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The Thief and The Spider

The agony of existence.

Something tears into the dead pulp of cursed, barren land, dragging forth slumbering flesh. Rusted chains yank out the carcasses of the long fallen, malign life driven right back into their decaying corpses, setting the hills ablaze with the pained howls of the returned. O' foul breath, o' toxic air, clouded with smog and poison and filth, why is this their return? Their bellowing is a shriek of enraged terror, for to live is to know only torment.

Pillars of profane fire belch and surge from lands of barren black, spiking light into the void of Old Hell. Rivers surge with Nephilic bodies, clawing and scraping out of magma veins, desperate to escape. But there is no escape, because now they live again.

One bursts from the searing ground, hacking and coughing clouds of smog, lungs expunging ancient ash. He claws and tears at himself, for it splinters with exquisite pain, spikes of hot, black electricity consuming every waking nerve in his newborn body. His form cracks, exoskeleton snapping into cohesion, bulbous scarlet eyes filling with sight as muddy reality swims and dances in a confusing display of hellish reality.

He sputters, screams, writhes, pushing himself up, attempting to stand as the viscous muscle solidifies, shifting from a bubbling, boiling soup into something useful. His mandibles sputter and click, antennae flicking, claws tearing at himself, stripping away entrails and remains of the ground's afterbirth. What a way to come into the underworld.

As his eyes focus and consciousness returns, he consumes a sight most chaotic. Skeletal fragments and massive, titanic corpses wail and erupt from the ground, screaming in a chorus of pain as they aimlessly wander the searing ground, mindless, purposeless. Horrific stonework stands defiant like monolithic fangs, glistening against the pulse of fire splurging from below and above, while the sky mourns with crimson energy.

He looks at himself, flexing his jointed digits and elbows, spiked carapace hued an ugly, repugnant grey. He hadn't seen these in. . . eons.

"Oh shit," he hissed, voice crisp and cold, rubbing his head. "Is it wartime already?"

It was the only parallel he could form. What else? His memory was foggy, a slushy pool of milky thoughts, confused and unclear. When last he walked, it was thousands of years ago. Tens of thousands? More? Oh, time was an unkind mechanism, taking all, leaving nothing. He could only capture feelings, sensory experiences from the long-gone days - violence, rage, bloodshed. Swarms, hungry swarms. And the Icon of Annihilation.

Rise.

A dark, icy voice erupted in his mind. It nearly split his exo-skull with controlled fury, and there was only one being capable of that.

Black dot pupils wandered until they saw a herculean mass of flesh, a towering entity sitting above a makeshift throne of cracked stone. The sour skin was broken and ripped in a hundred ways, intestines dripping from its guts. Blisters agitated inflamed flesh and one arm was gone, as was the head. In its other grasp, a repugnant spear with forked tip hissed with heat, scarring the air as it smoldered hot-orange.

"Oh. Hey big guy."

Abaddon loomed over the ruins of Gehenna, observing as new "life" splurged from its rotten essence. The saplings of his rage sprouted, ancient Nephilim long forgotten, forever buried in Old Hell.

Child.

The voice almost brought him to his knees.

"Gagh. Agh! Jeeze. I see you haven't lost your taste for theatrics."

The time is upon us again. The time to lay low all of Creation.

The locust rubbed his lidless eyes. "Really? Now? Can I have like, five more minutes?"

The earth rumbled, a growl shaking the terrain.

Cease your prattle, cease your games.

Sarakk shifted anxiously. "Glad you kept your sense of humor too. . ."

Even though Abaddon bore no head, Sarakk could feel his gaze.

I have ripped you back into existence to serve again, and serve you will.

The locust looked around. "I uh, noticed. But we seem to be short a whole chorus, big guy," he said, gesturing around. Though his memories were disconnected and broken, he could at least recollect grand throne rooms with multiple entities of brilliant armor and power, Abaddon amongst them. Now? This was a graveyard - if graveyards had a lot of fire, anyway.

Our lord has forgotten His way. He has abandoned His works for games and childish delights.

"I like childish delights," Sarakk muttered.

I will remind him by ERADICATING HIS CITY.

Sarakk flinched. The words split the air with a spark of red electricity, vaporizing one of the wandering Nephilim.

But my strength is drained, and I have spent much of it resurrecting Holy Gehenna. I need my powers returned.

Sarakk shrugged. "Could always try a long rest."

_I have RESTED FOR MILLENNIA, IMPRISONED BY THE TRAITOR MAMMON. I WILL REST NO LONGER. _

A torrent of wind swirled and pillars of magma vomited around Abaddon, nearly breaking Sarakk in half with his fury alone. Sarakk raised his limbs, apologetic.

"Okay, okay, no naps, no naps."

Abaddon took his terrifying spear and pointed it at Sarakk.

You. You will go to the false city, and find me His Apple. I will consume it, and be born anew.

Sarakk was. . . nonplussed.

"A. . . fruit?"

It is an object of immense power, and I cannot lay waste to the vile land of light and lust as I am.

Sarakk blinked, looking around. City? What city? There was an endless hellscape and never ending horizon of infinite black. But no city, unless they redlined that in a some kind of demonic census meeting he missed.

"Right. Ah. Well unless I've got a case of the old crazy brain, I don't see a city, big guy."

It is far from us. I willed myself here with my reserves of strength. But now, I will send you back instead.

"Oh."

Below Abaddon, a spire of energy coalesced, a crackling vortex warping into reality, a window. Through the mystic gate, there appeared the distorted image of a place strange and alien to the ancient Nephilim, where towers tore into the sky like fingers of metal, surrounded by fireless lights, draped in noise and chaos unlike anything Sarakk had ever seen.

"What the FUCK is that?" he said, pointing.

Where you will go, and from it, bring me the Apple.

Sarakk rubbed his antennae between digits. "Wonderful. And, how should I go about doing that?"

Follow the Arm of the Saint.

"The what?"

Use the gifts you have been granted, and do not return without it, or you will SUFFER UNLIKE ANYTHING I HAVE YET INFLICTED IN THIS REALITY ALONE.

Sarakk's mandibles clicked with nervous laughter. "Of course. No pressure."

He walked toward the doorway, its distortion crackling with Abaddon's malign energy. He paused before it, wiggling his antennae.

"If I go through this, it's not gonna' drop me from the sky or something, is it?"

GO.

He flinched again, wasting no more time. For the better - the air was coated with the shrill, wailing cries of agonized, resurrected death. Sarakk pushed his clawed limb into the viscous energy, the sensation like hot salt. He grimaced, moving into it, feeling his newly made flesh torn apart as it vaporized into magical essence, sucked into the vortex. With a shrill YEEGH, Sarakk was yanked into the doorway, flung far, far into the distance, to the pretender city, the city of lights, Pentagram City.

His essence flew across the ethereal plane like a yolk, a soul squished into nothingness. His thoughts were stretched, pulled, thrown across the ether, the agony of reality pulled out of his freshly made body. Soon, his soul was tossed into the oblivion of his destination, exoskeleton forced back into its normal state, high above his destination.

Oh no.

As he gained consciousness, Sarakk was treated to the wonderful sight of the alien city far below him. He was falling. His wings were. . . unresponsive. Pinkish light danced over his grey carapace while the Nephilic locust flailed, thrown to his destination like a stone to a lake. The massive thing of gargantuan shapes and blistering neon swam up to him as he dropped to the ground, landing into the unforgiving asphalt with a clunky thud. He'd splatter, but the nature of his forgery was resilient, and not even a catastrophic fall could crack his shell. Still hurt though.

His mandibles stretched as he screamed into the rock, pushing himself up, again. He clasped his head, cracking it, eyes blinking, refocusing. What lie before him was. . .

"What."

Sarakk didn't understand. What. What!? What was this? Before him, saturated in bizarre, reddish colors was an orgy of shapes and sounds completely foreign to him. They were like spires and mountains, organized into precise shapes of metal, coated with fire, except not fire? The roads were loud with a raucous of voices and chittering and abhorrent music, filtered through the buzzing of enormous mechanical steeds. Around him, things of strange colors and shapes and sizes eyed him with bemusement, coated in attires and markings so bizarre Sarakk wondered if any of this was even real.

And he was supposed to find an arm in all this?

His antennae wiggled. Arm. Limb. Apple. He needed some kind of clue. . .

"MOVE IT YA FUCK!"

While he was lost in thought, one of those wheeled abominations was behind him, blaring a terrible sound, like a loud, squawking goose. Sarakk peered over, and there was a demon, inside the beast? Sarakk stared, but moved out of its way, watching it bolt past him in a stream of smoke. He wanted to stare, but something else caught his attention.

To his side, hidden behind a veil of glass, strange boxes were stacked upon each other, shivering with images of demons. Sarakk boggled. It was like they were miniature forms of themselves, yet, there was one for each one of the bizarre cubes, all completely in sync, pictures flashing over them like a living book. What was this black magic and where could he get more of it?

As he stared, dumbfounded, something else of interest appeared. One of the figures, a woman of pale white flesh and sinister features, talked next to an image of. . . the Daughter of Lucifer? That's what it said under the image anyway: Charlie Magne, Daughter of Devil, Discusses Passion Project.

"What?"

No fucking way. Lucy settled down? Really now? Did he grow out of his edgy phase and find a nice woman to drain all the poison out? Apparently so. As the images continued to flick by, other words emerged, accompanying the picture of a massive red building: HAPPY HOTEL. Oh. Oh, by his lucky abdomen ass. If he was making sense of this dizzying blast of imagery, it appeared Lucy's little monster housed herself in a fortress of sorts. Now, if anyone had a grip on the where and what of ancient artifacts, it had to be the Princess of the Underworld. He could just ask her all polite like!

Hi there, I'm a Nephilim. Happen to know where the Saint's Arm is? I need it for my master so he can continue his job of TOTAL GENOCIDE AND ERADICATION OF YOUR ENTIRE CITY.

Sounded reasonable in his head. And hey! If she didn't tell him, he'd just eat her! All he had to do now was find this Hotel. . .

"Pfft, reruns," grumbled someone next to him. Sarakk looked. It was a thin little thing wearing some kind of hooded sweater. Sarakk beamed.

"HEY BUDDY!" he clicked, yanking the demon close. "You know that place there on the magic picture thing?" he pointed to the happenings behind the window.

The demon squirmed, trying to push off. "H-huh? Hey, get off me man!"

Sarakk shook his head. "No, no, no, the picture," he clicked, squishing his newfound friend into the glass. "That, that, where is that?"

Again, the demon tried to break free. "LFF GFF OF ME!"

Sarakk sighed. Well, sorry new friend. He clenched his articulated claw and squished the pulpy life out of his capture, cracking ribs and guts with casual ease. The blood seeped from his fingers like sticky oil, others shocked and forming a veeeery wide path around Sarakk. Why? Well he was hungry.

"Fine," grumbled the locust. "Guess I'll find it myself." He kicked a pebble on the sidewalk, forlorn. Well, he had a snack at least. He brought the body to his cutting mandibles, which devoured the fresh meat with precise, hungry cuts.

It tasted awful!

-*-

Two pockets of scarlet glared into you, carrying with them an untold malice, hiding schemes and plans and ideas only ever known to the mind which conceived them. A loathsome, yellow grin accompanied posh spectacles, scarlet suit masking the utter brutality of the one who wore them.

Alastor kept his eyes locked on you, a specimen who always fancied his mechanisms for control, whatever it was. His true purpose was never clear, and you hated him for it. But, you also respected him, too.

"It's so nice for us to finally have a chance to catch up," he said with an amiable tone, accented voice tinged with chaotic static. "How are things? How are you feeling? How's the arm?"

You tapped the table. Bastard knew what he did. You weren't alone though, Hox was with you, sitting at your side, equally annoyed. The dog was right from before - Alastor was calling in his leverage; to what end you didn't know. But you were about to find out.

"Well enough," you toss back. "I almost want to thank you."

He chuckled. "Ho ho ho, think nothing of it, my dear boy. I was happy to perform a little impromptu surgery, been such a while. . ."

He licked his lips, cherishing the thought. You shivered, chills running through your flesh. He clapped his hands together. "But, as much as I'd relish the opportunity to stroll down memory lane, there are pressing matters at hand!"

Hox glanced at you, grimacing. He looked nervous, and that made you nervous. If a veteran like him was ill at ease, what was going on then?

Alastor peered down at you. He wasn't sitting, just smiling, arms behind back. "Tell me Anon, I don't wager you're a fan of the ol' Sunday shine? You know, choirs, preachers, and kneeling."

You blink. "You mean, church?"

He laughs again. "Religious. You're down here after all." He doesn't wait for you to respond.

"I didn't think so, otherwise our little back-and-forth wouldn't be necessary. Now, I admit, it's been a spell since I ran through the Latin Vulgate, but I'm no stranger to the fascinating tales of heroics. . . and horrors."

Hox tapped his foot. Fucker really liked the sound of his own voice. Well, he was the Radio Demon, just wished he'd get to the point.

Your heart sinks. You think you know what he's getting at.

"After your bangarang of a hit-job on everyone's favorite den of debauchery, you saw something, didn't you?"

You hesitate. You consider lying, but why? You can't help but think every word you utter, everything you say, he's twisting into some profane scheme, and you want no part of it. But Hox pulled you to the side, said this was important, and now here you are.

"Yeah."

For a moment, it looked like Alastor's grin faded. "Ahh, as I thought, as I thought. Well let's pop this chardonnay, then! I'm afraid, my dear boy, the precious prisoner your peepers purloined was an old acquaintance of mine, and he's a fellow none too pleasant, let me tell you!"

He gestured to you, as if apologetic. "I'd be a downer at the ball if I laid the blame on you for his escape, Anon! But alas, escaped he has, and he is upon us. Abaddon is as rife with malt vinegar as ever."

The name hit you like a hammer. Abaddon. A darkness clung to the words, like the very utterance tainted the fabric of reality in its proximity. Fear came too, for memories flashed backed to the glass prison, the wretched carcass within, chanting its barbaric tongue into your soul, demanding freedom. But you didn't let it out! Impossible! How could have it gotten free? The fire?

And then. . . and then you remember Sarin. Sarin who fell in the hole. Her caustic body melted everything. Oh, fuck.

"You almost sound like you're afraid of the guy," chide Hox. Alastor's searing gaze flipped to him.

"Oh, I've just got respect for his work, is all! Endless, ruthless slaughter, ho ho! What a show! He'd make for great primetime radio, I say! But. . ."

You cut in. "What's this have to do with me? Or him?" A gesture to Hox.

Alastor gesture's wide, his eyes flashing. "Everything!"

"If our friend from the furious fires has his way, then everything is curtain calls! Cut the broadcast, stop the presses, cancel the show! You, Hox, this pretty little Hotel and fun dive of a city all go up in a carnival of carnage!"

You notice Alastor leaves himself out of the scenario.

"So! We can't let that happen, can we? But not to worry, Alastor's got a plan, you see. And good news, it's the heist of a century! Simple, easy, no vans required. But it'll need you two and that fancy arm of yours."

You blink. A heist? The greedy beast within you sniffs as if offered fresh food. What kind of heist? What's the score? What's the reputation? But just as a small part of you gets excited, the other shoves in. What about Angel Dust? You're trying to get better for him, aren't you?

"Why the arm?" says Hox. "And if it's such a big deal, why not a bigger crew?"

Alastor looked as though he was hiding a secret most delicious.

"Three's a crowd! I'm afraid any more tagalongs and you'll attract His attention. No no, this is a smash-and-grab, if you'll forgive the phrasing. You see, you're going to steal Eden's Apple. Right from the vault of ol' Lucy Himself!"

Hox sputters. "What!?"

Alastor adjusts himself, pleased. "Yes. The Apple is an object of incredible power, you see. One grows every thousand years. Or, was it thousand thousand? Anyway! That little McGuffin is our ticket to an Abaddon free future! Hopefully!"

Holy shit. Stealing from the Devil Himself. . . like you always wanted. The scope of it alone is thrilling. Christ among the dead, if you could put that in a syringe and shoot up you'd never move again.

"You can't be serious," said Hox. "How? How the hell is any of this gonna' work!?"

Alastor held out a manicured hand. "It's complex, yet simple. Lucy's got an arrogant streak, so He never expects anyone to steal from Him. And it's hard getting to His fancy closet in the first place. So, I'll transport you both right in the heart of where you need to be! Right at the door! And all you need to do is get it open."

He looks between you. "You're both trustworthy and clever enough to get the job done, I think. Open the door, get the Apple, and we have ourselves a source of power to run a wrench into Abby's big comeback tour! Of course, you need the arm to hold it, oh yes. That's a whopper of energy and it'll turn you into party confetti in a snap!"

The weight of his plan settles over you. The dynamics are straightforward, at least, though the rest is murky.

"What kind of door are we talking about?" you say. You need more than a description, if more even exists. Who has even attempted to steal from Lucifer? Did they survive?

He sneers at you. "The kind I expect you to open. But think outside the box. Lucy is not a conventional fellow. No doubt his security is. . . unconventional. I leave the ingenuity of its opening to you."

You look him over. Convenient. He gets to sit on the sideline while you risk your neck.

"What happens when I get it, Al?" you chide. "Come back and just hand it over?"

Alastor pauses. It's clearly been on his mind. In fact, before the release of Abaddon, perhaps this was a long-term goal all along.

You know he wants to say yes.

"I'll let you decide, my dear boy."

For the first time since you've met him, you can tell this truly agitates Alastor. It's hard to detect, but his tone is flat, irritated. Even his grin can't hide his disappointment in losing out on such a prospect. At least he has enough self-control leave it to you, whatever the decision is.

Even Hox is wowed. "Really? How kind of you, Al. What's to stop the boss here from doing something wonky himself?"

Alastor chuckled. "Why, nothing at all! But keep in mind, anything that deviates from putting the kabosh on Abaddon's motives will have all of the city as peppy as a cemetery!"

So, stop him or everyone dies.

You did consider the alternative for a moment. What the Apple could do, you weren't sure, except grant tremendous strength. With that, Devil knew what you could accomplish. But dare you serve yourself, everyone else would suffer. Including Angel.

"I get the idea," you say. "How's this. . . Apple supposed to work anyway?"

Alastor scratches his chin. "Afraid I only know so much! It bends to the deepest whim of the holder, but only one. Beyond that, anyone's guess!"

Great.

"And we're getting there how? You're transporting us?"

Alastor cackles, cold and dark. He leans. "Now my boy, if I reveal all my secrets, that'd be no fun. Rest assured, you can only get there - and back - with my help. So yes, just think of it like an exclusive cab service, and I'm the driver!"

Hox flinched, groaning. "Straight into an early grave."

More chuckles from Alastor. "No, no, goodness no. Hox, my good friend, if I wanted to kill you. . ."

He leaned, teeth flashing like knives, the air around him quivering, trembling at the dark energy roiling from his body.

"I'd do it myself."

Hox looked away. You had the urge to take a swing at Al, but even you weren't that stupid. He and Abaddon, they were kin of the same, wretched blackness, cut from the cloth of hate and death. One just wore a smile.

Alastor straightened. "So, Anon, what do you say? All in for this little shindig? It's an opportunity of a lifetime!"

He stops, making a little 'oh' face. "Or, rather, death."

You don't answer at once. You heard him, but didn't process. The gravity of all seeped into you like a viscous river. Stealing from the Devil Himself, the dream of a thief like him. The cherry? Fruit of Original Sin, something of such strength it could counter whatever this Abaddon had in store. With it, he could do anything. He could make himself the greatest thief that ever lived. He could rewrite reality! He could start over! He could. . . he could make a world for himself and Angel. But. . .

"Do I need to wish for Abaddon's death?" you ask. It's that simple, isn't it?

Alastor's smile falters, shaking his head. "Abaddon is immortal, my young friend. And the real deal. None of that wishy-washy, hocus-pocus. You can't destroy the Destroyer! You'll have to get creative."

You scoff. "What? Why don't you just tell me?"

Hox was nonplussed too. "Yeah, Al. You'd think in the face of total annihilation you'd give us the magic word."

Alastor, again, laughs to himself, and it's a sick, vile cackle. "I'm too excited to see what happens."

Christ, what a psychopath.

Damn. So outright wishing for the death of Abaddon was off the table. And so was everything else. You didn't think yourself clever enough to pull off some kind of masterful wish which could give you what you wanted and remove Abaddon as a threat. If there was even the slightest hint at losing everything, losing Angel, then none of it was worth it.

Angel. . .

A cold chewed your insides. What could all this cost? What was the risk?

You feel a fool for asking it, but. "Is this dangerous?" You stare at Alastor, hopeful. Hah. Your fate in the hands of a nightmare.

"Not if I put you in the right spot at the right time."

He looks between you and Hox. For the first time, he says something honest. "Now boys, we might not be on the friendliest terms, but make no mistake, if there was a time to trust me, it's now."

Hox made a noise like he was digesting a piece of rotten meat. "Oh that's just fucking peachy."

Alastor looks at you. "Satisfied?"

No, of course not. A few hours ago, everything was okay. Your worst concern was the potential fallout from giving Angel's stalker a maimed jaw. Now? What the hell happened?

You were paying the price for your greed.

"All right," you finally say.

Hox rubbed his temple. "Guess I better get wasted and make a go at the Bois."

He springs up, getting away from the meeting as fast as possible. You can't blame him, just hanging around Alastor inspires a sense of dread. You stand too, taking a breath.

"Alastor," you say.

"Mm?"

"I'll do this, but. . ." your thoughts go to the only thing that matters in this fucking hellscape. "Give me some time."

Alastor sneers, a "comforting" hand on your shoulder. "Savor all the hours you need."

Hours, more precious than all the gold, money, and wealth in every vault of the underworld. You can't buy more time.

-*-

You confide in the only soul you trust, drown yourself in the river of his company.

Angel Dust let you in with casual acceptance, and it's here, in his little web of pink and gold, his room, you feel welcome. It's home. Naturally, Fat Nuggets does all he can to enforce this, nudging you as you rest on the bed, oinking playfully. He prods you with his flat nose, and just as you reach to pet him, he scrambles away.

"Hey, hey, easy Nugs, don't muss my sheets!"

Angel spies the antics of his angel in mirror reflection, glancing to see the troublemaker crumple the pink silk with feverish hooves. Fat Nuggets doesn't mind this, running around in frantic patterns until squeaking and falling off the bed. Angel rolls his eyes.

"Told ya'."

The running continues, but this time along the floor.

"Little fucker is more trouble than he's worth."

You chuckle. Your better half is preoccupied managing over himself. He's applying mascara and eye-shadow in precise, meticulous fashion. It's an art form, really, how focused he is to achieve his characteristic look, and you could watch him do it all day. Every color is carefully selected, every tool the right kind. His mirror doubles as a cabinet, and along the shelves are dozens upon dozens of different hues, shades, and powders. His ammunition, his arsenal, fit for every occasion. Despite everything, despite his habits and violet tendencies and want for drugs, this side of him shows you the complex, thinking person behind his spidery persona.

If there was anything you could steal, it'd be this moment.

"Well, he's not a cat," you say. "What did you expect when you got a pig?"

Angel scoffs, but his gaze remains on his reflection. "Hey! Don't take his side! You know how hard it is to wash those sheets?"

"We've done worse."

"Yeah, I know a thing or two about cleanin' jizm, pockets. Hoof marks ain't the same."

You chuckle, attention going to the television. Anything to distract you, really. Company with Angel is bliss, and the warmth of watching the world pass by on a screen lets you escape the reality of what's ahead. Alastor's plan is like a mountain, and you must carry it. If you don't act, then the only thing you care about in Pentagram City will cease. But you don't know what's ahead, and you don't know what you'll decide. There's nothing worse than a heist without a plan.

"Almost done?" you say. "I miss you." You're half joking. Half.

Angel grumbles. "Don't rush me! This ain't the liquid shit, perfection takes time."

Time, something you wish there was more of.

Angel finishes with his applications, using a lengthening wand to get his lash just right. Not too much, not too little, enough that it grants his lashes an effeminate edge. He sets his wand aside and gently busies to eyeshadow, carefully pressing it into his lids, creating a timid, pinkish hue. Demon Lips, you think it's called? You're not sure. Makeup to him is like guns to you.

Wait, that's not accurate either, he knows his way around a piece. When he's not busy putting glaze on his lips, he's cleaning the barrel of one of his choppers or various death-dealers. You've even asked him about it.

"What? Yeah, those old typewriters got a bunch of fuckin' residue from the shootin. Bitches went slamfire on me once, wasted the whole goddamn mag!" he'd say.

"Ugh, don't even get me started on the drums. Clunky fuckers, heavy, jam half the time. Box mags! That's what won the streets, baby!"

In fact, he might know more than you.

You hear him sigh in satisfaction, clicking shut his applicator, giving himself a few once overs. He spins in his chair, gesturing to his features.

"How's it?" he says as you glance over. He shifts his cheek, the light catching his makeup.

"Tried somethin' else, added a new primer. Makes the pink stick better, y'know? Makes it pop."

You understood some of that. "It pops," you say. He's not satisfied with your answer.

"Wha! Hey! At least humor me, ya' fuck!"

You rumble with chuckles. "Angel, I'm a plebian when it comes to this."

He crosses his arms.

"I think you're the prettiest thing in this whole fucking city."

He tries to fight back a smile, feigning annoyance. "Oh, so I'm a thing huh."

You play along. "That's right. You're my pretty, gorgeous, thing.'

Now he flushes, but not from the makeup. You gesture to your left eye, which - as of now - has gone pitch as midnight. You can scarcely see through it and the only thing left is a blank, white pupil.

"Besides, cut me some slack. Only got one of these bad boys now."

Angel frowns. "Nm? Huh?"

You shrug. "It's curtains for leftie."

"Oh. I thought you got better. Shiner ain't worth shit now?"

You shake your head. Angel deflates at this, and you don't like that. It's not what you came here to do.

"Hey, it's fine. I've still got a good one, and right now, what I see is looking really fucking good."

Angel huffs. "All right, if ya' say so. Guess' we match now."

Again, you chuckle. "Yeah! Twins. Just missing the lipstick, the dress, the mascara."

". . . the better taste in alcohol, guns, drugs, music."

You adore this cheeky fuck.

You pat the bed, you're tired of him being all the way over there. "Come on, pretty boy, you're killing me."

You hunger for his proximity, his company, his strength. Sure, he might look like a princess in distress, but frankly, he's the rock here. Angel Dust is certain in himself, his goals, who he is. He understands and accepts his condition, his addictions. More than you can say for yourself, a beast chasing its own tail, without clarity of who it wants to be. Are you still a thief? No, you challenge, you're trying to be better, for him. And yet, your dark impulses, the specimens of violence, manipulation, want, they return.

Angel is the only one who makes sense to you, in all this.

He stands, sauntering over to the bed. He's in something a bit more casual - another t-shirt but with high-cut shorts coming right up his thighs.

"Don't tell me what to do," he shoots back playfully, Fat Nugget prodding his master's ankle. Angel gives the oink a few pets before relaxing on the sheets.

"Okay. Don't get in the bed."

He glares at you, smirking, gesturing to himself. "I'm already here!"

You're quick to sneak an arm around his shoulder, gentle with the prosthetic. "Yes, yes you are."

He releases a pleased sigh, side falling into yours. He can't help but glance at your face, noting the black sclera.

"Can I see?" he asks. You don't answer, but instead tilt your head, letting the light flick against your scarred face. With care and diligence, Angel studies it, peering at your sightless eye. He takes a gold lighter from his nightstand, igniting it right in front of the blackened oculus.

"Nothin?"

You shake your head. "It's all murky."

He squints, setting the lighter aside. "Hrrfm. I can see through mine. I don't get it."

You aren't sure either. "It was toxin. Probably fried the nerve."

Warmth blossoms in your chest. He always dotes on you in the smallest ways, even over a grim subject like this. It makes you feel like you're important to at least someone.

He grumbles again.

"You're cute when you're frustrated," you say.

He glares at you. "Oh, glad my sufferin' amuses ya', ya' prick." He doesn't mean it though - at least not now. His snarky, sarcastic demeanor hides a deep, sweet soul. A broken soul, like you, but it's there, and that is what draws you to him.

You don't want to keep talking about yourself - he's important to you too. Once more, the notion of what's ahead, what you have to do is. . . it frightens you. Just for now, you want to forget, and be with him, and pretend tomorrow everything is okay and that Abaddon is a bad dream.

At the same time, you notice he looks a bit on edge. He's cozy with you, but tense.

"How've you been feeling?" you ask, giving him with an assuring rub.

His extra hands wiggle together, fingers tapping. "Urrgh. How'd you put it?"

He looks at you. Uh oh. "Fuckin' sucks."

You're alarmed. "What? What's wrong?"

He clenched his teeth, sucking in air. "Aww, oof. Pockets, this shit's drivin' me crazy. Notice somethin' different about me?" he said, holding out hands.

He continues before you answer. "Ain't got a blunt or a somethin' to shoot up or a goddamn drink and I'm fuckin, NNNG!"

Angel holds himself, frowning. "This is hard, this is haaaaaard, Anon. I don't think I can do this. This clean shit. I mean I figured I'd have a tumble or two, then I'd just get back up on that gay-ass unicorn and float into sobriety."

He waves his hands. "Weeee. Goin' straight. Oh I can't fuckin' wait when I get my harp n' halo! Oh, that'll be the fuck'n best! Gonna' jack off with the other angels about how much I hated gettin' fuckin hosed and suckin' dick!"

It's funny, but, there's genuine pain from it.

"Angel. . ."

Your number one throws his hands in the air. "Flah! Ya' think I don't know they're lookin' at me, eh? Blondie and bitchy? Just waitin' for me to fail. Ohhhh they love it, so they can say, 'tut tut, poor Angie wangie, he's such a troublemaker!"

His rant continues, tossing his hair like he's Charlie, mimicking her voice. "Oh I know, I'll sing a song, THAT'LL FIX EVERYTHING!"

He's. . . hitting a wall.

"Husk'll suck back a shitty bourbon and do his 'told ya so' routine and ice-queen will do that stupid rubs her nose bullshit! And then what!? HUH!? What do they WANT!?"

You wanted to say something, but he didn't relent, glancing to you now. "I was a somebody, Anon! Big FUCKIN' deal! I'd get wine and dined by the bigwigs from every Side of this shit city! Paraded around like I was a goddamn diamond, and I WAS!"

His eyes glistened, pointing at the wall, pretending to be an admirer. "'It's Angel! It's Angel! Can you sign my dick!?' And I'd wink and they'd jizz their undies."

"I got bigger," he continued, voice lowering, "than my own family. I fisted this fuckin' town, and then I gave it the best blowjob it ever had. Had a whole room for just guns, and another one for blow!"

He rubbed the side of his head, gaze downcast now, staring at the sheets. "Noon I was flyin'. White lines, Lucy, buzzin' on E, and maybe a few shots just for a kicker. Now? Suckin' cigs by the carton tryin' to fight it off. All that weak shit Husk passes me? Fuck! I whipped up nail-polish and grape juice to get a buzz!"

Hearing this, your heart. . . hurts. Angel, admittedly, is strength to you. But how could you be so naïve to think he wasn't having problems? And you never asked?

But also, why was he doing this to himself?

"Now. . . this." A wide gesture to the room. "I'm here, with you."

Immediately, he flinches. "Ah! I-I mean, I didn't. . . not like that. . ."

Much like Angel has comforted you, time and time again, you will do the same. "It's okay, it's okay."

Was this the opening to a cruel joke? A thief and whore sit in a room, and they ask how can they be better? Except, there's no punchline, and no one's laughing. Why are you trying to be better? Why? To feed the ego of Lucifer's daughter? It wasn't Angel's pursuit of sainthood that drew you to him. Hell, like you always remind yourself, you don't belong here. You didn't come to the Hotel for redemption.

He growls. "Nnnng, no!" Rubbing eyes, fighting back tears.

"I just put this shit on," he hisses, referring to the mascara.

The beast within you sniffs, aroused by dark temptation.

"Do you. . . ever want to go back?"

He sniffs. "To what?"

"Old life. Everything. Drugs, violence, all of it."

He pauses, taking a long while to respond. A deep breath. Then. "Yeah. Sometimes."

He closes his eyes, chastising himself with a bitter chuckle. "Listen to me. Anon. Fix this. Please, fuck. Please FIX me!"

You go cold. What!?

"Angel!"

Your prosthetic leaves his shoulder, going to hand, squeezing it (carefully). "ANGEL!"

He recoils. "What?"

"Listen to me. Listen to me. You don't have to do this to yourself."

Now, his gaze snaps to you, not understand. "H-huh?"

What are you saying? He's trying to get better, that's not a harmful quality. And yet. . . he's giving up everything that makes Angel Dust him. He was happy. Maybe a bit self-destructive, certainly violent, but goddammit, it's Hell!

"There is nothing I need to fix. You are Angel Dust. You drink, you sleep around, you do drugs. So be it. So fucking what? Who are we trying to impress?"

He shrivels. "I. . . I don't know Anon, it don't feel right."

You sigh. "I'm just a two-bit thief, right? Can I fix who I am? I don't know. But. . . you're stronger than me, Angel, you. I look to you for advice. And I don't care what you do, or what you decide. I'll always be with you on it."

He rolls his eyes, in disbelief, voice cracking. "Yeah? Well what if I decide to be perfect?"

You offer a small laugh. "Angel, I didn't fall in love with you because you're trying to be pe-"

. . .

You freeze. You catch yourself. Anon. Oh. Oh, Anon, what?

Your heart explodes, a mix of surprise, excitement, and anxious fear. The words are heavier than a hundred mountains, the reality clear. Your feelings have finally come to fruition. It's permanent. No more deception. You can hide it no longer. It's been with you, this sensation, all this time, and now. . .

Angel Dust stares at you. You don't look back, afraid. You can feel his soft eyes burning into you. He shifts, moving his frame in front of you, wide gaze locked to yours.

"What the fuck did you just say?" he says, tone low, voice trembling.

You don't know how to answer. All you can do is feel! You can't think!

"I. . ."

Before you can even process a response, he's on you. His lips collide with yours, a maelstrom of hot, yearning energy sparking between your forms, his four arms swinging around you and gripping hard, harder than anything he's ever touched. You're almost shaking, and you embrace him with equal gusto, gentle with your prosthetic, hungrier and wanting.

It's like you've kissed for the first time. It's as if, now, you're both real, and everything is clear. You squeeze his lithe back, you brush his head, you keep him close. He is precious to you. Forget the world! Forget the city! Forget everyone else! There's only one thing in this entire universe that fucking matters to and he's right here! Here in your arms!

For the briefest moment, he breaks it, spare hands holding your cheeks, staring into you. He's not perfect, yet he is. His gorgeous, soft face, dotted with pink freckles and soft snow-fluff is greater than all the treasures and vaults combined in this scummy underworld. You want him. You want Angel Dust, with all his flaws, his problems, his lusts, his desires. You want this goddamn spider, words you never thought you'd ever, ever think.

His voice is low, soft, and hot. "Fuckin' idiot." Again, your lips embrace. The world melts away.

You will keep this, cherish, protect this. Whatever it takes. Lie, manipulate, destroy, kill, steal, anything and everything.

No one will ever hurt him so long as you exist. Not even a fucking god.

It now means, no matter what, you have to get the Apple, if for no one else but him.

Anon. You fool. You're in love.