―IN THAT DIVINE WARMTH.

『boys don't cry。』

IN THE LIGHT OF HELL'S MORNINGS, YOUR EYES ARE BLEARY. hell has seasons in the worst way imaginable, burning summers that you had expected, winters that outdo that backwater village you grew up in, autumn that flit between too hot and too cold, springs that only host vermin and bugs.

valentino, you concur in the burning heat of t-30 hours, must be one of these bugs. you don't know much about moths except for their attraction to light; you and him are the antithesis of each other like that. 

you read his agreement again and the favors he is hoping to gain. you snarl, but only because you are in private. the line your mouth is accustom to remaining in for the majority of the day slips back when you begin formatting your response.

this .. nothing, this nonexistent respect he has for decency and commonality bleeds out starkly over the way his control is shaped. you like to think your mama would appreciate the way you keep order, if she could get over why you were doing it in the first place.

maybe your papa could understand better; senselessness and passion only held the people in his home.

your clock rings. you are a man of schedule, and you've had your fifteen minutes of wallowing, it's time to get up. 

you drag yourself go your closet, pick your striped shirt, you waistcoat, your blazer ― today is too hot, so it's an on the shoulder, around your chair day. your guise of inchargedness; a word that does not actually exist, but because of the flexibility of the english language could be approximated to something along the lines of: the appearance of being in control of a situation, the guise before this word implies that this appearance in faulty in some way, that it is a lie in the way most dramatics are lies, in that they are based in the truth and taken too far. 

there is a knock at your door, right on schedule; your shoes have just finished being tied.

"chaput," you greet with nothing short of amicability, as always, "the itinerary?"

she clears her throat of her morning rasp, looks at her papers before handing you a copy, you look through them as she's telling you about things that have been rescheduled, about how tenuous your relationship with carmine is getting, how you need to talk to zestial about anything, how you and zeezi are encroaching each others territory, and, lastly, "carmine has a meeting, is wattana posing as you with suárez? because he's going to need note cards, valentino will start getting suspicious if you keep changing them, so i'd keep wattana as your you for meetings with the rest of the overlords as of now―"

"put aadams on writing the notes, she's good at that, get an eye on remirez."

"remirez, sir?"

"she called my personal," you say, chaput's eyes flash with anger, then fear, "no summon, though, so unsuspend that mystery for me, dear."

"of course," she says, "i'll be right on it."

"and the extermination is tomorrow, bright and early." you state, matter-of-fact-ly, "get everyone in the bunker thirty minutes beforehand and no later. everyone, except those on jobs. can't have a break in cover, can we?"

"no, sir. it'll be done."

"thank you kindly," you say, "you're a doll."

"you run a tight ship, sir." she says, nods, and leaves. you ignore the way her face flushes at your calling her doll and make note to never call her anything other than dear again.

‎

"tight knit my ass," wilson says to you t-24 hours before everyone gets into the bunker, "the vee's try to keep everything under control, but it's all falling apart now―there's rumors that the radio demon is back ― nobody's told vox yet but. yeah, he'll totally freak when the news gets told to him."

"is there any threat of the other two going against vox?" your eyes are affixed to his nose, the sides of it are irritated. 

"well, velvette would burn down the world for herself," he says, then he stops, cuts something out of what he was about to say, "uhm, vox's control is through radio waves. he, uhm."

"the radio demon controls radio waves," you hum, "how long will it take vox to realize he's on a leash?"

wilson grumbles, "you'd have to ask megan ― stanford, she, uh. she knows better than me, but i think velvette already knows."

"and they won't say anything?" you blink languidly, "velvette and standford, not that drugstore cowboy."

"no," he says, "she thinks it's funny, sir."

"keep an eye out. oh, and tell stark, when you see her, i need her records on lazarus."

"the territory or," he licks his lips, they're swollen in a way you can't attach to a busted mouth, "the overlord?"

you make a motion with your hand, "both."

"rachel aadams is m.i.a.," donovan is in your office when you walk in. you let your eyes slide over him to the contract holdings. then back to him, "boss—"

he cuts himself off, you don't look at him. you're on your break, as big a break as you can get; you scheduled five minutes a day. you follow it to a t. you are a man of schedule after all.

"boss, please." 

you walk past him to sit behind your desk, you light yourself a cigarette. pour yourself a finger and a half of rye; you smoke and drink and savor the taste of poison. you hum, softly, you neaten some papers. 

you sign off on something, you draw a breathe from your ciggy, make a note that in twenty hours everyone has to be in the safe-house for the extermination.

you butt the end of your cigarette into the ashtray on your table. "so," you clear your throat, "what's this about aadams being unaccounted for?"

"she—just fuck—she just disappeared! she was doing business with carmine and bringing imports to sloth from lust. we need hellborns for that, and there was — there was a. she met up with a—a king, i think?" he takes in a deep breath. clearly nervous.

"which king would step into lucifer's territory?" you hiss, "has he made an appearance—has lucifer returned?"

"no—i think it's because he hasn't made an official appearance in eight years that. that the kings are acting out like this. it's almost been a decade!" 

you narrow your eyes and bid for him to continue.

"one of them was in pride.. for that weird drama with the king of greed, mammon? — and she never came back. the location was confirmed. i think the place was looted too, because we never got the money. aadams isn't one to disappear. i. i don't know what happened." 

you note it down, somewhere. in your head, then on paper, then burn it. missing count: vivian remirez, rachel aadams. you'll summon both of them even if that collar chokes them to death with how hard you're pulling.

‎‎

"both'of'em?" laninga says, t-16 hours before everyone is due for the bunker, eyes pointed down.

"yes. they need to be made aware, it's all rather simple, dear."

"how 'm'i s'possed to get both'of'em?"

"it really isn't as difficult as you're making it out to be," you state, "ölvirsson and suárez just need to be told about the change in position, so.. tell them about it."

she grumbles out, likely lamenting on the fact you never answered her original question, "yes, boss."

"remember, today is extermination. i start my headcount an hour beforehand, so keep your eye on the time and make it spiffy, my dear."

"yes, boss." she says, she's not even gritting her teeth; why, for someone so new, you'd think she'd be knees deep in regret. the only sinner to fall at your feet so readily was chaput.

"don't go getting sweet on me, and don't go getting balled up about something so small. you're vicious, dear, thats why i like you."

her eyes stray from the floor, enough for you to meet the maw of her eyes. she's hungry in a way so similar to you it's damn-near telling.

"yes, boss."

you smile, softer, like it's just for her; "go on then, dear. if you see wattana tell him that he has notes to pick up."

‎‎

the hell-equivalent of the sun is still up and at 'em t-7 hours before the extermination; you wait for it to plummet from the view of the safe-room window. not that there's much of a view. this is the ugliest building in your territory and you keep it that way. this building is attacked first durring exterminations. little do those foolish angels know―

well. there's a little hatch under some fallen wood that leads to a basement.

this place isn't much better than a speakeasy on the southside back when you had both daisies to push and buckets to kick. dim, dreary, and quiet. you check the faulty infrastructure, making sure it will collapse just right. making sure everything is perfect. you have a few bimbos and big six setting up the actual room; they all skitter around like bugs ― you'll make sure there's no fall guy this year.

(there is was space at the dinner, labeled neatly for antonio giovanni catania in bright red. it housed nothing but your regret.) 

"pakhan," markov starts, t-6 before the extermination, and she does not startle you, "mathais and peter are done, is there any work that need be done?" 

your eyes graze over her. the way her shoulders are pushed back, the scrunch in her eye, the snarl she's biting back. you always end up being in control of angry people. they flock to you for reasons beyond both your comprehension and paygrade.

"no, tell them to rest." you respond, you english crisp and deliberate. your tongue is not hers, she cannot slice into you; you put the wall back up.

the chasm has an ever widening maw. you will devour everything in your path.

not yet. not yet―you have things to do, an order to keep. you are a man of schedule.

"yes, pakhan." she responds, just as deliberate. you smile, politely. she does not. she has never lived with polite smiling; you must be animalistic to her for more than the ears and teeth alone. you remember thinking the same when you first came to that country.. everyone smiling bright even in the bleakest moment until the doors closed.

"wonderful, dear." you pop out.

she nods. you let your eyes slip away and she follows suit.

‎‎‎‎‎‎‎

today you're dressed in a black suit. white shirt. black shoes. black tie. the mourners ensemble.

your eyes are on the clock, t-3 hours before the extermination.

you are preparing for the inevitable, one might say. casting a glamour of sorts on the building ― no. the ability you're born with here, in this hell, directly contrasts against the horror of your youth; the revolution busted on of your left eardrum so poignantly that you couldn't hear jack from it since you were sixteen.

now, though, now you control sound.

your territory, in the grand mosaic of hell, is the deaf district. you can strip all if the sound from someones awareness within your control. the only thing you sacrifice is your left ear. well, you winsome you lose some.

the irony of a bat being half-deaf isn't lost upon you. still, time marches on; you begin your headcount. your eyes narrow, five missing.

that means something happened to gold. everyone else is accounted for, but gold. your eyes narrow at the crowd.

time marches.

‎ 

"gold," you summon to the crowd, voice low and clear, "stella gold."

you summon her. 

except. except. except―

except nothing pops up. except she doesn't materialize. except the tie around her neck like a collar does not tug. you bite on the fabric of reality and breathe.

you close your eyes and think, there's a reason. there are facts:

her leash is being pulled yet she doesn't arrive. she is still under contract, you can feel it. shes not dead, not yet, you can taste her pulse in your mouth. you try to pick this a part, but. but.

you don't have time for this. you order her, in your head, to remain alive. she has to stay alive. she doesn't have a choice. 

three minutes before the bell of deathtolls.

you hiss it to the air — the sound swallowing the room black. the extermination is upon your lot; you do your best to keep them safe. you're no god, and yet. 

and yet the angels do not descend to cleanse the dirt from you and everything you own.

you watch the quiet resignation in the eyes of what is yours. darkness consumes the room, everyone warily watches, waits, and listens.

‎ 

the morning after is quiet. it always is — you do a second headcount and digest the destruction of your territory; mostly avoided, except for the bodies that had wandered it and met their maker the second time. you wonder, keenly, if double-hell exists. where would you go if the exterminators gnashed their angelic steel against your ribcage? 

ah, well, your break is over for now; it's cut to work again. chaput gives out continued orders, you try to summon gold again and turn up empty; you narrow your eyes and remind yourself to get back to that. she can't just vanish to thin air. that's not how this works.

you crack the room open to the dusty air of hell. 

you swallow the mulch and fear in the same quiet gasp. the misery of it all.. you avoid your eyes to the sun; avoid the burn. eyes black in their entirety. 

"well, darlings!" you say to the crowd, they all know the drill, "time to see which debts are the same and which are moved to next of kin!"

they scram. except chaput. it's always her; you don't let it bother you. not her, nor the smell of rot in the air.

"madeline gold is missing," she says, quietly, as though you're hearing this news for the very first time, "so is vivian remirez and—and rachel aadams."

you hum. it's sharp. sharper than something so soothing has any right to be. it's damn-near cutting. 

"something's happening under my nose, chaput." you say slowly, almost like you're trying to sound out the words.you turn so you can face her, eyes black, teeth sharp, voice gravely. you know you're upset, now, because she takes pause at what you say: "and when i find the sap doing this, i'm fitting 'em for a wooden kimono."

» zero. "мама мама, где мой мама?" - mama mama, where's my mama?

» one. tick tock. time is counting down until morning.

» two. the manipulation of sound waves through echolocation! redirection is how all magic works, and you're particularly skilled in avoidance above all else.

» three. could this entire fic perhaps be a thesis on regret and invulnerability? the downfall of mankind is itself through the lens of those who refuse to be at its' mercy, and in this essay —

» four. what color is wednesday?