Chapter Text
“Tough one today, huh, boss?”
“Mm.” Broad shoulders lifted and fell noncommittedly. The two figures, one hulking and one idly crouched at the edge of the apartment complex’s roof, surveyed the scene before them.
A tough one indeed.
The Cleaners worked with bodies. Corpses, carrion, gore, the whole breadth of the post-post-mortem condition. There was no dearth of work for them in Hell. But even their considerable knowledge fell short in the face of the zone of utter destruction that used to hold the Gluttony Ring’s Covettown.
Red paste. Black dust. Dark smears on the walls of silent, echoing warehouses. Current estimates were at 150 dead demons, mostly imps, although it was hard to say. There was a bit of broken horn lying near a circle of streetlight, smaller than a hellhound's pinky claw. It was the most intact body part they'd found so far.
The crouched figure idly scratched at the blond fur poking from the edge of the bug-eyed, industrial ventilation mask he sported.
“Suspect we'll have to call a couple teams in from Wrath. Cathartes Squad should be free soon. What're you thinking?”
“I'm thinkin’, Detox, that this is sum’un beyond the usual turf wars an’ psycho murder sprees we tend ta get.” The quiet, lilting cant was at odds with such a towering build. Thick fingers drummed against a forearm. “I'll call in Cathartes for help coverin’ the area. Funerary rites are like ta be a bit longer for this one, la. But I want Barbatus Squad in here too, doin’ forensics.”
“Investigating, boss? We're not exactly detectives. Wouldn't hold out for justice, whatever the f*ck that means around here,” he said.
“Nu’un so naive. No bizzies in the afterlife. But if there's goin’ ta be more of this sh*t, I'd like ta know exactly what went down, why it did, and who's behind it. I dun’ appreciate being caught so unawares,” she said.
“Fair enough,” said Detox.
“Yo boss,” A faint shout from one of the alleys. “Found something!”
“Well, what d’ya know. Didn't even have to wait on Barbatus,” said Detox, bemused.
Living shadows swept out from the woman to envelop them both, and with a peculiar twisting of darkness, they reappeared in the alley next to the small vulture demon who had called.
“What’s it, Percy?” she said.
Percy's face was hidden beneath a beaked, full-face mask and hat, but his nerves were palpable.
“Not sure how this made it through the carnage, boss, but seems like as good a clue as we're gonna get,” he said.
He held up a slip of paper in a feathery hand.
The woman reached out two enormous leather-bound fingers to delicately pluck it from Percy's grip. She turned the paper to and fro, peering from behind the mirrored lenses of her own mask at every angle of it, as if somehow it would become something other than what it seemed to be. But no, against all odds, it remained.
“Well now.”
A business card.
The most intact remainder of the evening was a 1x3 inch rectangle of paper. Matte, cheap ink on cheaper cardstock, red and black designs declaring:
I.M.P. The Immediate Murder Professionals. Kids die for free!
It wasn’t even wrinkled.
Her glove flexed minutely around the card before she carefully sealed it in a plastic bag and handed it back to the small Cleaner. She turned to the hellhound.
“I trust you can wrap up here ‘til I get back?”
“‘Course.”
“Wonderful. Seems I need ta make an appoin’ment.”
Octavia Goetia was fighting off the worst headache of her life.
Working as a secretary for I.M.P. fell somewhere between getting all your toenails pulled off with hot pliers and having to spend an hour reconnecting with your middle school “boyfriend” on the scale of painful experiences, but here she was. Manning the desk. Testing the limits of her pain tolerance.
“Sir, we absolutely do not have the budget to buy a *horse*, and where would we even keep it?”
“God, you’re such a killjoy, Mox, are you ever gonna *not* shoot me down, huh? Ever gonna be f*cking sup*portive* of your boss?”
They’d been at it for an hour already.
“I’d like to think being the sole voice of reason is pretty f*cking supportive, sir—”
“Of course you do, asshole—”
“Don’t you be talkin’ sh*t about my husband, Blitz, I thought we were past this!”
“Not when horses are on the line, Mills, this is f*cking personal!”
She could clock out at seven. Just had to hold out another thirty minutes.
“Sir, I—” Moxxie broke off into a sigh. Via tried to look engrossed with the ledger she was poking around in. “We can talk about the horse thing later, if you really want. But we’re avoiding the real issue at hand. You know we have to talk about this morning, right?”
Blitzø stubbornly kept his eyes on the pad of paper where he was scribbling away.
“What’s there to talk about, Moxxie? We went in, we killed the guys, big f*ckin’ whoop. We do that sh*t every other day and don’t have to hold hands and f*ckin’ sing kumbaya about it.”
“Sir. Never quite like that. Even you have to admit it got out of control.” Moxxie sat back heavily in his chair and rubbed at his temple.
He, like Millie, Blitzø, and Loona, were looking worse for wear as they slumped around the conference table. Slightly singed, and smelling like they hadn’t managed a proper shower after taking a dip in a lake of blood. Loona hadn’t snapped at anyone once this evening, which was, frankly, alarming.
Via had the feeling that whatever had gone down was beyond the usual death and destruction that trailed behind I.M.P., and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the details.
The way they were talking around it made her think they were worried about her father finding out—although the whywas harder to pin down. The only reason she could think of would have been if they’d gotten *her* involved, if she’d been put in danger. Anything short of that would evaporate in the face of her father’s infatuation (ugh) with the head I.M.P., so why were they avoiding the subject?
Not that they’d been *going steady* lately. It fell strictly in the category of Things Via Did Not Want To Know, as well as Things Via Already Knew Too Much About. She didn’t care what they were up to beyond how it was f*cking up her home life. But, well. Her dad had been sort of, well, morose lately. Morose—maybe melancholy was the right word? Preoccupied? Deeply haunted?
She didn’t want to say heartbroken, but maybe that was more accurate. Or, not brokenyet, per se. Just aching.
She’d never seen him like this before.
Whatever he’d gone to see Asmodeus about must have gone horribly wrong. But, again, whatever. She Did Not Want To Know. No, really. The whole point of getting a part-time job was getting out of that damned house and out of her father’s drama—although maybe I.M.P. hadn’t been the best idea for that. Unfortunately, it turned out you’d have to be f*cking insane to “hire” a noble if you’re anything less than a Deadly Sin. And, well.
“I swear to Satan, I’m gonna turn your spine into secular holiday decorations, Moxxie! f*cking string light your ass!”
Her options had been pretty limited.
As the gunfire and insults flew, Via doodled in the margins of the I.M.P. ledgers. She was getting really good at eyes. A few dozen of them, connected in faint veins of ink, like lightning, stretching, watching. They were a comforting sort of familiar. Nostalgic, almost.
The I.M.P. argument went on, circling the drain of true conflict. It rose in volume and collateral damage, drawing in even Loona’s deadpan theatrics. Via pulled on her industrial-strength headphones and tried to drown them out with the soothing lilt of hard metal. f*ck You Dad’s latest album was pretty good, although she preferred their older stuff.
“I know ancillary isn’t very high on your list of priorities,” Moxxie began.
“What the f*ck is an ancillary?” Blitzø interrupted.
“But we can’t actually go on slaughtering entire towns worth of imps, sir. Aren’t we supposed to specialize in dealing with the living? It seems like for every job we pull up top, there’s twice as much collateral damage when we get back down here. And it’s not sustainable. I’m not talking about fighting off wayward assassins or my- or Crimson’s goons. Covettown had nothing to do with the job.”
Blitzø scoffed and turned petulantly in his chair to stare at the wall. One hand came up to grip his left forearm, squeezing the gem embedded there. “It’s not like it was all our f*ckin’ fault. Did you plant those bombs, Mox? Because I forgot to thank you for dusting all those middle schoolers!”
“Boss, c’mon now,” Millie said. “No one wanted that to happen. But Moxxie’s right, we need ta—”
She cut herself off. Via wasn’t sure, because she refused to let on that she was paying attention to the conversation and therefore was burying her face in paperwork, but she suspected the Wrathian imp had remembered the Goetian princess sitting in the next room mid-sentence and opted for self-censorship.
“Oh sure, take his side again, Mills. Just because you like sticking it in his little ass—”
“SIR!”
“Oh come on, we all know who wears the pants in your bedroom, Mox, no need to be shy.”
Loona snorted a laugh from where her face was smooshed into the table. Via wished her phone had a higher volume.
“Satan, I just wish you would let us look into the, you know,” Moxxie hissed, “the thingthat happened.”
“Did something happen?” Blitzø said. “I didn’t see anything other than some excellent knifework and kind of shoddy sniper cover. Look, it’s done, Mox. It’s over. Let’s move on with our sh*thole lives, yeah?” He shoved himself out of his chair and stomped towards his office. As he passed by Via’s desk, she could see his fists were clenched and his tail was lashing out erratically. Before he could reach the door, several things happened very quickly.
First, every electronic device in the I.M.P. office gave out a high-pitched buzzing whine. Every phone, lightbulb, and fax machine shrieked out a piercing shrill. Via ripped her headphones off, ears ringing. Moxxie, who had been running after his boss, flinched down, instinctively turning back to back with Blitzø, who jerked away from his office door. Millie and Loona similarly leapt to attention in the conference room.
As suddenly as the sonic assault began, it vanished, and with it, the light. Total darkness swept over the space, despite the evening sun that should have been streaming in through the windows. The I.M.P. staff pressed against each other in their defensive pairs, beginning to reach for their weapons. Octavia, whose closest encounter with true danger had been the disastrous trip to Loo Loo Land with her father, fell to her knees behind the desk and squeezed both arms over her head. She wasn’t sure anything electronic was working, but she frantically squeezed the panic button on her charm bracelet. Her father had it made as soon as they got back from the human world.
Within the supernatural darkness, something was moving. A susurrus of whispers faded into the audible range, unintelligible but mocking, severe, wistful, furious in tone.
Via began to make out grey shapes, flickering in razor-sharp lines, stark against the black. Random at first, almost imperceptible for how fast they blinked in and out of existence, but past the fear that was squeezing her stomach, a memory was fighting its way to the surface.
There was gunfire and shouting and the smell of smoke. I.M.P. was trying to fight off this unknowable threat, and by the sound of it, failing miserably. The voices grew more mocking.
The shapes, the grey lines peering out from the shadows, she knew them somehow. Like lightning.
“Eyes,” she gasped out, “eyes watching in the night.”
It was like her voice broke the spell. The riotous shapes froze in place, and now she knew for certain that they were eyes. A thousand of them, filling every corner of the office, and as one, they turned to look at Octavia. The darkness held its breath.
Slowly, one by one, the eyes closed, and they were left in the true dark.
There was a great rushing sound as the shadows rustled like feathers and flew from the rest of I.M.P. headquarters to swarm in a writhing mass in front of the desk Via crouched behind. At the top of the mass, maybe ten feet up, three new eyes blinked open, the grey holding steady, brightening to a milky white. The sun peeked back in.
A breath in. A breath out.
All at once, the darkness rippled downward, melting into the floor like any other shadow cast beneath a demon’s feet. Above them, thick steel-toed boots. Loose pants. Dark tail feathers. A tall corset shaped unsettlingly like ribs. A plunging neckline. And a familiar orange plague mask, inset with three mirrored lenses in a perfect equilateral triangle above a hooked metal beak.
Beyond the figure, I.M.P. struggled to free themselves from where they’d been strung up with their own ties and shoelaces. Moxxie spun slowly from the ceiling fan. The masked figure had eyes only for Octavia. One massive hand rested on the pommel of a wicked-looking meat cleaver attached to a belt.
“Who the f*ck are you? Get away from her!” Blitzø yelled, trying to get to his feet despite the bonds tying his ankles to his horns.
“Hm. Let’s nah be hasty.” The intruder’s voice was petal soft and highly amused, like she was the only one in on a very good joke.
It was also extremely well-known to Octavia.
“What are you doing here?” she asked shakily, hauling herself up the desk.
The intruder co*cked to her head to the side, and seemed about to answer, when suddenly Via found herself bowled over by a pile of distraught owl.
“SWEETIE ARE YOU HURT WHAT HAPPENED WHO MUST I KILL,” bellowed Stolas, Prince of the Ars Goetia and Keeper of the Stars, as he frantically patted down his daughter. She’d forgotten about the panic button.
“Dad, what, no, I’m fine, stop that,” she spluttered.
“Oh thank the seven rings,” Stolas said, clutching her to his chest. She choked on a feather. She tried to push him away, but he clung all the tighter. She felt moisture soaking through her beanie and froze, hands on her father’s shoulders. Was he crying? “My heart stopped when I got the alert, Via. I’m so glad you’re alright.”
Blitzø had frozen at Stolas’ appearance, but Moxxie shouted down from the fan. “Behind you, your highness! There’s an intruder!”
Stolas puffed up, growing into his demonic form as he pushed Via behind him, then froze when he saw the person slouched casually across from them, waiting patiently for the dramatics to stop. His magic flickered back to nothing.
“Alright there, highness?” she said, deadpan.
Four pairs of I.M.P. eyes darted to the prince, waiting for some kind of explanation.
Inconceivably, he patted Via’s arm and then beamed at the masked assailant.
“Posey! It’s been ages, darling, what have you been up to!” He briefly pecked one leather-clad cheek and then wrapped his arms around broad shoulders. An enormous glove came up to pat him on the back. Octavia didn’t know many people who could make her father look small. He pulled back and then looked around quizzically, as if just noticing where they were. “Why are you here? Not that I’m not delighted to see you.”
Loona growled. “Okay, I don’t know what the f*ck is going on here, but can somebody untie us?”
The newly minted “Posey” snapped her fingers and ties were back around necks, and shoelaces snug in boots as though they’d never left. The assassins scrambled to their feet. Blitzø rubbed at his ankles, refusing to look at the Goetic prince.
“Uh, your highness? Who is this?” said Moxxie.
“Now I seem ta have gotten ahead of meself.” The woman pressed one hand to her mostly bare chest. “Ipos. Proper sound ta meetcha. I run the Cleaners.”
“Now don’t be modest, moonshine. Imps, this is Countess Ipos of the Ars Goetia, Oracle of Hell and head of the Sanitation Department.”
Four pairs of eyes widened. Via covered her face with her hands. This was such a headache.
“My cousin!”
Ipos waved. “Ta.”
