-WHEN THE WORLD WAS QUIET

『word is silver, silence is gold。』

YOUR MAMA IS HUMMING IN THE KITCHEN. her voice is sweet and always on beat with the radio. you don't know what she's making, but your papa is sitting contently on the couch instead of complaining about his inevitable choking down of something too spicy for him. you watch the way his eyes trace your mama, and you don't know how there's so much love in such a simple gesture. 

your mama walks away from the stove and walks to you, you watch her pivot, "oh, little sun," she sings with the radio, "how i hold you tight, oh little sun, dark is the night but.."

she grabs your veronika's hands and they both spin in circles. veronika laughs brightly, her stubble legs in loose coordination with your mama's. this happiness won't last, you know, this small amount of joy is going to devour itself like an ouroboros. your family is small and distant, it is disquieting and the death of your grandparents, but..

but it's yours. 

it's yours.

you look at your mama, papa, veronika. you don't smile often, you know. but you smile then. not even then do you know how bad things will get before they get better.

your mama is cooking, though, so it's fine.

she hums and hums. you just watch.

rosie is already cooking franklin when you arrive. you don't know what to think in this situation. is this appropriate? is this what she would have wanted? do you even care? you're well aware, though, where your opinion is not wanted.

you do not meet eyes with rosie when she hands you a bowl of stew; you do not ask if this is franklin, you do not ask anything. you eat, you pretend.

you're very good at that, you've found.

it's a man's job to right the wrongs of the world; to be fit for that delusion of grandeur, one must be well versed in delusion by any name. you fit yourself very cleanly in that gap of insanity, the brand that is only lapses in judgement. perhaps it was always meant to be like that.

the food, for all it is, is dreadfully flavorless. you excuse yourself from the table. you do not have an open schedule to miss her. that's dreck. 

instead.. you embody productivity; you do more in one week than you have in months, burying everything in mountains of deals you've pushed off, rearranging your accounts, you refuse your room, your bed, your records. this is your mourning. stripping yourself of everything you could enjoy, you are pure bred bad luck, even in hell.

nothing has, and nothing will, ever be simple for you; this is what the contingency plans are for. you are planning around every possible failure you can. backup backup backup, with the time for all of it, you are a man of schedule, after all.

and then davidson walks in, and he's worried; you haven't been outside, he says. you haven't left your office, he says, in four days. and this is worrying everyone in your syndicate ―

".. bossman, ya godda go out, an' i'don' mean no disrespect or nothin' but'cha keep ignorin' maria like that she's gonna blow a fuckin' fuse— 'scuse my language."

"and i have clause to care, for what?"

davidson tilts his head, like it's obvious,, "'cuz she's sweet on ya an' she also keeps all the communications up 'tween you and the rest of us?"

oh, drat.

he's right.

you feel a groan bubbling in your mouth, because as much as you despise it, you gave her control enough that she could cause some damage if she splits; not that she will on account of her wanting you bank to open ― not that it is, ever will, or ever has been, open. you rib your eyes in annoyance, but keep your face straight and hollow.

"outside is heartstopper right now," you sigh, "i'd bleed out dry before i got one foot out there, tell chaput that ― ah, no."

you open you pack of cigarettes, light the end white. the smoke singes out. davidson fights restlessly, bouncing his foot.

"tell her i'm busy, tell her to clear up my schedule for tomorrow afternoon. i'll be taking over for abelló then.. they're finding the man whose short on crack looking for a third eye, hmm?"

davidson swallows audibly, or. not really. your ears just hear better than most.

"y-yessir, bossman." davidson manages.

"wonderful!" you smile, and it's a threat. "and you're dismissed, davidson."

"goddit, bossman."

your threat of a smile turns vicious. davidson can't leave fast enough, the door creaks behind him. well then, you think you may have a plan in the works. 

"abelló!" you grin, cheerfully. abelló's the type of person to match the energy of a first impression, so you always start off in some sort of good mood. "i have marvelous news!"

abelló perks up from where they're perched on a ledge; they're looming over some hellborn getting frisky with a sinner. you want to kill the duo on sight, you don't, however. self control and all that racket.

"yes, cap," abelló says, mouth taut in a smile that isn't half as cheerful as it should be. your eyes dangle back to the sinner and hellborn, you take note of the way that the sinners horns match abelló's. how the gold rings that the sinner dons matches perfectly to the gold adorning abelló's horns and fingers. there's a certain kind of way they hiss the next line, "she's busy with the boy responsible at the moment."

you think they've got some skin in the game, what with the vitriol bleeding out of their mouth. checkered fingers in blood and a snout turned up a defensive rage. ah, so this is the sister you've heard so much about. one llùcia martina abelló and a forehead asking for a skylight. 

he — the hellborn boy that llùcia martina abelló is currently sucking off — is looking up at just the right angle to spot the piece in your hand. he's got no time to blink in between the time he notices and the time he realizes he needs to run. the blessed-metal bullet nuzzles happily into his forehead and the blood that oozes out is none of your concern. she curses when she realizes he's dead, and snatches up the wallet from his still-warm corpse, you hear her crisply complain about how she could have just stalled a little longer and kept the knees of her jeans clean. she still dusts herself off, and with her middle finger stark behind her, loudly says: "stay out of my business pere."

abelló grits their teeth next to you. 

you jump down to the body to find a key. you know that zakkav — the hellborn — keeps a key in the crux of his boxers because you can always hear the damned thing jingling when he used to do some of your runs for you between rings. scraping against his skin. you go digging around in the spot you hear the damned thing. 

"splendid," you practically purr, "abelló! follow. there's a contract i've been meaning to reevaluate. zaman and muzushima will have to throw things into the air if we wait any longer, and i've no intention of reformatting my mornings."

there's a kind of bottomless energy you have doing work around one of your subordinates. there's a  kind of hollowness in them when they try to keep up with you; you're aware you're  siphoning of their energy. your mood is too high for anything else, the buzzing under your skin is two fingers of rye short of pleasant. your mouth doesn't upturn, like it should, but you're just diplomatic like that. 

then you see it.

the hotel is blinding red. neon lights swirling in a way that would make your eyes bleed if you could see well enough to be affected. your ears twitch at the noise inside, a beleaguered static. your eyes narrow. if you closed them — let your eyelids slink shut — then you'd be able to hear it better. the radio, you mean. because the radio in your room's gone on the fritz, and that means that the radio demon is planning. after all, nobody owns a radio anymore, not since the massacres.

you're on a timer, and you're a  man of schedule, and as such..

"one gregory james wallace," you hum, "stupid enough to give his name out this easy, must be fresh meat."

abelló skitters beside you, and you hear their heart rate spike. 

"uh, cap?" they say, "do you need me for this?"

your mouth turns sharp, "whyever do you ask?"

"my— my sister's gonna be right pissed with me if i step foot in her apartment." they say, feet teetering backwards. you lock eyes with them, this navy, swollen color that looks like it was just made for stardom. for the night. you don't like insolence; their fear of their sister being greater than their fear of you makes something in you churn, and yet. yet, you know where to plant a boon when necessary. 

"i think i can handle this on my own, my dear." you say, like your voice isn't edging toward something acerbic. "do get back and tell chaput and davidson about my escapades. they've been just dying to get me out."

"y-yeah. right cap, thank you." they say. and then take a couple of steps back before making a dash to your compound. 

so. it's you and the building. you and one llùcia martina abelló, who is hiding a box in her apartment that you are owed. now, you don't have the kind of last name to cut in line, you never have. your finger rap against her door in a beat from one of your favorite almost shows from when you were a child. one of those segments that only played for fifteen minutes in the later days, you always listened to the reviews on the radio. 

(three sisters, one door. you can hear the broadcaster in your head. tük tük tük.)

you hum. the knockoff of some popular book from before your time. 

"llùcia martina abelló," you say, your voice is a baritone, "i'll find what you're hiding one way or another, the longer this chase goes on, the further i hurt your precious little pere."

 the door opens in a gust, and then there's a gun to the underside of your chin.

"this shit's carmine dipped, i wouldn't move."

"if i don't make it out of here alive, neither does little pere." you lie, voice smooth, "relax, i'm not here for you. i'm here for the goods."

"fuck you mean, the goods?" she practically spits.

"mind your manners," your eyes narrow, "wallace is bleeding things dry for me at the moment and i've no intention of letting my things turn to dust. there's something going on amuck, abelló. clemi's been in kahoots with lazarus and i'm not nearly foolish enough to let my only fail safe remain in the hands of a child."

"i'm not no kid, take what you want and get out." she's feisty. you narrow your eyes into this sort of smug, terrifying face. "don't come back or i'll—"

"or what?" you purr, "you'll kill me, and what exactly do you think will happen, i'll befriend the devil twice over and i'll crawl back out here just to see the grief on your face after i kill your little pere right in front of you the second time, what would your mama think of that, hmm?"

she takes a step back and.. oh how you loathe that fear. that playing victim makes your head simmer. 

"you're a fucking monster." she bites out. "i—"

"dear, word of advice from a man who's been around this block a couple decades longer than you," you're close now, your nose brushes the shell of her ear, "don't play with a demon if you aren't ready to raise hell." 

then, you nab the box from her apartment and hum a jaunty tune as you saunter merrily out of her place of residence. your work is over, and you tap your feet as you walk. you have a message to send, and really, what better timing?

the hazbin hotel is bleeding bright red around you.

you course correct your posture, tighten the tie around your throat so it looks more like the leash on your subordinates, and let your nerves bleed unto your face just a smidgen.

you make your way to the door. tük tük tük. 

the door opens rabidly, in an anticipatory kind of fervor.

the princess of hell is bright eyed, pale skinned, sharp-toothed, and hoof footed. she's also bouncing in joy.

"hello! hi! are you here for the hotel? wait! do you want to come in, how do you feel about jambalaya, because alastor is making some right now, it's his turn to cook and—!"

"pardon, but does, ah, a mr. angel dust? is he here?" you let your voice slip out politely.

"well, yes! oh, did you want to see how our program was going? because recently he's been improving a lot and—" her arm is hooked into your elbow as she drags you into her hotel. she's not pausing for breath, you're almost impressed. "—and he's become such a good person in the time he's been here. and i really think that he could make it to heaven, so are you here to check in, we have a lot of space! uh.. not to say that this is a fluke! it's totally going to work, i just know it! and you can get the room on the fifth floor, the views as good as it gets and—"

"i'm, i'm actually here on orders of my boss?" you voice, uncertain. 

"oh. uhm, well. you're welcome to stay!" she says.

"i just need to deliver a message, a, uhm, a box." your ears are pinned back neatly. "it, it needs to be given to val— valentino by angel dust specifically, so is he here?"

"not, uhm, not right now.. but!" she exclaims, "he'll be here soon, why don't you stay for— until he gets back! vaggie!"

"yes!?" you hear from.. somewhere. this hotel has an echo you can't quite put a name to. and your hearing is very, very precise. you focus on it, the way the sound travels. through a hallway, down a vent.

"we have a guest! come, i want to introduce you to— what's your name?"

"kretsnii ortets," you blurt, the compulsion to give your name to her is tantalizing, is wanting, but you're smarter than that, "ah, but you can call me anything you like."

you don't know where that urge came from, but you're sure it's got all to do with the fact she's the devil's second coming. you wonder if the devil's got that skill set too. dragging a name from a closed mouth.

"vaggie—"

but vaggie is already down, and she's, in a word, sharp. her eye, her teeth, the cut of her weapon, one you've only ever seen in the hands of.. executioners. oh. 

oh you think you understand what's happening here. 

holy-stained hands holding stained-holy hands in an excuse to fight for something better. you don't make any acknowledgment toward the fact she's one-hundred and ten percent an ex-executioner.

"why are you here, who are you?" she's almost spitting with the force in her words. like a soldier. her weapon is already at your throat.

"kretsnii ortets," you stick your hand out, past the blade, "uh, charmed to meet you, dear."

she doesn't shake your hand. your opinions form on their own: ill-mannered, uncultured, brat. 

"when did you say mr. angel dust would be returning?" you ask. putting your outstretched hand down and wiping it awkwardly on your pants. 

"in an hour! maybe earlier!" the princess of hell blurts. naive. you'd narrow your eyes if it wouldn't throw off your act. "he'll, uhm, what did you need to give him— his boss?"

"just, i. i don't ask questions, boss said to give him the box with explicit instruction to give it to. to his boss." you blink. "i'm under.. a certain obligation, i can't."

"obligation?" vaggie hisses. if she weren't already dead you'd think she'd have an ulcer. "what does that mean?"

"you know how well rules and contracts go." you say emphatically. "it's an n.d.a... of sorts, i'm of a requirement to just do my job and hit the road."

"and wherever would you be going, my dapper dearheart?"

your body fully goes rigid, you aren't supposed to be of any even playing field with the radio demon, and your name and face is hidden from anything and everything. you're careful. he can't know.

"to my—"

 your voice cuts itself out, or, well, the sound waves do, and you bite your tongue and wait for the blood to ooze itself out. 

"that's none of your concern, mr. radio demon." you grit out, as if though a barrier. as if through a contract.

"hm, well, the hotel is under my authority to protect, so i'll see to myself that you don't cause trouble. you'll stay for dinner, won't you? ah, what did you say your name was again?"

"kretsnii ortets." you repeat. you keep repeating.

"and i'm alastor, it's a pleasure, sweetheart, quite a pleasure!" he grabs your hand and shakes it rather aggressively. you hold he's got is as business as any from when you were alive, you smile and grip back.

your face does not change from the awkward, sweet expression you've stained on it, "charmed to be meeting you, as well."

the both of you wipe your hands simultaneously. the polite smiles don't leave your faces.

"soooo, anyway!" the princess of hell butts in. "i'm charlie, this is my girlfriend vaggie, and you've just shook hands with alastor, and then there's niffty and husk and sir pencious, and of course, angel dust!"

"sir.. pencious?" you ask, and that's almost surprise lacing our voice, "as in the moron that blew into pakhan's territory and got his face met with cherry bomb? that sir pencious?"

"uhm," the princess of hell, daughter of the devil himself, harbringer of the end times, the antichrist in all but name: charlie says, "maybe?"

maybe you will stay at this hotel, if nothing else, then to keep an eye out on whatever in gods unholy name is going on.

» zero. "мой брат не добрый человек, но" - my brother isn't a good person, but

» one. red red red.

» two. can you hear that sound, it's borrowed time running out. tick tock.

» three. on desperation and longing.

» four. what feeling is 3AM in the summer? is it different from 7PM on a tuesday in winter? expand.