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Vault

"Both dead, sir."

Macron stared at his long-time servant with tired expectancy. Gilbert was around since he founded the now retired _Ancestors, _prim and diligent, but even his usual routine of bringing a cup of blood tea (one sugar, stirred well) and the latest in the news did nothing to settle him. He tapped his fingers against the desk, papers washed by the rays of washed-out pink intruding from his massive room vista - once a portal of promise, but now dread.

"Lucifer below." Macron shook his head. He stood from his chair, towering over his aide by several feet, bleach white hands rolling together. "Mel's hunter, was it?"

Gilbert nodded, setting down the porcelain. "Yes, sir. The girl."

"That is no girl," Macron said, rubbing his chin. "I don't know where he found her. . ."

Gilbert pursed his lips. "I believe she found him, sir."

Macron uttered a single chuckle. He turned, looking out to the city. There, in the distance, his magnum opus was visible - the _Sugary Chigurh, _a blitz of gold and lights, pillar of promise and hope to all. Well, it used to be. Something twisted his cuts, spiked his spine with a dread fear. A tape was left with Mel's corpse (if you could count the wet, untenable puddle a corpse, that is). Brief, ghostly footage, but essential. It showed, what Macron assumed, was the thief, in his casino. And if he was there. . .

"Ever wonder what's beyond the city limits, Gilbert?"

The servant looked at his lord with complexity. Did he sense fear? How? His lord was a towering, imposing thing. Sour, pale flesh coated a slim but terrifying frame, a head adorned with twisted, chaotic horns, like fungal bones. He was an original, from the oldest days. How could he be afraid?

"Sir?"

Macron chuckled. "There's nothing, so the legends say. But I hear it makes for good hiding."

Gilbert's eyes widened.

". . .should I call Him, sir?"

Macron laughed. To what end? Placate the Master of Hell? Hah. No.

"And say what? Aha, no. I don't think He'd find it amusing. His trust is a limited currency, and anyone who betrays it, ah, well. You don't hear about them anymore."

Goddamned fool, _he thought. _Haven't any idea what you're about to open, are you?

"But there must be something, sir. Something we can do. _I _can do!"

Gilbert stared at his master, a frail hope in his eyes.

Macron turned, eyeing the steaming cup of tea. "Yes. You can. I'll take another sugar."

-*-

Spade took a long drag of his cigarillo, hacking up the foul stuff.

"Fuck, cheap shit."

His counterpart chattered with laughter. Chattered, because they were a contraption of bones, a skeleton lined with a network of gears, pumps, and joints. The skull was painted in vibrant colors, the rest of it draped in dirty cloth. It took the cigar back when Spade tossed it over, putting it between its dusty teeth.

"Startin' to think you didn't die in a shootout, hombre," Spade chided. He had to. It was almost time. Anxiety ate at his guts, the right kind, the kind sending nervous energy through every vein in your body.

Just as well, he didn't know this crew either. The bones? Cover and suppression. Spoke one language, but hardly spoke it. Came from the heart of Mexico, a hired gun for shootin' screamin' Comanche reds. Did some foul shit, killed people by the dozens, most at range. Sniper at his back, cigar in his mouth. Or its mouth. Whatever. Went by Sicario.

"Oh, he did. Right through his head. Kapow. One shot." The other voice. A bigger, daunting figure appeared at Sicario's side, flesh crimson, sitting on the couch with his longshot friend. Sicario laughed again, miming a gun to his dome, making a 'pew' sound.

If Spade didn't have to sit one more day in the tiny hideout house with these fucks, it was too soon. This other one, went by _Oni. _Fat, three-armed oaf. Muscle, weights, big guns. Loud and distracting. Once the shots went off, they'd need as much sound and thunder as possible, and that's about all Oni could bring.

"My money's on lung cancer," Spade challenged again, smirking. "Fuck sake, how do you smoke that garbage? Figure you at least get some of that south-side brown sugar."

Oni chortled. "He don't. Got no lungs."

Again, they both laughed. Idiots. But they were useful idiots, and, Spade had limited resources. Hard to sell "reputation" to would-be thieves around these parts.

"Blegh," Spade spat. "Gonna' drown it out. Scuse' me."

In truth, he just needed a moment to himself, the last he'd arguably have for a while. Possibly forever. He went to the disgusting fridge and yanked out a not-moldy bottle of watered-down beer, guzzling it fast. It didn't do much to blanket the flavor of bad demon-tobacco, but whatever. One more, on the house, cause after this it was either whores and wine or. . . well, nothing.

As he sipped the piss-flavored beer, a voice caught him. "Hey dog, when we goin'?"

_I don't know, you dumb fucking blob, _he thought. "We wait for the call. That's all I know, just like I told you."

He returned to the duo, sitting opposite of them, hiding his annoyance. They appeared amused all the same.

Sicario leaned to Oni, chattering something in whispers. Oni gurgled with laughter, pointing at Spade.

"Ooooh, hey. Hey. Dog. Is it true? Can you lick your own balls?"

Sicario utterly hissed with snickers.

Spade thought he might shoot them both here and now, but, their humor was necessary. He decided, for now, to settle on encouragement.

"I'll tell you after the job."

Yeah. After. Spade leaned back and tried to focus on that. Think about himself, utterly stinking with cash. Or whatever was in the vault. He was gonna' get every gun he owned emblazoned with gold engravings, and buy diamond collars, and put those collars on a bunch of big-titted bitches, and fuck em. Then fuck the guys. Then the girls. _At the same time. _And then drink himself so drunk he'd piss wine.

Almost time. Almost time. Almost time.

-*-

Smash the door, find the floor, break the vault.

Over and over and over the sequence repeats in your head. You see it with clarity and precision, like it's happened already. But every time you think it through, you find some flaw, some tiny error in execution, so you do it again. Because you can't be good, you must be _perfect. _And even then, perfection isn't good enough. So, over and over and over again you think it through. Smash the door, find the floor, break the vault.

There is no more waiting, no more time to plan. It's now or never. The gang feuds are consuming Pentagram City - sections of Hell are getting torn apart in service of new masters. Some small, some big. The larger names like Cherri Bomb and Sir Pentious are hastening their efforts with greater acts of violence and destruction. The Purge is coming, the underworld is changing. This plan is your art, your first masterpiece, but it's easily derailed by the chaos of others. If you don't proceed, you're another obscure, no-name grunt. You are Anon: Master Thief. This is your plan.

You look yourself over one more time. A protective vest rests under your suit. You're strapped with a suppressed - albeit demon-tainted - 1911 pistol. You have a few essentials for disarmament like flashbangs. The heavy artillery though, that's your crew. They have the charges and the vault-breaker, a device super charged with one of Sir Pentious' engines capable of emitting a precision later which will cut metal like flesh. If all goes well, the ensuing confusion and fear will scatter the casino patrons, giving you ample time to break the vault. Twenty minutes at most, fifteen with perfect execution.

You slip on your gloves. A thrilling wave of excited anxiety rushes through you. The good kind. A fool doesn't feel it, a fool doesn't have fear. You have fear, and you need it to survive. All that's left is the call. Once you make it, your crew will meet you a block down, and the rest is left to execution.

You stare at the burner. It is, for a moment, the most frightening object you've ever seen. You reach over to pick it up and. . .

Something knocks at your door. Out of instinct, your hand finds your gun, and you're ready to shoot. Paranoia consumes you, because everything is an enemy until the job is done. Before you ask who it is, however, the frame swings open.

Angel Dust swaggers in, expression defiant. God dammit. You sigh, but you're not relieved. He's. . . not who you want to see before all this. Sentimentality is poison before a job.

"Wow, look at you," he says, arms behind him. "All dressed for school."

"You shouldn't be here," you say quickly. He's not deterred, strutting to you.

"Shut up, asshole."

He looks you over. There's something heavy about his gaze. It carries a mournful weight. Where his features are often stretched with a toothy grin, scent of perfume and whiskey drifting from him, here, he just looks different.

His black sclera eye trails over you, foot to head. Then, his hands wander to your chest, fishing with your suit. He fiddles with your pockets, looking at your piece, your explosives, grumbling as he does. You don't stop him.

"Not bad, I guess."

You start to say something, but his finger comes to your lips. "Shh."

From his back, he twiddles a knife in practiced fashion. It's got a point like a needle, the handle embroidered with fancy roses and a pink name: Heartthrob. He takes your hand, pressing the weapon into your palm.

"I knicked a scumbag with this. First time I ever did. Hit dat' fucker straight through the eye. He looked like an edgy _Metallica _cover after I got done with em'." Usually he'd laugh after something like this, but he doesn't. He can't.

He stares at you. "No knife? Pft. Amateur. And _you're _s'posed to be the smart one?"

You don't say anything. The point retracts and you slowly place it in your inner suit pocket. You want to thank him, but he presses on, rushing. Like this encounter is killing him. In a way, it's killing you.

"I gotta' meet my gal pal in a bit," says Angel, gesturing behind him. "Ya' know. Old friends, old favors."

He clears his throat. "Ah, so you ah. You know." He rubs a hand through the puff on his head. He breathes, tapping a kinky-boot on the floor, looking at the wall where your scrawl of plans are.

"Don't uh. Don't fuck up, pockets."

You nod. "I won't."

His eyes snap back to you. Then, he throws himself forward, embracing you. His lips, like a sweet toxin, meet yours. They're warm, wet, and so fucking soft. He kisses you, catching you off guard, but you return it as hot and heavy as he brings it. Then, just as fast, he breaks it, and he wears an annoyed expression. His hands grip your shoulders, and his eyes are narrowed with a tearful fury.

"Don't yafucking die you absolute piece of shit, or I'll bring ya' back to life myself and kill you."

His tone is not angry. It's pleading. Silence forms between you, and you try to find the right words, the kind to reassure him.

"Angel. . ."

He sniffs, turning. "Fuck, uh. Fuck off. I gotta' go. I'll see ya' around."

He trots off, hand over mouth, slipping past your door. The quiet returns, and something else. Is this what you want to do? Are you sure? There's no turning back. You can wait here, you know. You can call it all off. You can pick up that phone and cancel it all and stop this. Redeem yourself. With Angel. With everyone.

Are you sure? If you do this, there's no going back.

. . .

You look at the phone and grab it, auto-dialing the number. It rings once. A familiar voice crackles through. "Yeah?"

. . .

"It's time."

No going back now.

-*-

A van rolls up by the curb, benign. It's plain, a white thing, like an old junker. The demons on the sidewalk pay it no mind, like they pay _you _no mind. They probably figure you for a well-dressed bum. You are, after all, just standing there, with seemingly nothing to say. You are a ghost. Your name is unknown. By the end of this, they will know it.

You step in, strapping into the moldy passenger seat. For the first time, you're in proximity to Spade and the crew. He shifts gears and gets moving instantly, eyes focused.

"All right boys grab your nuts, no fucking going back now!" he says, speeding into traffic. Lights dance over his canid features, and you realize he's like a smoke colored Doberman wearing a cheap green suit. The others in the spacious back snicker. Oni gurgles with laughter.

"He ain't got em' no more," says the crimson behemoth, pointing to Sicario.

The skeleton cackles.

You glance back. They're not what you expected. Last time you got together with a crew it was just men in suits, or so you recall. Will this work? Will they do their job? Fuck, this is no time for second guessing. In the meantime, the van powers through the roads. It might look simple, but it's reinforced with a stronger engine and plating. It'll need it.

"Finally decided to join the dance floor, eh boss man?" says Spade, tossing you a glance. You manage a smirk.

"I have to make sure the job goes right, don't I?"

Spade laughs. "Hope you're more than just talk you egotistical prick."

A boney hand appears between you and Spade, carrying an awful stench. Spade makes a face. "Ugh, fuck off with that garbage!"

The bones rattle with more laughter, but Spade isn't convinced. "Don't smoke that. Who the hell trusts a skeleton with a cig?"

While the trio rambles, the silhouettes of the city rise, imposing towers looming over you. The _Sugary Chigurh _isn't far off, beacon of desire and hope. You, like so many others, are there to gamble, but with very, very different stakes. As the van draws closer, other cars start filling the roads, forcing Spade to slow, though he isn't deterred.

"You sure we won't die in the collision?" you ask.

The plan is both complex and simple. It requires fear and fury, to generate as much confusion as possible so you can get to the vault with little trouble. Part of that requires ramming the vehicle straight into the teeth of the Chigurh - or in other words, right through the front. The van is reinforced to make this easier, or at least, that's the idea. Once in, you'll get to the base floor and find the wall - the wall hiding the vault. Pentious' charges will ideally make quick work of it, and then all that's left is breaking in. As for what's inside, oddly, you don't care as much. It is the act that matters most.

Spade shrugs. "Nope. Wanted something bigger than a van but, hey, that's what budget thugs get ya."

"Hmm."

Well, if it doesn't work, at least you won't live long enough to see your failure.

Spade accelerates, despite the congestion. Minutes later, the Sugary Chigurh breaks into view, an imposing middle-finger of flashing neon lights overseeing a wide, a large, wide building. Its guts are filled with demons looking to make a quick cash-in, littered with loud machines and laughing fools. In it flows the blood of every pocket in Pentagram City, stomach bloated with riches beyond anyone's dreams. As is the belief, anyway.

You're gonna' tear it open.

Spade finally stops. The casino lies ahead, crowds rolling in and out of its front. It taunts you with its size and the promises within. Like you, the crew is quiet. A bead of sweat rolls down your brow. You clutch your gun. You see Spade stare. Oni gets his own weapon ready, a massive minigun only something as large as him can carry. Sicario makes an inverted sign of the cross, muttering prayers in his native tongue. The air is so thick with silence the ambiance of the city penetrates the van. You all know. It's now or never.

Without looking at Spade, you speak.

"Go."

Spade growls and shifts the van into gear, slamming the gas as the machine-beast screeches to life. It's banshee wail pierces the night air and sends you all bolting forth. The reinforced death machine barrels into action, rocketing towards the casino. It busts through the gates like snapping twigs, and only a few realize what's happening. Crowds scream, dashing to the side, demon swears erupting around you. Soon, the vehicle shakes with violent rattles as it rolls across curbs and steps and stone. Some don't move in time, some are run over, leaving a bloody mess. The straps to your seat barely hold you, sending you into controlled contortions as the glass doors grow closer.

Spade roars, challenging any obstacle before him. The van smashes through the glass, but it doesn't slow the vehicle.

"Fuck you! FUCK YOU! COME ON!"

The dog's hit bloodlust, gripping the wheel like he might choke it. You raise your arm over your head, a blur of colors, demons, and machines flying past you. Sparks of electricity burst from where the vehicle unhinges machines, leaving a trail of absolute carnage behind it. Oni hugs himself to remain still and Sicario is thrown around like a bag of bones, swearing as he's tossed like a ragdoll.

It's almost impossible to make out where you are, and that's not good. The vault is beneath, the hidden floor, and you need to find the right spot to get there.

"Center! Goddammit! Get to the center!"

Spade says nothing, just grunts, as he tears the wheel left. The "center" is an open space between all the machines and avenues of the casino, where one seeks their next den of debauchery. The van screeches to it, leaving marks in the burnt carpet, before finally stopping. By this point, Spade is heaving, frame shaking with hot adrenalin.

"OUT! Everyone OUT! DO YOUR JOBS!" you scream. You kick your way out of the van. Sicario collects himself (literally), and Oni bursts through the back, carrying the heavy equipment and his weapon. Spade howls in triumph as he gets out too, carrying an AK-50, snapping his eyes around, ears alert.

Devastation surrounds you. A long trail of skid marks and fire leads from the van to the casino's entry point. You can hear distant screams and panicked cries, along with the surreal tempo of lottery machines - some still working, others not so much. Usually this place is swarming with gamblers, drunks, and guards, but they've scattered. A few random bodies are getting away, but you pay them no mind. There's no retaliation, not even police sirens - because down here, they don't exist.

An eerie peace forms- here at the eye of the storm. Sicario follows behind you, unfolding the stock to his painted, worn down Dragunov, while Oni straps the round belt into its feeding mechanism. They're preparing for war; the other soldiers haven't shown up yet.

"We ain't got much time before the gangs catch on," commented Spade, keeping an eye on the balconies above. "Hope this little device of yours is fast."

You don't know, but one step of your plan already succeeded. "We won't need it," you say, grabbing your bag of charges.

"You two," you say, unzipping the satchel while gesturing to Sicario and Oni. "You're the cover. Oni, you have the machine, you're with me until we break open the vault. Sicario, find a spot and keep your eyes on the front. _Anyone _tries to get through you fuckin' smoke em."

"Peh," grunted Oni. "He gets the fun part."

Sicario snickered, looking up. With terrifying agility, the skeletal contraption leaped to one of the building pillars and crawled along it, seeking a birdnest to take aim from. Perfect. He'd make any fool think twice before sticking their head into the casino.

As for you, you start to set the charges - they're strange, egg-shaped things pulsing with pink energy and rimmed with gold. Lacking in subtly or practicality, but Pentious' tech is full of destructive power, the kind you need. You set them in a neat circle around the entry point, center of the casino. It's not a wide circle, but as your ill-gotten blueprints showed, the vault is below. Getting to it requires access to stairs or elevators hidden away and you don't have time for that. Besides, blowing shit up is so, _so _much more fun.

As you do, you can hear the far-off screech of vehicles and echo of voices. Sounds like company.

"You wanna' hustle there, boss man?" barks Spade.

You ignore him, setting your last charge. "Shut up and find somewhere to take cover," you command over your shoulder.

"Uhhh. . ." Oni seems to notice people running through the van's tunnel of destruction. "Ey'! Fuck off!"

A nasty, dreadful whine pierces the air as Oni revs up his gun. Whoever he's yelling at apparently isn't listening, because he tugs the trigger and a _line _of hot, unforgiving bullets spew from its rotating barrels. The sound cracks the air and makes your ears ring as the rounds obliterate whatever it was in their way. Shrill cracks emit in the distance, points where the rounds made contact, coupled with horrified screams.

"Heheh," Oni chortles. "Oughta' slow em' down."

All time is precious now. You meet Spade at the van, taking impromptu cover. You fish through your inner pockets, fingers tracing over the handle of a knife, then a detonator. When you pull it free, Spade stares at it expectedly.

"This better not blow us to smithereens, genius."

You force a smile. "Probably will."

You and Spade cover your faces, while Oni keeps firing off shots, laughing. You breathe. You engage the switch.

One after the other, the explosives detonate, controlled bursts of hot, pink energy tearing apart the air as the vomit in a pillar of fire, light, and electricity. The ground beneath groans in agony, vibrations shaking you to your heart. Even Oni stumbles, while dust, money, and machines fall from upper balconies, taxed by the explosive aggression. A nightmare of fireworks fills the center of the casino, creating fat clouds of dirty smoke, flames finding purchase in the fragile carpet. It's so loud you can't even hear Spade's spree of unrelenting swears.

But it's only the start. As the bursts settle, the floor rumbles. Somewhere, metal supports are losing integrity. The ground cracks beneath you, splintered, chaotic veins sprawling like veins. Then, another torrent of cracks fills the air. The floor breaks, bit by bit, like chunks of flesh. With nothing to keep the floor in place, they quiver. They give way, vomiting up more plumes of filth, creating a massive hole, your key to the riches below.

"The hell was all that?" Oni calls, glancing behind. You don't answer immediately.

Spade hacks and coughs, waving his hand to clear the air. "Shittingcockfuck I can't see!"

But you can. There, like a stomach torn open, is your entrance to the hidden floor. Below the opening, another hallway is visible through the dusty debris. You also hear voices. Shit. Well, no surprise it's populated, most likely by guards. Fine. Your body is vibrating with adrenalin - time to ice some fuckers.

As the filth settles, you point to the impromptu opening. "We're going through that. Get ready."

"Oni!" you shout. "Get over here!"

The three-armed demon frowns. "Aww, was just getting fun." He marches toward you, while Spade checks his rifle.

He grabs you. "If I die. . ."

You look at him. "Fuck you," he finishes. You laugh.

You're first through the portal. No turning back. Spade comes through and then Oni, rumbling the ground with his landfall. Above, you hear a crack from Sicario's rifle shots, suppressing the outside. Now or never.

The hall you find yourself in is uncanny because it looks like the corridor of a ritzy home. The walls are lined with fine paintings and there are lewd statues adorning its sides, accompanied by statues and other mob fineries. But far, far ahead, there's a large space, an opening hosting a gigantic door, and you can see it: The vault.

Figures are in your way, demons in suits. The last vestiges of protection, the remnants of the gangs. You jump behind cover as a few shots head your way. Spade does the same, though Oni doesn't care.

"Shit, what now?" Spade barks. You laugh again. Is it not obvious?

"Kill them all."

They need nothing else. Oni revved up his weapon once again, making a slow approach while the minigun belched scorching lead into its opposition. Spade rolled up right behind him, taking crouch cover and squeezing out shots when afforded the opportunity. You do the same but aim carefully. A suppressed 1911 isn't much for extended fights, but, it's fun to bring your enemies a stylish death. One of your shots finds itself nestling into the eye of a green-skinned demon, felling him. At least for a moment. The beasts ahead aren't the usual chaff, they're clearly the kind ready for firefights. Well, fuck em' all anyway.

The three of you rush forward. Oni takes shot after shot. His arm tears open with streams of blood as return far splinters his skin though he cares little, laughing. Spade is far more cautious, aiming with precision. He clips a few guards in the legs, splintering one of their kneecaps. As the grunt howls in pain, Oni finishes him, turning the body into a chunky pile of crimson soup.

You're getting closer. You toss a banger into the crowd, a hideous flash emitting and blinding a few. Gives you enough time to fire off a mag into one of the fiend's chests. That's enough to kill it, but goddamn they're tough.

"Shit!" one of them roars. "Call him! Call Mac-"

Whatever one demon planned to say was cut off, by, well, having his head cut off. Spade's rifle sends enough ugly lead to split the dome right down the middle. Closer, closer, closer.

Finally, you're at the massive room. Around you are piles of massive corpses, save for one. He's been hit by everyone's shots, and he still won't give. His frame is adorned with a hundred different wounds, one of his arms turned into chunks. The other is split in two, hanging on by threads of vein and flesh. He stomps toward, howling with hate.

The three of you drain your guns into him, until his torso is, well, _gone. _It stinks with smoke and death, the remaining legs collapsing to the ground. Oni is enraptured, fat gut jiggling from laughter, while Spade is soaking in breaths, wiping his head. You glance at yourself. Nothing. Admittedly, you're astonished. Death was so close, but you skirted it again.

You can still make out the snap of gunfire. Sicario is keeping more thugs at bay, so the clock was ticking. You glance at Oni.

"Get it out. Now."

Oni blinks, remembering what he was here for. He kicks aside a few gooey limbs, setting down the massive bag strapped to his back. It sits on the cold floor with a loud _thud _while he unfastens it. In a few moments, the key to your victory is revealed.

It's an unusual thing, and at first glance, nothing interesting. A skeletal frame of metal holds together what looks like a missile stripped of its casing, an amalgamation of wires, bolts, and components. However, in its abdomen hums the heart needed to make it work: the engine. Ripped from Pentious' warehouse, it will provide all the strength required to cut through the vault's barrier, or so you hope.

You're beside yourself with intoxicating bliss. You glance them, to the vault, the last of your opposition, the final foe. It's nothing strange, nor enigmatic. A massive steel door emblazoned with various names, perhaps the call-signs of different gang lords who deposit their wealth within it.

Spade flicks his eyes between you and the machine. "Well?"

You smile. A _real _smile. "Give me a sec. Want to. . . enjoy this."

Coming to the machine, you dial in a code on its keypad, forcing the behemoth to life. Oni places it directly in front of the vault, where the proceeding energy can start working.

You haven't felt this good since your cock was buried in Angel's throat.

-*-

_Pop. _Sicario snickered. _Bang. _He cackled.

Too easy. Way too easy. This was gonna' be the best payout of his miserable life! Because every fucking fool from every corner of Pentagram City was trying to break into the burning casino straight through the entrance. Right into his damn scope. Every silhouette emerging earned themselves a round in the skull. Best part? His ribcage was _flowing _with spare mags. He could keep this up all night!

Damn. All he needed was a chica with a fat ass and a good ol' bootleg _pulque. _Shootin' hadn't been this good since he brained all those _Kiowa _kids. And he was gonna have skyscrapers of cash if Oni's mumbling was anything to go by after all was said and done. All he got for wasting Comanche injuns was a slap on the back and a gold coin of "appreciation." Fuckers.

_Crack. _Another one dead. Hey, well, some tried getting clever. On the balconies, through the glass roof, a few demons attempted jumping in. But thing is, these weren't trained professionals, so they had no idea how to make the decline safely. More easy shots.

Oooh if he still had lungs, he'd wheeze himself to another early grave. Was it this easy, was it really _this easy? The things he heard about the casino, one might think this stash of everyone's cash might have, dunno, some fucking tanks or something? Idiots. Or maybe they were so damn arrogant they owners assumed _nobody would pull a robbery, not like this anyway. Hah. Too bad he never met his team of _bastardos _in life, they'd do some damn fine jobs. Well, if he had lived past 100, anyway, haha!

One more. _POW. _Another body on the ground, limp. They were in piles now. This was getting ridiculous. He popped his empty magazine and rummaged with his ribcage for another.

"Wow, nice shot."

Siciario _JUMPED _and yanked a knife from his side, swinging it. WHAT THE FUCK!

He missed. Staring at him was a smiling thing. Eyes stared at him, bulging pockets of unblinking scarlet, placed within a frame of ash white fur. Canisters of hazardous chemicals were strapped around her, and she smelled of blight. Poison, medicinal, unforgiving death. Sicario scrambled backward, reaching for a pistol, but the thing, the rabbit, hopped forward, hand striking out to touch him.

"Oh, no no no, none of that."

She was so small, she couldn't overpower him! He shook her off!

He. . . shook her off? His arm came up, but only _half _of it. The rest was burning away, vaporizing into a cloud of chemical dust. Sicario tried to crawl back, put some space between himself and this abomination but. . .

She laughed, jamming one of her cannisters into his ribs. Before he could reach to stop her, stop it, the device burst in a cloud of white, sparkling fog. His bones hissed, the mechanical bits in his frame creaked and screamed, bubbling with oil. Violent convulsions shook him, thick, black ooze seeping from his sockets.

Sarin watched him. No flesh, but a fascinating result all the same. Then, her eyes drifted to the casino ground, where a hole smoldered, stinking of death and fire. Her heart sang.

"Oh, mister thief, there you are."

-*-

"YES!"

Lay low the folly of the lords of hell. The vault was no match for you. No match for your scheming and planning and ingenuity. All those weeks, all that time spent preparing. Now. Now it came to fruition. The device you hijacked had burned a hole through the slab of protective metal, using a stream of pink energy. It ate through all the inner mechanisms and fat locks, until, much like the floor, the drill inflicted upon it a cavernous wound. Once finished, you switched the machine off, only to hear the sweet, blissful sound of a creaking, clicking vault door opening.

Spade put a hand on his head. "Holy shit."

Oni stared. "Wow."

Slowly, the barrier of steel drifted ajar. Its contents were exposed to you. Spade cackled.

"Holy SHIT! We did it! WE FUCKING DID IT!"

He rushed inside. Oni started to erupt and gurgle with laughter, giddy as a schoolboy. He rushed in as well, shaking the ground. You, on the other hand, absorbed the afterglow of your work. No one could do this but you. How long had this vault remained untouched? Closed? Not anymore. And, you no longer heard Sicaro's gunshots - meaning the efforts to thwart you were successfully repelled. Perfect. Just too perfect.

You breathe and exhale. Now, _this _was a high. You laughed too, how could you not? Next time you saw Angel Dust you'd drown him in cash. You'd make a church out of stolen wealth.

It was time to pluck through your efforts. You went into the vault. Immediately, tables and glass containers and mountains of riches met your gaze. Lockboxes with pentagram symbols lined your surroundings, accompanied by chests and cases and containers of artifacts, gems, gold, weapons, and fineries beyond your wildest dreams.

You walked past them, navigating through hallways of belongings dating back to Devil knew when. The origin of this city? Incredible. So too were tables carrying immeasurable levels of cash, the kind that could literally kill you if it fell on you at once. Spade and Oni were helping themselves already, cracking boxes and stuffing bags full of everything they could get their fingers on.

Spade was drunk with glee. He looked at you, canid jaw stretched with a grin. "At haha, hah, at this fucking rate, I could fuck the devil's wife, haahhahaha!"

You smirked. You recognized that face, that sensation. An emotion of endless power, like you could control the world. You, however, weren't quite as interested. Hell would know your name, that was the goal.

"Shit," Spade continued, "Need more bags!"

He started to leave. "Hey, wait up!" Oni went with him, hopping up through the hole.

You, in the meantime, continued wandering through the vault. It was massive in size. How was this lurking under the feet of the Sugary Chigurh? And for how long? Then again, whoever thought to rob a casino? The house always wins, after all. Until today, that is. As you continued, the towers of boxes and piles of cash started to fade. You reached what appeared to be the end of the vault, where plain white walls met plain white light. Nothing was here. Except. . .

"What?"

You saw something. Not a chest, not a lockbox, not gold, not a statue. It was something which did not belong in a vault, clearly. Before you, of massive size, was a glass fixture. A gigantic cylinder, like a container, its head crowned with a series of tubes and pulsing wires, feeding life into. . . into what? You walked closer, and the size of it grew more and more apparent. Next to the gigantic tube-like thing, you were a dwarf. Within it was a viscous, milky substance, flowing and writhing. A fluid?

Closer still. No. No not a fluid. Something was inside of it. You squinted, peering up. A shape started to form, appear through the material. A body.

Was it? It had to be. No. Yes?

If it was a body, it was the farthest thing from what it attempted to imitate. It was a contraption of flesh, broken and twisted and squirming in all the wrong ways. Parts of its soured skin were splayed open with rivers of frozen organs twisted with them. Its torso appeared smashed and refastened together. From its bulbous gut, blisters and diseased skin gave way to snaking entrails which leaked from its frame. In short, an utterly repulsive thing, taller than five men easily. It possessed no head, and bizarre, black growths sprouted from its chest and neck opening. The question was, what the _fuck _was it and why was it here, in this vault?

Your sense of excitement was draining just looking at it. Vile. Perhaps the remains of some dead enemy kept as a trophy. You shook your head, turning away.

Let me out.

You froze. A voice slithered into you.

Let me out.

You spun around, gazing up. It did not move.

Let me out.

You did no such thing. You've seen all sorts of oddities and abominations down here, but this one is _wrong _in all the worst possible ways. It possessed an evil magnificence, this you were certain of, and unlike the galavanting cartoonish freaks populating the veins of Pentagram City, the entity was nothing like them.

Fuck _all of that. _You got as far away from it as you could, rushing away. Back to embracing your conquest and newfound wealth. Whatever _that _abomination was could remain and rot for the rest of its days.

As you returned to the entrance of the vault, you didn't see Oni or Spade. Idiots were taking too bloody long. You didn't hear them - in fact, you didn't hear _anything. _Leave it to a bunch of cheap hires to not understand the severity of the situation. Fools were probably getting wasted off their ass in premature celebration. Until something caught your attention.

Distant gunshots. You blinked.

"Hey!" you called out. "Get back here! We've got things to steal!"

Your voice is full of eager hope. What are they doing? Don't they know they're missing out? You sighed, exasperated. The adrenalin is wearing off, and you're ready to put this heist to bed. Too much time has already gone to waste and you needed to make your escape. The rest of the wealth was open to the vultures of the city, and they wouldn't wait at the doors forever.

Nothing. "For _fuck _sake."

You climb through the makeshift tear, grunting as you return to the wartorn floor, looking around. There are _piles _of bodies near the entry point from goons trying to retake control of the casino. Yet, still, the only sounds are the dismal, deformed chirps of broken machines mixed with the cracking hum of fire.

"Spade," you call out, pulling out your gun. You were in no _mood for games. "Get the fuck out here. _Now."

No response. Realization started to take hold of you. You crept on, near the van, seeking your partners, but also looking for a threat. As you did, you hear a _squish, _and looking down, you've stepped in some foul trail of bloody muck. Your eyes follow the river of tainted crimson until it reaches another hill of crim-

SHIT. It's Oni. Or it _was _Oni. His fat, heavy form twitches, but his torso has broken open and he's. . . melted. You look away. The stench is revolting and you have to stop yourself from gagging. Fucking fucking fuck. He's dead. Who killed him? Spade? No, why? Spade would never. Idiot dog had too much loyalty in him, and, whatever felled Oni wasn't a bullet.

"Spade!" you call out again, this time pleading. Your gaze snaps in directionless fear, looking for danger. In your peripheral, something catches your attention. Something white.

You attempt to hide, but it's too late, because the _being _of ashen hue pounces, staring you down. It smiles.

"It's so nice to finally meet you."

Your gaze falls over the tiny figure - in comparison to the behemoth you encountered in the vault she's practically an ant. Features like a rabbit, with unforgiving, unblinking scarlet eyes. She's wearing a variety of straps, all holding what appear to be explosives. Her features are cracked with a grin, and she's salivating, twitching, like she's in the presence of her obsession.

You are _not _about to engage this thing in small talk. It doesn't take a genius to put things together. You take aim, faster than you've ever moved in your life and un-life, but the moment you do she giggles, exploding in a cloud of sparkling vapor. You barely make out her vanishing red eyes as plumes of fog blur your vision. Worse. It _hurts. _You hack and cough, the smoke stinging your skin, burning your lungs. No, no not _smoke, _that's poison.

She can't have gotten far, so you decide to toss one of your own little presents. You lob another flashbang in her general direction, hiding from the burst of hot light. You don't know if you got her, but aren't sticking around to find out. You rush to the van, aiming to make your escape. Fuck. Spade! Where is Spade!? You stare at the driver's door. You can get away - the keys are there, there's no reason to be stupid and try to save a dumb fucking dog demon. Fuck.

Your breathing hastens, and you look around the van. You want to call out for Spade, but you can't reveal yourself.

"That was silly!" Too late.

You rear to your left and the hopping horror was above you. She tosses a series of containers your way and you _get the fuck away from that. _They explode, engulfing that part of the casino in more toxic cloud. You cover your mouth, for all the good that's doing you, but even still, your lungs are starting to hurt. Shit. The longer you stay, the worse this gets.

You spin, taking aim, firing off a few rounds in her direction. It just makes her laugh more, and she's gone, vanishing into the safety of her death vapor. You curse, rushing behind one of the lottery machines, trying to think. God dammit, where is he!?

As you peer over the broken device, more clouds materialize, but they're not aimed at you. What? Oh shit. Realization hits you. She's filling the floor with poison. She's just _toying _with you. in a few moments, the whole casino would be nothing but an atmosphere of death. Fuckity fuck fuck.

"Spade! Spade godammit where are you!?"

You can't stay much longer. You can't die for this.

"Anon!"

Your ears catch. Spade! His voice is far off, like an echo, but you find its direction - he's in the hole! Did he rush back there? Was he trying to hide? Whatever, doesn't matter. You try to hone in on the mutant rabbit, preparing to rush, but you can't see her. Fuck. _She's _hiding. Well, it's now or never - you either break for Spade now or you leave him to die.

You break for Spade. You dash for the makeshift opening, coughing, the air filling with caustic chemicals. You can hear that _thing _giggling in the background, filling you with rage, and you want so badly to drive a round into her head but there's no time, no chance. When you reach the hole, you call down it.

"Anon!?" Spade appears into your view. He's coughing too, but unharmed. You reach for him.

"Get up here you fucking idiot! Let's GO!"

Don't have to tell him twice. He reaches for you, and you grab his palm, yanking him to the top floor, practically throwing him.

"Get the van!" you manage to say. Spade limps to his feet, but nods. His eyes are full of terror and questions. Who was that? How'd she get here? If you both lived, you'd figure it out later.

Spade bolted for the vehicle while you got back on your feet. All right, just need to get through this, he's right there, the van is right there, you can escape, you can leave, you can go home, you can see Angel, you can see the Hotel, you can go ho-

Red eyes coalesce in your vision. Sarin drops down on you, sending you to your back with a painful thud. She jams something into your left arm and it SCREAMS in agony, every nerve screeching as white-hot pain erupts through your limb. At once, your flesh hisses, bursting in a sequence of bloody fissures, gurgling with bubbling skin and irritated pus.

"Agh! AGH AAGGGHGH!"

Your lungs are on _fire. _Your throat is an inferno. The poison seeps into your bones, eating you. you're losing sight in one eye, your body twitches, your face is cracking. It's hard to breathe. Sarin is watching you, her grin never fading.

Somewhere, some part of you, some remaining nerve of instinct wills your other arm into your pocket. You yank out the only weapon you have left, the knife. The point flicks to life and you drive that fucking needle of metal straight into this thing's head.

Her skull blossoms with red, and her grin fades.

"H-huh?"

She topples off you, expression twisted, confused. Her hands touch the handle of _Hearthrob, _like it's an anomaly, an alien presence.

"But. . ." Her crimson eye blackens, filling with blood. The other tries to observe the needle, but can't. Slowly, she stumbles, backward, falling into the pit, the hole.

You want to smile but you can't. You try to see yourself. Flesh is _dripping off _your left arm. You can't feel it. It's dying. You're dying.

You need Spade. Spaaaaaade. Spsdffsdf. . .

Darkness is taking yfhfhfewlff. . .

Yfjf canfnfs brrthfhf. . .

Help.

Help.

Hfhoef.

. . .

. . .

The last thing you see is the head of a dog as he snags your body, dragging it to the van.

-*-

Dark. Dark. Fading in and out. A blackness swallows you. everything is fire. Your body screams. Splinters of hot, uncompromising agony consume you, like a saw made of magma is cutting through every nerve of every molecule in your flesh.

. . .

You open your eyes. You're in something. It's moving, rumbling. A voice is yelling through it. A shape at the front, at the driver's seat. You cough blood, you cough melted lung.

. . .

Dark.

. . .

Flashes of dismal light pour through the glass. The glass? In an out you fade, like a phantom visiting the mortal plain. You're moving, you're floating. This is the river, you think, where are all dying souls go to make their final passage. Not to hell, not to heaven, but to oblivion. Once you go, there's nothing left, you'll simply _cease. _The poison seeps into your veins, wriggling into your mind, promising a quick, final death, and you think that's not so bad. You think you can go in peace.

. . .

A structure appears. It's raining, and you're at the corner of a street with buildings you can't recognize or can't understand, but you know they exist. In front of you, though, is the place of focus, a broken neon sign hanging above it with promises of warmth and safety. The rain hurts - it's so cold it feels like tiny, hot needles. You look down at yourself, free of wounds and pain and everything else. You're fine. You go inside then, eager to escape the cold.

It's a bar. Empty, but filled with pleasant music, the welcoming scent of expensive cigars, the laughter of old friends. Old friends?

You move further in. There's a table at the corner, populated by three men, all laughing, drinking, cards in front of them. You're drawn to them. You can recognize them, and you know their names, and yet, you don't. You walk closer, and they notice you, gazes shifting. They're all smiling, and they stop what they're doing, waiting. They speak no words, they just wait, and you notice at their table, there's a single empty chair.

You stare at it. You feel as though if you sit down with them, you'll be happier than you've ever been. And you also realize, you'll always be there. No going back.

. . .

. . .

You step back. They continue smiling, but return to their game.

. . .

. . .

You open your eyes. You hear something.

". . . I'm bringing him. . .!"

Darkness.

-*-

Spade almost crashed the van, slamming the breaks as the vehicular beast swerved into the ornate gate of the Hotel. Sweat dampened his fur, so much he had to take off his green suit top. As the vehicle quieted, he rushed to its back, tearing the doors open and grabbing the sputtering silhouette within. He tried not to panic, but fear pierced his heart when he saw. . .

"Come on, come on, goddammit!"

The hacking, dying frame didn't move, so he pulled it out, supporting it as he dragged Anon to the entrance of the Happy Hotel. He smashed his hand on the front, looking behind him like that _thing _would appear again.

"OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR BEFORE I BREAK IT OPEN!"

A moment later, the ornate frame swung up and peering through was who he wanted to see, and at the same time, didn't.

"Oh my," the warm, static-laced voice said. "He looks like he's just out of the trenches, the dear boy!"

Fuck that grin, fuck that carefully crafted scarlet hairstyle and those dead, terrifying eyes. Fuck those glasses and that expensive suit. Fuck Alastor.

Alastor gestured. "Well, do come in, let's see if we can't jimmy-rig this fella' back to a ripe old boot clicker, eh?"

How the Radio Demon could act with such comedic indifference baffled Spade, but now, he was his only hope. _Again. _So, he followed the suited fiend past a series of halls, until they reached a spacious room where a table coated with white cloth stood. Next to it, a collection of syringes and metal tools, the kind you didn't want to see.

Alastor turned, patting the table. "On this, if you please! Had to toss it all together like a three-player Jenga tower, ho ho!"

Spade hesitated. "What are you gonna' do to him?"

Alastor chuckled, retrieving a surgeon's gown, wrapping it around himself. "Save his life, I believe it was?"

Spade glanced to Anon. He wasn't breathing, he wasn't moving. He was limp. In a panic, Spade rushed over, tossing the unmoving body on the table, while Alastor soaked his utensils in something that stank of cleansing chemical. It made him sick, especially after what he just experienced.

Alastor clicked his tongue. "Anon, Anon, look at the trouble you've gotten into. I believe that's why they say to stay away from the drugs, ho ho ho."

Spade wanted to _choke _him. Was this a fucking game!? But something else caught him - how did he know Anon?

Alastor seemed to hear the query. He turned, maintaining that horrid, dreadful grin. "Oh, didn't you know? He's the latest project in Miss Magne's resolution to fix all the little naughty Nancies of Hell. I see she has her work _cut _out for her."

He said this, retrieving a scalpel, pressing it against Anon's left arm. Or what remained of it.

"Can you fix him?" Spade said, pleading.

Alastor's voice went low. "Spend enough time ripping bodies to bits and you learn a few things. Come back in an hour. I'll have the ol' boy looking like he's fresh off the Styx!"

The dog didn't want to leave, but the moment the knife hit Anon's pus ridden, melting arm flesh, well, that was his cue.

-*-

Huh. I don't get it. Huh? He stabbed me? But, I spent so much time and planning to meet him, I thought he'd be happy to see me.

Sarin did the only thing she knew how to do as an injured rabbit. Crawl. Crawl to her little den and die. So she crawled, like a worm. The vault was a nice place to expire, wasn't it? Yes.

Crawl, crawl, crawl, squirm, squirm, squirm.

Hmm.

Let me out.

Huh?

How long was Sarin crawling? Quite a while, given the long trail of black mess flowing from her. She looked up. Who was saying that? A tube?

"Oh, hello," she managed, her voice weak and confused. "Sorry, can't really talk, not doing so well."

What was she talking to? Oh. This strange body in this stranger tube.

Let me out.

She blinked. "I don't think I can."

Hmm.

"Oh. But. Maybe I can. If I do, think you can give a hand?" She prodded the knifepoint lodged in her skull.

Silence. Oh? She was going crazy. A side effect of death. She'd forget anyway when she came back. She always forgot. Darn. She'd forget the thief too.

Yes.

Her ears perked. Oh?

"Oh!"

With what little strength she had left, Sarin stood, hobbling to the glass fixture, her hand pressing against it. It hissed.

It cracked.

-*-

Light.

Blurry, deformed light. It drips into the impenetrable dark which has held you hostage for the last. . .

What? What time is it? How long has it been since you. . .

Your eyes peel open. Nothing makes sense, as the images flashing before you are a mess of colors, like a frantic painting. Sounds too are strange, distorted and muddled. One noise cuts through all of it, dignified, though you don't understand.

You blink. Images clear, shapes are recognizable. Sensation returns to you, and it's _not _burning. You can breathe, though pain lingers. After a few moments, your senses foster tentative normalcy, but how long you can stay conscious you don't know. Weakness pins you down, and movement feels impossible.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, my dear boy."

Some ghoul coalesces into existence next to you, a crimson nightmare hiding behind an unmoving smile. Oh. It's Alastor. He's wearing a surgeon's apron which is stained with blood - your blood, and a part of you fears he's just finished some gruesome experiment.

"W-what," you try to say. Your voice is weak, so unbelievably weak. "What happened?"

Alastor chuckled. "Ho ho ho, your heart was doing its best interpretation of _Silent Night, _but I gave the little fella' a good pep talk and turned it right back into a Broadway show!"

You don't understand. "Where am I?"

"You're _safe, _my boy. You're _home." _Alasator says this as he removes his gown, but his words are coated with such malign horror you feel the opposite of safe.

Realization hits you. Where is Spade!? You start to ask, but Alastor places a hand on your shoulder, attempting to comfort you. All it does is choke you with a dread terror.

He senses your question. "No, no, Anon. Rest now. Everyone is fine. Your companion got you here and he's, oh how do they put it, ah? 'Knocking one back' with our cantankerous cat. The Miss is out, too, attending to some business, but she'll return."

He chuckles. "Seems _you _weren't the only one getting into the cookie jar today. Our beloved Angel saw fit to cause a little chaos. He and his 'plus one' got the city singing the blues, if you catch my drift."

You didn't. Your mind was swimming. Friend? Spade? Spade was alive? Thank fuck. And Angel. . .

Angel was gonna' kill you.

"Of course, you can imagine their confusion once they see _you. _We'll say, ah, you lost a bet, hmm? Too many drinks does that too a man, doesn't it?"

He sneers at you. He's covering for you, but not _covering. _You know his type, you just don't have the strength to tell him to fuck off. He'll hold this against you, as leverage, and you don't want to find out for what.

"Try to feel better, Anon," he says, giving you a pillow and fluffing it. "Oh, I _hate _seeing our dear residents in such pain." His hand covers his forehead, feigning anguish.

"After all, I know _all _about it." He snickers, pulling bed covers over you, in a way one might cover a corpse.

You realize you're in your room as he swaggers off. Before he closes the door, though, he looks to you.

"We _really _have to catch up, Anon." His eyes are scarlet, unblinking.

You grimace as he closes the door. You decide to flip him off. For some reason, though, that proves impossible. Impossible? Why?

. . .

Your left arm is gone.