Chapter Text
“Thanks again for the drink, Rosie.”
“Of course, sweetheart! Anything for my favorite sinner!”
You raise an incredulous brow at her from over your cup. You can think of at least one person that makes that statement false, but you’re not going to sour the mood by thinking of that prick.
Tea at Rosie’s is always a welcome reprieve from the day to day bullshit you spend most of your time handling. Good food and good conversation are hard to come by in your line of work, so it’s nice to have a welcoming place that offers both, provided you make known your, well, dietary restrictions. The quaint, old-timey decor was a nice change from the concrete jungle of the inner city, and the lack of televisions meant no eye rolling ads for useless products or mind numbingly terrible shows.
You could do without the fucking radio though.
It sat innocently off to the side, the glowing tower a hundred years out of time like everything else, and a constant source of peaceful ambiance whenever the conversation lulled into silence. It was harmless, really. Not its fault that just the sight of it made you want to punt it out the nearest window.
“So, how you been doing, sweetie?” Rosie’s question drags your eyes back from where they had unintentionally drifted. No doubt she had noticed the daggers in your eyes, and hoped to pull you back to a less destructive train of thought. “I heard about a bit of a rumble downtown the other day. I don’t suppose that had anything to do with you, would it?”
Your smirk says all it needs to as you take a self-satisfied sip of your tea. Honestly, it wasn’t your preference –You'd always been more inclined towards energy drinks and coffee– but for Rosie you could make an exception.
The Overlord across from you laughs at your silent confirmation, taking a pinkie finger from her plate and severing it at the knuckle with a vicious bite. You pop one of your own biscuits in your mouth as she dabs at her black lips with a cloth napkin. It had taken some getting used to, way back in the day, reconciling that the empty-eyed, shark-toothed cannibal was also more a prim and proper lady than half of Hell or Heaven.
“So what was it this time? Couple of nobodies trying for some territory? Valentino trying to sneak some girls onto your corners?”
Your face shifts into something between a grimace and a snarl. “They’re not my corners. And no.”
He hadn’t tried that in a while. Not since he tried to set up a club just inside ‘your’ borders. Probably assuming that since your boss hadn’t shown his face in some time, there would be no push back. A molotov in his VIP lounge and a two day turf war (which you had to call in every fucking favor you had just to have the numbers for) put that assumption to bed, and no gold-toothed goons had shown their faces to you since.
“Then?” Rosie prods, stirring idly at her tea and pulling you from memory lane. You frown.
“Vox tried hitting one of the towers.”
The clink of silver on porcelain stops dead. And Rosie places the spoon down with a frustrated sigh.
“I take it he failed?”
“Of course.” You grunt. The tower, a simple wooden pole stretching high in the air with nothing but an old-school speaker fastened to the top, was one of dozens scattered throughout the Pentagram. Wards inscribed long ago kept them from weathering, and resistant from the usual gunfire, vehicle impacts, and general explosions of Hell, but concentrated efforts could still bring them down, given enough time. Time you never allowed anyone to have.
“It only turned into a thing because some random fucks got caught in the crossfire and decided to throw a tantrum about it.” You huff, rolling your eyes. Seriously, one guy gets his head blown off by a stray bullet and suddenly it’s the fucking Alamo.
“Not even sure why he sent anyone after it in the first place. Not like anyone’s around to fucking use them.” You mutter, glaring into the light brown of your cooling tea.
More to the point, you’re not sure why you bothered stopping him, for much the same reason. Who gives a fuck if some random glorified telephone poles get mulched? Serves the fucker who put them there right for leaving you in the first place.
…
Them. Leaving them in the first place.
You both sit in silence, the only sounds coming from the bustle of sinners outside curtained windows and the croon of a slow jazz number from the tower radio. You barely keep your claws from gouging into the table.
“Still no word then?” Rosie asks softly, folding her hands in front of her and looking at you with a sympathetic tilt to her brow and smile.
Your laugh is nothing more than a humorless huff of air. “You’d know before I would.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” You glance up at her, and she has that look. That look that’s somewhere between a concerned frown and a pitying smile. She’s had it for years, ever since it became clear that the deer-shaped elephant in the room wouldn’t be returning any time soon. You really fucking hate that look.
The radio in the corner inserts itself into the conversation with the blaring of a jaunty tune, teeth gratingly discordant for the mood you’ve suddenly found yourself in. It felt all too familiar; Getting so wound up you could kill, being sent on your way to take care of some errand or muscle work or what have you, and then having the most jovial tune a certain prick could find come blasting from every broadcast point in the city just to undercut you and send you into a seething rage. You’d started quite a few street brawls to tunes like this.
You lurch from your chair with the scrape of wood on wood, a flared wing sending the teetering chair to the floor with a clatter, and skulk across the room.
The glow of the radio’s face seems to mock you as you stare down at it. The sickly yellow glow reminiscent of a twisted smile you want to punch, dials become eyes you want to gouge. Even the fucking music has a voice you want to rip out of the throat of the singer.
You reach out, grab a dial, and click the radio off.
Blessed silence.
You stare at it for a moment, ears twitching. Two moments. Waiting. Waiting for it to light back up and break your ear drums with a ‘Nice try dear! Better luck next time!’. Of course, you haven’t heard that in seven years. But maybe this time.
…
Silence.
You walk back to the table, from which Rosie had never taken her eyes off you, right your chair, and slump into it with a forced nonchalance you know she’ll never buy.
“You were saying?”
Rosie only sighs, stirring her tea once more as she stares thoughtfully into the cup. For your part, you knock the rest of yours back in one swig, grimacing at the taste and temperature.
“He’s going to come back you know, and when he does–”
You give a dry ‘Ha!’, but the reproachful glare you get is enough to shut you up before you can start.
“And when he does, he’ll be grateful you’ve kept things so well in line for him.”
“It’s not for him,” You shoot back immediately. “Fuck him. He left. I don’t owe him shit.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“We have a contract Rosie, I can’t just–” And now she’s laughing, and your glare doesn’t threaten near as much as hers, so she continues.
“You and Alastor have a contract like I have eyes.”
“What does that even mean–? ”
“I’ve got places where eyes should be, and I see just fine, but, Riot? No one with a brain in their head would say I’ve got eyes in mine.”
You stare as Rosie chuckles, self-assured and easy, while you just gape; Mouth opening and closing like a moron while you try and sort out what you’re even supposed to take from that.
“I’ve seen Alastor sweet talk and wheel and deal his way to a soul in exchange for pocket change, Riot. It’s one of his favorite pastimes!” She continues, perhaps realizing you weren’t going to get to the conclusion she wants you to reach on your own. “But you’re sitting here with shadows at your heels and the proverbial keys to the kingdom, and you don’t even have a paper trail to show for it, let alone a missing soul!”
“He gave me shadows because he thought it was funny that no one had ever asked for them before,” You say flatly. “I wouldn’t have the keys if he didn’t fuck off and leave them sitting on the counter for seven years, and paper contracts are overrated.” You don’t have a rebuttal for her last point, so you’re going to ignore it.
Rosie takes a deep breath, shuts her eyes, and tilts her head down into hands pressed flat together as though in prayer. Then, when her eyes open, she reaches out across the table, grasps your hands in hers, and says, “Riot, I say this with love, you are one the most infuriating people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.”
You’ve met Susan, so you know how insulting that is, but you let it go.
“Old Alastor wouldn’t even see fit to have you on his broadcast, let alone by his side, if he didn’t think you were something special. He was trusting you to keep things in order for a lot more than seven years, even if you don’t want to admit it.”
You sigh, gently pulling your hands away to instead cross your arms as you stare at the Overlord.
“Rosie. I can appreciate you trying to gas me up, but what is your point?”
“My point is that you should trust him, Riot,” There’s some exasperation there. Your hard-headed nature is as frustrating as it is endearing, it seems. “Because you’re about the only person in Hell that wouldn’t get caught holding the bag if you did.”
You huff a small laugh, shaking your head as you lean forward, forearms resting on the table in front of you as you stare at your empty tea cup.
“I did,” You say simply, “And I’m holding just about every bag he had.”
Why you ever trusted him, you really can’t say. It went against every ounce of logic you had, every instinct that had kept you ‘alive’ down in this literal hellhole. But you did. And it put you exactly where it was always going to: In the shit.
You both lapse into silence once more, tense now without the sound of music to add to the background. You never liked awkward silences. It was the one thing you hadn’t been able to readjust to after all these years. There was always talk. There was always sound…
“You really think he’ll come back?” You don’t mean to say it, and you wince at how pathetically soft it comes out, but Rosie is graceful in her overlooking of it, and answers easily.
“I do. Because I still trust him. And hopefully you can too, someday.”
You hum noncommittally. “First step is kicking his ass from here to Heaven whenever he finally decides to show his ugly mug. We’ll see where it goes from there.”
“Well,” Rosie chuckles, “Patience may be a virtue, but I’m sure you can still scrounge some of it up down here.”
There’s a crackling buzz to your far right.
Salutations!
Your eyes widen.
No fucking way.
Good to be back on the air!
You and Rosie whip your heads around to the tower radio, lit bright and proud once again as an all too familiar voice comes spilling out of the speakers, as though it never left.
Yes I know it’s been a while since someone with style treated Hell to a broadcast–
You turn back to each other.
Sinners rejoice!
“I’m gonna kill him.” You say simply.
Instead of a clout chasing, mediocre video podcast–
“Give him one from me,” Rosie answers, but you can tell she’s trying to keep a large grin contained behind pursed lips.
Is Vox insecure? Pursuing allure?
You seethe as you throw open the doors of Rosie’s boutique. Of course the fucking TV would be the thing to drag him out of hiding.
Flipping between this fad and that, is nothing working?
There’s no ‘picture boxes’ in Cannibal Town. If you want to know what got Alastor so worked up he’d broadcast after seven fucking years, and without a word to you, you’d need to leave the borders.
Every day he’s got a new format!
God, you’d be living for this if you weren’t so pissed off. You fly low, keeping an eye out for viewing windows while still listening to the gleeful insults spewing from various towers. You’re suddenly glad you kept them safe after all.
Is Vox as strong as he purports, or is it based off his support?
You can’t stop a smirk from curling your mouth. You both know the answer to that.
He’d be powerless without the other Vees!
Oh please!
You break hard at the grating voice, flipping midair to hover just above the masses gathered around the viewing window of an electronics store.
And here’s the sugar on the cream
Oh.
He asked me to join his team!
He’s going for the fucking throat.
Hold on!
I said ‘no’ and now he’s pissy, that’s the tea!
You snort. You forgot you taught him that one.
You o̵͕̒-̸̣͌o̴̙͗-̶̲̂ľ̸̥d̶͎͠-̶͚͋ţ̵͠ḯ̶̬m̴͇̈ę̶̄ÿ̶̟ prick! I’ll show you s̴̲̿u̵̖̇f̶͆ͅf̵̺̑f̶̣̎f̵͖̀e̸̞̓r̵̲̔-̶̡͒ĭ̸̦n̶̠͝ĝ̵̡
Uh-oh, the TV is buffering!
You’ve been on the receiving end of that shit-eating tone before. God you missed this prick.
Ĭ̶͖'̴̢̄l̵̼̿l̷̼̓ ̷͍̀d̵̛̼e̷͉͘s̷͍̑t̵̘͝r̶͉͑o̵͈̔ỹ̴̰ ̴̞̎y̴̹̆ö̷͓u̷̬͂u̴͈͝-̸͙́ǫ̴̃ŭ̵̘u̵͚͗
The TVs spark, the street lights flicker, and with a distant boom, the city goes dark. Silent.
I’m afraid you’ve lost your signal!
Almost silent. Your eyes adjust fast, and you ignore the frustrated groans and complaints of the sinners below as you ascend, higher and higher, past the apartment complexes and sky-scrapers.
Let’s begin.
He’s not going to slip away so easily this time. He needs to be recording from somewhere. You scan the city beneath you. All is dark.
I’m gonna make you wish that I stayed gone.
You bare your teeth. Right back at you, you rotten, cowardly, stupid–
Tune on in.
There, on the outskirts. You can make out the vague shape of his tower, and the red glow within.
When I’m done,
…Is that the fucking hotel you had been hearing about?
Your status quo will know its race is run.
This old rat-bastard has a lot to answer for. Your grin is wicked as you flap your wings, making your way to the shoddy hotel in the distance.
"Oh, this will be fun!"