"

Most conversations went like that.

Maybe one day they'd be able to acquire enough power to rise above their station, and finally be treated with the respect they deserve. Maybe they'd find a better job, where they didn't have to hide the fact that they were a sinner, or maybe they could seduce Demon Royalty, and live a luxurious lifestyle. Who knows? It could happen. At least then they wouldn't be treated like a fucking hellhound. They fucking furry.

XXX

It happened as they were serving a small imp customer at the counter. Their shoulders were slumped, and they looked at him with a bored expression as they listened to their incessant prattling.

"I'll have the Neapolitan cappuccino, More Cappa than Chino. Make sure it's got no more than 4oz of milk, The beans won't have the right texture otherwise. And make sure they spell my name correctly on the cup. They always put Voxxie or Roxy. I hate that. if they can't handle that, I'll have a Venti Traditional Misto. Please use soy milk with two blonde shots, affogato and Ristretto. I'd also love three vanilla pumps at the very bottom. Then add the coffee after."

Good fucking Gods they hated this guy.

As the little imp droned on and on, they overheard two sinner patrons that frequented the place talking about this business that went up to the human world. Apparently, they charged they for killing anyone they wanted. One of the sinners was basically a ball of sweaty fat and muscle, with large, distended veins pulsing from every part of their body, and the other looked like they had been hastily assembled from broken dresser drawers. They had easily guessed how they had died long ago.

Their conversation intrigued they, because they had never heard of demons having access to Earth before. They perked up, ignoring the imp speaking as they handed him their coffee. It was probably wrong, but they didn't care. Maybe there'd be some sinner clients at this business, who were looking for immediate revenge after their death, and hadn't yet sold their soul. They looked around their workspace, wary if their boss could see they right now. They snuck two pastries as they came out from behind the counter, approaching the sinners having this conversation.

"Hey guys, boss wanted to give they these, on the house. They've been some pretty loyal customers, and they wanted to thank they for their patronage," They lied, mentally gritting their teeth, but still wearing a polite smile. These two knew they were a sinner, and often abused they like a hellhound despite this, for better or for worse. They were grateful that they had inadvertently kept their secret, even if they didn't know they were doing it. But they still fucking hated their guts.

"Aww, thanks pretty boy. Want a treat?" the veiny one mocked, as if they was speaking to a baby. They were sure they'd actually kill a baby if they ever met one. The drawer one piped up: "Yeah, they, uh…fuck. I can't come up with anything." Raising their wooden splinter hands in a shrug to their partner. In response, the sweaty ball rolled what they could only assume were their eyes. "Whatever, hellhound." They knew they hated that, and often defaulted to this insult when they couldn't come up with anything better. They actually gritted their teeth this time.

"Hey, I couldn't help but overhear they talking about some kind of business, where they kill still living people?" They asked, smiling through their teeth, trying to give an air of being conversational. Their cold eyes gave away that they were filled with hatred though. The two noticed and scoffed, but luckily, they humored they.

"Yeah: I.M.P., they give 'em a name, and they kill their bitch," The broken drawer one said. "I had 'em kill my moving guy. They know, the one that let my furniture fall down some stairs onto me when I was still alive. Fucking prick killed me."

"Hey, FUCK THEY!" a disembodied voice called out from across the café. They was obviously the moving guy in question. All three of they ignored him.

"A very niche business," The veiny one said, continuing the conversation from their partner. "Not many sinners actually have someone that killed them. I should know, I died alone!" They laughed, but almost immediately broke down crying. They almost puked at the sight, silently gagging as they watching their fatty and fleshy body heave and pulse. Obviously, they had died of a heart attack.

"Y/N!"

Their boss couldn't handle it anymore. They had overheard all of this, and had talked to one of their coworkers who had obviously just ratted they out about the pastries. They flipped their coworker the bird, out of their boss's view, who himself was rapidly approaching. They could almost see the fumes coming from their ear fins.

They was Hellborn, hailing from the Envy Ring. They was short and chubby, having the appearance of a pufferfish. They towered over him, easily two or three heads taller than him.

"Giving a customer the wrong order, stealing, abandoning their position to fraternize with their friends!?" They shouted, not caring that everyone in the café immediately turned their head towards their little group.

"They're not—" They were cut off as their boss continued.

"Fucking hellhound! Can't follow directions for a single day! If I was their owner, I'd fucking put they down!" They said, shaking their finger aggressively up at they, furious. Their ears folded down as they heard that. Not out of fear, but out of anger, and the sudden bloodlust that ran through their veins. A loud, audible growl escaped they as they revealed their teeth from behind their black lips.

Everyone in the café who was listening gasped. Not at their statement of having they killed, but at the sound of their growl. It was unheard of for a hellhound to retaliate like that in a professional setting; there was too much a hellhound could lose socially. The 2 sinners they were just talking to inched themselves away, to the side of their seats furthest away from they. Their boss paused, second-guessing himself as they nearly pissed himself, slowly and unconsciously expanding, in self-defense as a pufferfish does. They noticed the general reaction of the patrons, then quickly forced himself smaller as they struggled to regain their composure, and take control of the situation. They raised their finger again. That stupid fucking finger.

"Lector, YOU'RE FIRE—" this time, they was the one cut off as they reared back and kicked him across the room in a fury, the hard and rough bottoms of their winter boots from their Deathday adding to the impact. They blew up fully this time, becoming lighter as they filled with air and bounced off several tables, poking holes in paper cups with the spines that stuck out of him.

Almost immediately screams came from the patrons, and they heard several people dial Hell's equivalent of animal control. SHIT. As people scrambled to get out of their chairs and run towards the exits, fearing they like some kind of uncontrollable monster, they sprinted towards the entrance; pushing past customers as they fled. They didn't have to push many; they eagerly jumped back as they tried to get away from they.

When they finally crashed through the doors of the entrance, they looked back to see multiple hellhound customers and coworkers look back at they with various shades of disgust, shame, and disdain. They obviously had just made their lives at this café a whole lot harder. FUCK. They weren't even really one of them, but they still felt horrible.

They sprinted down the street, away from the chaos that they had just caused. They hated being treated like this. Eternal torture was worse when even other sinner treated they like shit, and Hell's hierarchy was out to get they. They had to get out of Hell.

There was only one place on they mind as they ran: I.M.P.