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It's In My Nature** **

You, admittedly, forgot how to do this.

In previous weeks, you mind was a workshop of ideas, engineering the next big heist, planning, plotting, preparing. Valued marks were limitless in the depths of Pentagram City, and in your thoughts, each robbery was grander and greater in scale, an opportunity for triumph. You started with a handful of explosives and fast feet. A bag of cash and a busy sidewalk. From nothing to something; you tore out the heart of the city's biggest casino - or one of them, anyway. Devil, what a thrill. You felt right. You were good at it. You're. . . still good at it?

You look yourself over, again. A fancy attire compliments your form, suit vest with button shirt and a pocket watch - a touch excessive, but appropriate for the night. You've dashed on a handsome cologne and you even bothered with a ring. Even your mechanical arm is responsive now, free of irritation, and the brass-gold fixture accents your clothing. But this isn't for a robbery. This is for. . . a date.

You straighten your tie. Hmm. This is good, isn't it? This is what you wanted? Of course it is, one part of you answers. You have someone special now, someone worth everything. But it's no heist, says the other. This it? You going clean now? For good? A nice life of bread and water and the occasional bang?

Well, it's an oversimplification now, isn't it? You challenge this logic. Nobody's going that clean. That's ridiculous. Right?

Wouldn't it feel so good to have a gun in your hand, champ? The subconscious continues. The id whispers tempting ideas. The smell of burning cash, sound of gold, the thrill of breaking safes. . .

Not if it means hurting Angel Dust. Not if comes at that cost.

Your subconscious withers. But it's not done. Fine. Fine. But. . . what if you BOTH did it, eh? Criminals in arms? Isn't it so, so perfect?

Your pause. You've been over this. He's been over this.

But dreams wander into your mind, ideas of a reality so close, but so far. A quick job. A bank rush. Ripping off mobs, knocking over armored cars, hell, stealing artifacts from museums! Not alone though, not in these grandiose plans - you've got an extra set of helping hands - four of them. You and Angel Dust, setting this goddamn city on fire with score after score. Coming home to a suite bought on ill-gotten goods while you chat the night away and sleep on towers of cash. The Bonnie to your Clyde. Then do it all over again.

Ain't that such a pretty thought?

It's not what he wants.

How do YOU know?

ENOUGH. Enough. You quiet this beast, this thing lingering in you. An entity of greed - it still lurks. It's in you, it's always been there. Devil. You thought it might quiet down. You thought, after your time with Angel, you'd find something better. And you did! You did! You've never met anyone like Angel Dust. No one so broken and imperfect who, still, makes you feel whole. He's with you, some two-bit alley shanker, some slimy thief taking whatever they please. He doesn't care, he doesn't judge you.

But damn. It's hard. It's hard killing this old habit. It's all you've ever known. It's all you've ever had. You need to be strong for yourself - you need to be strong for him.

You blink. You're getting ready for a date and you've decided to have a miniature existential crisis. Excellent work.

This is the part where the spider says something reassuring, or calls you a shithead, or just stands next to you, creating a sense of comfort. But, he's not about at the moment. He, like the others, is "stuffin' the bra" as he eloquently put it, or in other words, getting ready. This whole thing was his idea - something like a bet? What possessed him to make a wager or suggestion with Vaggie, the Hotel's watchdog, is beyond you, considering neither you or Angel aren't quite in her good graces. But what's done is done - you're going out with Angel, and so are Vaggie and Charlie.

You haven't done this in. . . well, since you were alive. And it wasn't the typical date structure, considering your line of "work." Thieves don't date or build cohesive relationships, they have an escort hanging off your arm for a while, like a trophy, until you find something better. What the hell were you even gonna' talk about? How quick your fingers were? How to crack a two-mechanism safe? How you manipulated and cheated your way through life for personal gain? Or even better, all the close, personal details of you and Angel having a hard fuck every other night?

He barely knew Vaggie. He didn't even know Charlie, the Princess of Hell. What, precisely, do you say to Lucifer's little monster?

-*-

"Are you. . . done yet?"

Angel Dust grunted. "Be a lot easier if you'd stop squirming!"

"I'm not."

"Ya' just did it again!"

Seriously, how hard is it to sit still? Angel Dust was confounded. Getting your hair all done up and pretty-like was an art form, requiring patience and precision. But when your subject won't settle down, it's a headache. He squinted, tongue flicking on his lips as he focused, nestling a fresh flower in a river of shimmering sable hair. He stuck a pin through it, clipped it close, and slowly drew his hands away.

"There. Shit. Was that so hard?"

Vaggie didn't respond. She looked herself over in the mirror, flushing. Her hair was brushed, soft as silk, pinned with a flower of deep red. A form hugging dress accented her frame, complimented by a tasteful choker. A little eyeliner, a touch of eyeshadow, even some lip gloss finished the mosaic of "night out."

Angel Dust nodded, hands to hips, satisfied. "There. Ya' look ready for the streets there, hot stuff."

"Angel. . ." hissed Vaggie in warning.

"Heh, I'm kidding, mostly." He pointed at her reflection. "Sure ya' don't wanna' show off a little cleave? Bet blondie would stare at ya alllll night."

"Angel!"

He raised his hands, defensive. "I'm just sayin! If you're trying to score some gash tonight you might wanna put on the schmooze. Hmm. Then again, don't know if Charles in charge is a tits fan or an ass girl. . ."

Vaggie went beet red. "Leave. The. Room!"

Angel Dust laughed. "Touuuchy. Well, just in case, kinda' lean in at the dinner table, but don't be so obvious about, so that way-"

"Agh!" Vaggie grunted and shoved Angel towards the door, while he continued, gesturing in the air.

"So that way ol' blondie can get an eyeful of that fruitbasket, and then like, brush your hair behind your ear and she'll-"

SLAM. Angel Dust laughed on the other side. "I'll meet you downstairs!" he shouted.

Vaggie returned to her mirror, blinking. She looked good, right? R-right?

"Hmm." Grumble grumble. She glanced at her chest, pressing the girls together. Grumble grumble.

-*-

"Is this okay?"

"Bah!" bleated Razzle.

"Bah," chimed Dazzle.

The duo watched Charlie Magne, daughter of Hell, pace back and forth, her hands pressed together, fingers winding about in anxious strokes. Kind of like a tennis match. Back, forth, back, forth. She wore a formal, yet complimenting red suit, similar to the one from her television appearance. It provided prudency, yet hinted at her gentle curves, tempting with its lack of show.

Her wide eyes went to them. "Are you sure?"

"Baaaaaah," sighed Razzle.

"Bah, bah," nodded Dazzle.

Right back to pacing. Dazzle grabbed himself a popcorn bag, munching as Charlie went to and fro, desk to door.

"I've never been with Vaggie like this," she muttered. "I haven't even left the Hotel since I started!"

She pulled out a line of hair. "Aaaah! Is this a gray hair!?" Palms to lips now, then pulling on her cheeks, features stretched.

"Am I a workahoooolic!?

"Bah!" snickered Dazzle.

"Bah," chastised Razzle, jabbing his fellow Goat Boi with elbow.

"WhatamIgonnatalkabout!?" she continued, sputtering. "Oh, but what if Angel hates me now!? What about Anon, I barely know Anon. . ."

Dazzle snorted. He fluttered to her, grabbed her face, and stared her down. "BAH."

She stopped. Dazzle pointed at the door. "Baah. BAH! Baaaaaah."

Charlie blinked. "I. . . y-yes. You're right. You're right! I can do this. I owe it to the others. I owe it to. . . Vaggie."

Dazzle crossed his arms, hovering. "Bah."

She rubbed her head, straightening her gold locks. "Hah. I guess I am acting a little silly. Um. You two can take care of things while I'm gone? I've got my phone if anything goes wrong and there's an emergency number downstairs, oh, and I think there's a saferoom, ask Husk about it, and Alastor is around, with the, er, other fellow, and I think-"

Dazzle pushed his hoof against her mouth.

Charlie nodded. Right. Time to. . . go on a double date! Hahah, haven't done in it yeeaaars but that's okay, hahahaha. . .

Wordlessly, she left the room, heading for downstairs. Raz and Daz watched her go, waiting until her footsteps were no longer audible. They gave each other a mischievous glance.

"Bah!?

"BAH!"

Once the coast was clear, they scampered off in search for donuts and sweets.

-*-

Door knocks. You didn't even hear them.

It creaks open and in steps the familiar click of kinky boots, accompanied with the dreamy scent of expensive perfume and harsh char of a cigarette. Angel Dust peeks in, glancing at your silhouette.

"Hey, hot stuff, ya finished puttin' on your makeup? We got places to be!"

You blink. How long were you looking yourself over? A while. But only because you were lost in thought. You turn, seeing your date's features through the door sliver. When you do, his eyes light up, whistling. He pushes in, coming to you.

"Aww. Look at you." He drops the harsh, back-and-forth with and offers a sincere smile. "This is real nice, pockets."

You push aside your contemplations. "I thought I'd try another suit." You only have suits.

"Nuh huh," says Angel, gaze wandering over you. Hands come to your neck, tightening tie. "Did this all wrong, smart guy."

He fusses over you as you lift your chin, letting him fix the tie. You can't help but stare. He's enticing, like he's surrounded by a rim of pinkish-white light, and his eyes are terribly inviting, complimented by mascara.

He notices, finishing. "The hell ya' looking at."

"You're very pretty," you say. "Did your hair?"

It seems to catch him off guard. "W-wha? Oh. Ahem. Yeah. Uh. Yeah I did."

He exchanges subjects quickly, flushing, tapping your prosthetic. "How's this feelin'?"

You flex it effortlessly. "Much, much better. Doesn't hurt to move."

He beams. "Goooood." Angel licks his thumb, carefully pressing it against your left cheek. You don't resist as he inspects it, glancing over the snaking scars.

"These buggin' ya?"

You shake your head. "No." Not physically, anyway.

A part of you secretly feared this was too gruesome, even for Angel Dust. A missing arm, a broken body patterned with ugly scars. Angel Dust was always so kept together and fanciful, a taste for everything glitzy and pricey. Why settle for less?

He didn't care though, smiling. "Hehe. Ya' gonna steal my look, Anon," he says, tapping under his black sclera eye. Indeed, Sarin's chemical hurt you deep, and your left vision suffered for it. Soon, it'd be a shade of jet, just like him.

"I think I'm a little far off to copy you, Angel."

He snickers. "Psh. Don't sell yaself short. Lipstick and lace do wonders."

You pause. He's close, very close. Warmth radiates between you two. "Lipstuck, huh. And uh, what kind are you wearing?"

It takes a moment for the question to sink, but once it does, he wears a half-lidded gaze. You can tell he's considering what you imply.

He leans, voice low. "Uh. Heh. Anon if we explore ya' little inquiry we ain't gonna make it out of this room."

"Is that a problem?"

He offers a playful sigh, whispering into your ear. "It's the kind that leaves a smear."

He pulls back, tugging your hand. "Now come on ya' fucking horndog, we gotta go. Not about to get bitched out for making us late."

You breathe. You have to. Hard not to just take him right here and now.

Angel and you stroll to the entrance, where you meet the others. Charlie and Vaggie are there, though faces aflush. They're next to each other, but in an uncertain kind of way. They steal glances, hiding bashful smiles, attempting formality, but you can tell, they're a few words from ripping each other's clothes off. Alas, first there's a dance, and it's called dating.

"Oh, Anon!" says Charlie, clapping her hands together. "You look nice!"

"Yourself as well, Miss Magne," you say with a head nod. Vaggie even gives you a small smile.

Charlie waves you off. "Oh, gosh, please, just Charlie."

Angel Dust looks the pair over. "Wow, that's a lotta clothin. Gonna make it harder to get it off, ya know?"

You give Angel an exasperated look.

"Whaaaaat?" he says, innocent. He makes no attempt to hide his wicked grin. Vaggie rubs the bridge of her nose.

"This was a bad idea."

Charlie clears her throat. "Yes, em. Well. Let's go! The driver is waiting."

You don't know your destination, but you figure it's been planned already. Now comes the rest. The part where you play things as a normal person. Not as a thief, not as Anon: Master Thief. Just Anon. You think, briefly, why this? And then Angel puts an arm around your back and you remember why.

Outside, the sky is painted with its usual strain of reddish pink hues, glistening off the asphalt and the waiting vehicle. A slick black car rests at the front, rumbling in wait, big enough for the four of you and probably some extras. No doubt an easy call for someone of Charlie's stature. As you approach, she pulls open the door, holding at a hand to her beau.

"Miss Vaggie," she says, wearing a playful smirk. Vaggie looks surprised, blushes again, but thanks Charlie and enters. The tension between these two - even you can feel it.

You enter with Angel Dust as the cab speeds off, the both of you doing your best not to chide the other as they gracefully _attempt _to keep themselves under control.

-*-

A screen flashed with trumpeting fanfare, massive banner scrolling over it in theatrical display. A massive bluish icon took center, burning with the proud title CHANNEL 666.

"Good evening vagrants and vagabonds, I'm Katie Killjoy!"

A sinister demoness of snow-white flesh, prim blonde hair, and form-hugging suit sneered at the camera, while her counterpart offered an equally enthused greeting.

"And I'm Tom Trench!"

"And we're the Six-Sixteen news!"

An immediate secondary box appeared on the screen corner, depicting images of chaos throughout Pentagram City.

"More trouble today in the big PC as everyone's favorite gathering of gambling finally burned to a cinder," said Tom. "No one bothered to put out the fire, so everything was lost. Looks like the house doesn't always win!"

"That's right Tom!" cut in Katie. "And that's not all! Billions in invested wealth went right up in smoke, taking a fortune with it! Many prolific gangs across Pentagram City are as poor as paupers now. That means territory is ripe for the ripping!"

Tom laughed. "Wow, now that's a bummer_._ Looks like playing the odds was a terrible idea, suckers!" he chimed, pointing at the screen.

"You are a real bitch, Tom" Katie chuckled, maintaining her professional grin. "But that's not all! Top mob bosses have been found by the dozen, dead and maimed. We've got an exclusive with one of their survivors!"

Footage flashes. A thin, balding demon in a blood covered suit stares at the screen, panic stretching his features. "What are you DOING!? LET ME GO! DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT'S COMING, DON'T YOU KNOW WHAT'S ABOUT TO HAP-"

It fades, the anchor pair laughing.

"Looks like he didn't take his losses so well," mused Tom.

Hox blinked. Not at all.

He leaned back in the couch, tapping the armrest, nursing a drink. More footage rolled on the screen, including camera shots of the van - his van - punching through the entrance of the Sugary Chigurh. The recording didn't last, soon obscured by fire and poison clouds, and there was only the briefest glimpse of four shadows leaving it before ensuing chaos. But it was them.

"Here's to you buddy," he said, raising the glass. "You hit the big time."

Hah, if only right? Boss was always going on and on about big plans and reputation. Hard to yank that out of a few static images and lost footage. A damn shame. But on the plus side, their faces wouldn't be plastered on every corner of Pentagram City as a bounty - not like it mattered much. Gadzooks and Splinters and devil knew who else were done, at this point. How many deep pockets got burned in one night, he never knew, but without capital muscle to shove around, their operations were kaput.

And one bag to show for it.

The television flicked to commercial as Hox knocked his bourbon back. "Quite a display, eh ol friend?"

He nearly spit.

Like a shadow creeping out of the dark, a figure appeared at his side. Or, maybe coalesced, because a second he wasn't there, and then he was. A dapper, malicious yellow grin plastered his pale face, Alastor stepping forth as he watched the screen.

"Must've been quite the rumble!" he continued, crackle of static shading his words. "Such a display of brutality and cunning! Why can't more people be like you and your chum, eh?"

Hox flicked his eyes to the intruder, annoyed. "The hell do you want, Al. Trying to forget you exist."

Alastor wore a face of feigned shock. "Oh! You wound me, sir!"

He strolled in front of Hox, sneering, looking down at him. Much like a man looks at an ant.

"I'm just here for a friendly heart-to-heart, must put a pin in this humdrum! It's quiet when no one's about!"

Hox groaned, looking away. He hated those eyes - possessive and domineering. No point in trying to blow him off. Al was easy on the words until he started making subtle threats. "Yeah. Sure. So, what's on your mind, Al?"

Alastor made a wide gesture behind him. "That, actually! What a peach of a job! Bravo, bravo to all of you! No one's given you round of applause, have they?"

He gently clapped his hands, but in mocking fashion. "Put a fork in that holiday goose, mm? Now the city's looking like a circus without its elephants!"

Hox forced a smile. "I'm a professional.'

"So you are. Tell me, find anything interesting in that vault?"

Hox got the impression Alastor was hunting for something. Not like the Radio Demon was making genuine inquiries or small talk. And frankly, if you were the type he wanted to talk for an idle back-and-forth, brr.

"Gold and cash and the usual shit, nothing out of the ordinary."

Alastor's grin faded by a hair. "Hmmm." He rubbed his chin with a manicured digit.

"So, our mutual, one-armed wonder didn't tell you, did he?"

Hox blinked. He didn't know what he meant. At the same time, he didn't rightly care.

"Who? The boss? He's not the talkative sort."

Alastor chittered with chuckles. "Oh, of that, I very much doubt. He just fancies conversations of the 'flamboyant' sort, if you catch my breeze. Oh, and I dare not judge! No sir, not I! I greet all couples with open arms, because after all, they're the same in the end."

Something about the phrasing sent a cold chill through Hox, but he didn't pursue. Guess he was referring to Anon and ol' kinky boots.

"But I digress. . ."

He turned, looking at the screen. "See the old gent right there, all face o' flutter with fear?"

For a brief moment, the howling old demon from before appeared again, screaming about something or another.

"Yeah."

Alastor's head tilted. "I'm afraid our friend with the fast hands might've let something out he really shouldn't have."

Hox paused, staring at Alastor. Was he serious? The way he phrased this sounded. . . concerned. Holy shit. If something bothered Alastor, then what the fuck was it?

"Good news and bad news!" continued the Radio Demon, throwing his arm. He returned his scarlet eyes to Hox.

"You're employed again, hohoho!' he said. Hox swore. Ah fuck him the ass with three dicks. That wasn't the bad news, huh?

"And?"

Alastor blinked. "If what I think got out, is out. . . that's bad for all of us, hahaha!"

A dread something gripped Hox's chest. Was this a joke? Was he being real right now? Who, or what, could cause concern to the Radio Demon? What the fuck was inside that goddamn vault!? Know what, he'd rather not know.

"I hope your friend is all rested up, because we'll need his particular talents again. Very soon."

Hox tried to keep calm. "What for?"

"In time, my dear boy. In time."

-*-

"I didn't even know you could go this high. . ."

Vaggie looked out the massive pane windows, overlooking the vista of Pentagram City. As always, the hellscape below was awash in pink and red, black silhouettes of buildings popping forth like rectangular fingers, stretching into an endless horizon of light.

Angel Dust snickered. "You're not smokin' the right stuff."

Vaggie was too entranced to notice the remark. Charlie, meanwhile, beamed.

"I thought the view might be a nice change of pace," she said, smiling at everyone.

Indeed, thanks to Charlie's reputation, she had snagged the entourage some ritzy seats at one of Pentagram City's more popular restaurants: Sinai. Things were fancy (as fancy as Hell could get, at any rate), reserved for elite clientele, and you couldn't get more elite than Lucifer's daughter. As such, the four were seated next to a massive window, complimented by black leather seats and regal finery. The atmosphere was calm, populated with elite tiers of demons of varying shapes and colors - calm for the standards of the underworld.

"You know how to pick them," you compliment. Indeed, there's something nice about it, familiar.

Charlie blushed. "You all like it?"

Angel Dust leaned back in his seat, clicking his teeth. "I'm impressed."

"It's great," added Vaggie, looking to her date, with more blushing. You did your best to hide an amused smile. All these two needed was a bit of wine.

Wasn't long before you ordered. Your waiter - a demon with a preposterously thin head - approached with a menu. There were dishes suited for everyone.

For Angel Dust, it was a dish of Panzanella (I'm watchin' my figure!), Vaggie grabbed a light Pastelon (Tastes like home), and Charlie nicked a vegetable stir fry (I don't want to know they use for the meat. . .).

You kept it simple. A rare pan seared steak strip with potatoes, stuff o' the sinner, nice and red. As for drinks, a variation of alcohol and, well. Mostly alcohol.

Vaggie and Charlie were lightweights, the poor dears. Not that you blamed them, they had no reason to bury their troubles at the bottom of a brown glass. But as they sipped, they notably loosened. For Angel Dust this was a warm up. You? Well, spend enough time with grim-faced killers and thieves and you learn - very fast - you better drink with the best of them, otherwise, you're a weak stomach and not right for the job. Doesn't matter if the fancy bourbon tastes like fire and window cleaner, you get it down you.

About a couple glasses in, Charlie was feeling it.

"And you know, you knoooow, they all doubted me. Everybody. Evverrybody," she said, defiant. "No way you can save people down here!"

Her movements were exaggerated, and she was for more giggly than before. "But I said no way! My people are good people. They've got, erm, a rainbow in them. Rainbows and puppies."

Angel Dust was fighting back laughter. Not because he intended to mock her, but tipsy Charlie was nothing short of amusing. Vaggie watched, eyes stuck. Alcohol makes short work of prudency, and she was clearly enraptured by the princess' words. Or maybe it was because she was in proximity to Charlie's gentle, curvy frame.

"Thank goodness for my friend here!" Charlie said, gesturing wide, grabbing Vag by the shoulder, pulling her close. "Oh, but, I guess we're a pair now cause of the date, hehehe!"

They were cheek to cheek. Vaggie was blooming so pink she almost returned to a living hue.

"Uh, r-right, it's been tough!" Her eye struggled to maintain focus and not linger on Charlie's bust.

"Aww, ain't that somethin'," said Angel, clapping his hands. "That's right Chuck! You tell em' what for! Give em' the ol one two fuck you!"

"Yeah!" said Charlie, empowered. She bumped the table with her fist. "Fuck em'!"

You give a hearty chuckle, raising your glass. "Fuck em."

Vaggie blinked, shocked at her beau's lack of control. But she joined in too, raising hers. "Yeah. Fuck em."

Angel Dust looked between everyone. "Who we fuckin' now?"

Glasses clinked. More alcohol down. By this point, Charlie was well beyond sober. Well, good for her. You didn't get to talk much with the Daughter of Hell, but she struck you as surprisingly genuine. Who, in all the underworld, would do the unthinkable? Try to save the unsaved? Hell was the last stop. Your punishment for a lifetime of sin - yet she believed, despite everything, souls were still worth redeeming. For that, deserved some time off.

Charlie leaned into Vaggie, giggling still, glancing at her friend's chest. "O-oh. Vaggie these are pretty big."

Angel Dust gave a knowing smirk.

"H-how much have you had, Charlie?" Vaggie asked. Charlie's eyes rolled, thoughtfully.

"Uhhhh, not enough."

Clearly. In purpose of stress relief, alcohol loosened tongues, and Charlie was content to discuss the problems she faced as the daughter of the Devil.

"Nobody backed me up," she'd say. "'Cept Vaggie!"

Vaggie cleared her throat. "It's nothing. Sometimes we just need a friend."

"One hell of a friend," you complimented. "Takes a lot to stand for something down here."

"Yuh huh," chirped Charlie. "Saaaaaay, speaking of friends."

Now her eyes came to you. "Anon, ya never told me! You came to the Hotel, didn't you?"

You blink. You keep a smile, nodding, but it falters, only just so. "I did."

"Yeah, that was great. I was so happy Angel found somebody who needed help. Must've been a big decision! To want to be better!"

You pause. "Oh. Well, sure. Everyone deserves a second chance."

"He just needed a little convincing," laughs Angel Dust, prodding you, hinting at your first "encounter."

But, this doesn't sit right with you. Maybe it's the alcohol, or the nature of this outing, or how reflective you've been since the vault.

What are you doing here?

The deepest corners of your head laugh. Redemption? Hahaha, what a nice cover story. You don't live at the Hotel because you sought redemption. You needed an easy hideout while you went from mark to mark. After all, who'd mess with Lucifer's little monster?

And in this processing, a strange realization starts to take you. You aren't here for the right reasons. Everyone in the Hotel, in their own way, is seeking a better life. Well, aside from Alastor. You are still - despite your protests - a thief. This entire conversation is an indirect result of your manipulation. You're a liar. Right now, do it, lie.

"Angel has a way with words."

You can lie to them, but not yourself. You still hunger, don't you? You want it all. The only person to change your motives was Angel Dust. You're here because of him. Only him.

"It's hard changing who we are," continues Charlie. "But you have to keep trying."

The thinking stops. Charlie's looking at you, in a way no one in Hell has ever looked at you before. Her smile is welcoming, but her eyes are. . . terrifying. Because it's as if they know. Like she's looking into you. Questioning, perceiving.

Who's stronger then, you, or your nature?

Vaggie cleared her throat. Likely she suspected your motives - at least in the beginning - weren't of good intent. So, she veered the conversation somewhere else.

"Speaking of trying. . . how'd you two even become a thing?" she said, fingers pointing between you and Angel.

You hesitated. Angel, however, knocked one back and laughed.

"Huh? Oh. Pretty simple really, jacked him off a few times and he was awestruck like a little puppy."

Charlie hid her laugh, flushing. "R-really?"

You rub your head, pouncing away from your previous line of thought. "There's a bit more to it than that."

He snickered, kissing your cheek. "Is there?"

Not like you could open up and say, "well, we met when I paid him to deepthroat me and then I started stealing so I could pay him to keeping sucking my cock, and from there we kinda' had a few meaningful conversations."

"Angel the amount of chicos you've been with is. . . a record. What's special about him, really?" Vaggie asked, not phrasing it in the way to insult, just to sate curiosity.

Angel Dust glanced at you. "He's a reaaaaal good listener, I'll put it like that."

When it was clear he wouldn't say more, Vaggie peered at you, perhaps trying to find answers for herself. Probably was a strange thing Pentagram City's most popular whore was - as it appeared - going steady with someone.

Conversation resumes, but the dizziness of drinks is setting in. No particular subject finds purchase and, as is the nature of talking, the four of you jump from subject to subject. As you do, there's something catching your peripheral attention. It's been there, you think, since you arrived. Someone's been watching.

At first, you brushed it off as surprise. After all, the Princess of Hell was in the company of an infamous adult-film star, quite a sight. But they kept glancing, all night, this stranger, sitting at a table not too far from this one. Their scowl wandered to you, then Angel. Specifically Angel. You stole a few stares yourself. The silhouette of the demon was a scrappy thing, a thin figure of scruffy form with ugly, mean eyes. He wore a grimace and a cheap suit. Part of you wondered if he was some surviving mobster. No matter the reason, though, you sensed trouble. He was out for something - and if he had friends, it'd get worse. Maybe he was waiting for Charlie to get drunk enough to do something.

Territories were open, exposed like fresh wounds. Anyone could make a move on anybody, and what better way to send a message then brain one of the biggest criminal names in Pentagram City? Even though Angel was working to put his violent past behind it, others still believed in the mythos of his destructive, lusty persona.

You clenched your fist, leaning into Angel. "I'll be back," you say politely. None of the others sense a problem. You intend to keep it that way.

You excuse yourself and head for the men's room. You didn't look back, but you could feel him move, following.

Inside, you wait, washing your hands. Doesn't take long for the chap to show up, closing the door, and you hear him lock it. Poor boy.

You glance at him. He's scraggly, covered in unkempt fluff. A lot like Angel, in fact.

"If you wanted to threaten me," you say, "You really should've brought a bigger friend."

You're no scrapper by any means, and a thief isn't stupid to stick around for a long fight. But this chap doesn't have size on you, and he looks young, despite his strange arachnid-complexion.

You look at him. He's positively brimming with hate, opening his coat, yanking out a knife.

"Brought one."

He flips it through his fingers. "Didn't think that faghag would be stupid enough to bring a bitch into our territory again, but here we are." His voice was low, like a cold whisper, but draped in malign contempt.

You peer at him. "Haven't I scraped you off the pavement before?"

He takes a step. "Never seen you, fuck boy. But if you're hanging off that worthless prick pumper I don't need to. What a disgrace."

You blink. No, he's not one of the gang members, and you realize he's referring to Angel.

"Really? Slurs? Isn't' that a bit quaint for hell?"

You size him up. One knife anywhere in you is not good. And as it looks, he's got a few limbs. Limbs? He's a spider then? Is he. . .

"You mouth off a lot, just like him." Another knife flip. "Guess ya' good at it when you're suckin' dicks for dope."

One more step. "Tell ya' what. If you blow me, right now, I might just let you walk outta' here with your balls. But if you don't slurp me like Sally down south I'm gonna snip those nuts and force that she-he slut to eat em'."

Arrogant, angry, archaic. A lot of focused hatred towards Angel. He knew him. A part of you wonders if he was family.

What mattered more was the presence of danger. Where there's one, there's always more. Were others waiting in the shadows of Sinai, looking for an opening? Or outside? Who did he report to?

"You're creative, I'll give you that."

You flex your metal arm. Looks like it might come in handy after all.

"So that's a no, faggot?"

You ignore it. Temper does you no good here, and it's a great way to get the _wrong _kind of poke. "Ever been fisted?"

Didn't take much to set him off. You've got two seconds to move, cause he shifts quick. But he's not smart about it, and he telegraphs his lunge like an idiot. You're lucky - he's no good at this at all. Any bigger or swifter and he'd likely make a nice, meaty cut. Your metal prosthetic comes up to receive the blow, stuffing his attack, while the rest of you throws yourself into him and forces him on the floor. Thankfully, he's light.

He struggles damn hard, and he's got extra hands trying to shove the knife into you, but you hold him. For now. The prosthetic is surprisingly resilient, hissing as it keeps his wrist locked. You shake him, battering his head into the cold ground.

"Didn't know you liked being a bottom," you hiss through clenched teeth.

Sounds of struggling rolls between you both as your forms try to gain leverage. But you give no ground and start clenching his wrist, loosening his grip. Harder and harder until you hear the click and pop of exoskeleton. He starts to scream, the knife falling from his fingers, and you take the opportunity to shove your other arm into his neck. He squirms, pushing against your face.

"Fuckingfaggotshitfuck!"

You ball your metal limb into a fist. But you don't punch him - you start pressing it into his mouth.

Careful Anon. You're on the up and up, right? You're trying to leave the path that consumed you, the one of greed and violence. You want to be redeemed, right? You have to keep trying, right?

You don't. A renewed sense of violence finds purchase in you. That dark, immediate black hunger aroused from rage. Not from threatening you, but because he threatened something close to you.

"I don't like the way you to talk."

Your force your fist into his maw, much to the deliberate agony of your spidery assailant. But it's too big, so naturally, it stretches his jaw too far. He gags, spitting and bleeding, as his bones separate and crack. His eyes water up as he realizes what's happening, frantically trying to push you off.

Finally, his movement stops, because he's paralyzed from your actions. You hold off too, but your fist has inflated his mouth. Any further and you'll start diving into his throat. The hungry beast in you stirs.

Come on now, do it. What's stopping you? You've killed before. He's just another smear on the wall.

No. You can be better than that. You don't need to.

Do it for Angel.

Don't you dare. Don't you dare try to use him for this.

Really? He means so little to you then? Listen to this guy. He's crazy. You heard what he was gonna' do.

Stop.

"What's ironic," you say, holding your foe, "Is this probably wouldn't hurt so much if you sucked a cock or two."

Hmph. Disappointing.

You grab the knife. You don't know who this is, but you can guess.

He's looking at you, wide eyes full of fury. If you let him go, he'll scurry for help later. If you kill him now, they might go for Angel instead.

Fuck.

"If you ever come near me or Angel again, I'll shove this thing up your ass. Understand?"

He nods, grimacing, but he's doing it to save his skin. This won't change him. It's his nature. His eyes might be wincing in pain now, but they're still charged with hatred. Any friend of Angel is an enemy of his, that was clear enough.

You rip the fist out of his maw, and it dislocates the jaw, sending blood and teeth everywhere. He moans, howling in agony, pounding the ground with his arms as pain consumes him. You go back to the sink, washing your metal limb, ignoring his desperate pleas.

You unlock the door, stepping over him. This might come back to bite you.

When you return to the group, it's like nothing ever happened. Angel's had another drink while Vaggie and Charlie have loosened up considerably. They're happy, chuckling, lost in conversation. You look at Angel, smiling.

"I think we should go," you offer.

He blinks. "Nnuh? Really? Was about to grab another bleeding mimosa!"

Charlie whines. "Awww, but the night's so young and I'm having fun!"

You need to get them out of here, quick. So, you try something else. "There are other ways to have fun, you know."

Angel Dust blinks. Understanding, he starts to chuckle. "Well toots, ain't that just downright filthy?"

Charlie wiggles against Vaggie, uncertain. "Huh? Hahah, what's happening?"

Vaggie quirked a brow, holding Charlie. "Yeah? What do you mean?"

Angel Dust gave them a mischievous look. "Ever tried a dirty quartet?"

-*-

Pentagram City was no stranger to vices, especially not the most coveted of them all: fucking. Every other corner was a sex shop or brothel of some kind, for whatever the mind might desire. Hotels (no, not their hotel) were also prominent, or rather, quick stops where a pair might find some privacy for a nice romp.

Here, the logic was the same. Once Angel Dust cracked open the door, it was all too apparent what was in store. He pulled you along, kinky boots clicking in easy stride, followed along by Vaggie and Charlie. It was another ritzy affair, in the better part of West Side (if such a thing existed), regal and bathed in warm light. All that mattered, really, were the beds.

Charlie walked gingerly with her partner, eyeing the sheets as she strode past you.

"Are we really-"

Vaggie attempted to speak but was swiftly cut off by the press of Charlie's warm, soft lips. Vaggie squeaked in surprise but didn't take long before she returned with a powerful embrace. Alcohol and smoldering desire made good bedfellows and it was about time to the two cut out the tension.

"Don't be starin' too long, pockets, I might get jealous."

Angel catches your attention. Ah, sweet Angel, always your source of comfort and addictions. You meet him with your own kiss, but it's more controlled. Teasing. You two have done the dance many times now, so there's appreciation in how your lips meet.

Not long and you're on your back, slipped out of your clothes. Angel Dust is the same, bearing his delicate, curved form to you, sitting atop your waist. The slopes of his plump rump squish against your abdomen, while his free hand strokes your face. This is the part where you two enjoy the quiet, were it not for your entourage.

Vaggie and Charlie are not of the same prudent opinion. They strip each other, hungry, letting hands caress and explore their soft skin, white meeting sable. It's probably their first time, so you don't blame them. In this dance, Vaggie is first, bringing her lover to the bed, pressing her to back, lips and tongue tracing over every inch of Hell's daughter, until she mouths at her cleft.

"O-oh, Vaggie, you've never. . ."

She's cut off by her own moan as Vag slips her tongue into the pink tunnel, suckling at clitoral nub. Charlie's form stretches and arches, at the mercy of her counterpart's act.

"I think they're tryin' to race us," commented Angel, his spare arms massaging your chest.

You chuckle. "Ahh, let em' have fun."

Angel just leans, kissing you again. You can taste the gloss. Acting on a hint from earlier, he shifts himself, pressing his backside into your view while he dips and mouths your flank, massaging the flesh with both hand and lips. You groan as his skilled tongue laps at your hardening inches, head tossing in rapid dives, smearing your inches with his act. His slurps and muffled gulps send a thrill into you, and the view certainly helps. You lick your digits and press them into his pink ring, causing him to shiver and moan in surprised delight. You're careful, but your pair of fingers imitates a rhythmic pumping motion, hoping to nuzzle his prostate while he works. It certainly gets him hard, and you're happy to oblige with strokes along his member.

Vaggie and Charlie, in the meanwhile, have hastened their efforts. Their frames are bound together, lips locked, forms dappled with sweat, their fingers slipped into the other. A unison of grinding erupts from them, trading playful bites, touches, caresses - anything they could do. Such is their nature.

Angel Dust finishes his attentions with an audible pop, smooching your bellend. "Mwah!"

For a moment, you grind your digits harder, forcing him to accept your motions as he arches, biting his lip. But it's just a tease, a little warmup, as it always is. He turns, taking position like before, allowing his pink ring to sink upon your pike, a hot sigh leaving him as he does. His own hardened length rests on your belly, while your hand travels to his back. He lifts himself once, then down.

He suckles your fingers while your metal limb explores him. You know him better now, here in this language of flesh, and it hardly matters he's a spider demon. His back arches as you touch it, filling him with tingles. His hips are soft, and you reward them with a squeeze. You hold him close, possessive, like he's a jewel.

Everything melts away in this moment. You forget who you are or what you're doing. Everything clicks now, as you share each other - the one generous thing you can do as a two-bit thief. You want this. You want this forever. And you'll steal, hurt, manipulate, and kill anything or anyone who'd take it from you.

How appropriate, a whore and a thief.

The late evening sizzles into a playful to-and-fro. Charlie and Vaggie peak at a certain point, but it doesn't stop them. There are brief pauses, moments where they pull in breaths, but it's only to regain themselves. Such hungers don't settle for long - the greed for flesh and more, it lingers even in them.

As for you and Angel, it might not be the kinkiest thing he's done, but it belongs to you both. Fuck. Why? Why do you feel this?

You're soft on this spider, a part of you says. Why, Anon, if I didn't know better, I'd say you. . .

What? You what?

. . .

Things quiet down. Now the intimacy settles in. Charlie and Vaggie are beside themselves, worn out, their nake bodies mingled together. You can hear quiet chatter from them, the post-coitus dessert of discovering more about your partner, the rare talk. It's rare, because it exists only in the tenderest moments, where both are most vulnerable. Once you've shared a piece of yourself with another, there's no going back. You're a part of them, and what they decide to do with that gift speaks volumes.

You're as close to Angel as you ever are.

"Shit, wish I had a smoke," he mutters, head under your chin. You remember something.

"Hang on." You fish for your coat, which hangs off bedside, retrieving an object from its inner pocket. It's a cigar. "Knicked this."

His eyes widen, voice low. "Holy shit." He takes it, licking it, admiring it in spare hands. "This a fuckin' Reserve?"

You nod. "Probably. Think I was gonna' resist those deep pockets?" You're referring, of course, to the demons at Sinai.

A part of you fears admonishment, but Angel Dust grins. "Fuck. Tell ya' what, how bout' we share this at home, eh? I'd be a greedy little cock-knocker to take it all for m'self."

"It's yours, Angel."

You can't quite say what you want to say. That you'll steal for him. You will walk into the den of the Devil and pick his pockets if it meant that much, if only the spider would say so.

"Mmmf. Don't spoil me, Anon, I might get too keen on that."

He peers over your head. "How they doin'?"

You smile. "I believe the saying goes 'fucked each other's brains out.'"

Angel Dust chitters, beside himself. "Congrats to em'. When's the weddin'?"

You're both bemused, and a nice quiet forms, the kind where you sort of hold onto each other, the language of the flesh. After a time though, Angel breaks it.

"Eh, Anon. Uh. Can I ask' ya something? Kinda' remembered a favor."

You blink. "Of course. Anything."

His voice is lower now. "I ain't the type to throw cold water on an orgy, but ah. You know. . ."

You sense he's hesitant. "It's all right. Tell me."

"Ehhh well, ol' silver screamer wanted me to ask. Did ya' see something in the big ol' toybox? Ya know, the vault thing."

Now you pause. Images flash into your head. The rotten, repulsive thing hiding in the glass tube, mountainous in scope, a dread voice pounding into your head. You shivered, and you didn't want to remember it. You almost didn't want to tell him - it was Vaggie asking, after all.

"Would you be okay if I told you at home?" It's not the most comforting of ideas, and you don't want to bring it up right now.

He gives you a sincere smile. "Aww, sure babe, sure. Whenever ya' want." He rubs your arm.

"Is it. . . bad?"

You shake your head. "It's not pleasant, I'll say that."

He murmurs. "Oh." Then, a shrug.

"Eh, fuck em'."

Now you snicker, hugging him closer. "If it's scary, will you protect me?"

"Keheh. Big scary Anon, needs a widdle ol' spider to keep em' safe. Heh. Yeah. I got six arms, don't I?"

You're both calm, unconcerned. Unconcerned for what lies out there, out in the dark. For now, you rest, until it's time to leave, where the four of you share a cab back to the Hotel, wearing knowing grins, coming home late, your clothing reeking of alcohol and sex.

There's a strange chill in the air.

-*-

The unforgiving dark.

An impenetrable blackness where no light shines. The corners God forgot and dare not touch.

There in the hills of ash and dust, hidden beneath rivers of old dead, ruinous fingers rose from forsaken earth. Remains, cracked fingers and cyclopean stonework, once the herald of the True Son, the seat of his throne. Now the vista resembled a graveyard, lost. It slept well beyond the rims of the pretender city, so far and so distant the rims of poison neon were no longer visible.

'Twas here the True Son first erected his defiant empire, where all his profane works found purpose. Here his generals resided, his children, and the weeping souls he tormented. Here, the True Son engineered his campaign against the above, to inflict a reckoning. An eternity spent musing over the destruction of all things. But now? Forgotten, forgotten in the dark.

No more.

HEAR ME!

A dread entity coalesced, bearing magnanimous rage. Withered wings and single armed, headless, endless, overwhelming. Cracks of scarlet electricity writhed about it, the dead sky choked with greasy clouds.

And lo, did Abaddon look upon the ancient works, awash with fury. His form festered and splintered, spokes of bone ejected from his flesh, sour skin blossoming with boils. All that was good and holy and magnificent of form, he despised. A rejection of intelligent design, seeping with an uncompromising, unrelenting, unending hatred. He, the General, the Icon of Annihilation, free.

O, GEHENNA! I BRING THE PRETENDER'S HEAD! MY TITHE UNTO THEE, THE FLESH OF MAMMON! THE COWARD'S TONGUE! LET HIS FLESH FEED EARTH AND BLOOD NURTURE THY BITTER MOUTH!

Abaddon, floating high above the ruins of the city, held out the seed to his intent. Mammon's head - the coward. Once disguised, forsaking his title for Macron. The last of them, the jailer, sealing Abaddon away for uncounted eons, ceasing his works. Now gone. The rest of the pretenders would see a similar fate.

But where were his brethren? Akaphalos? Gehennalis? Luris? Gabriel? They too, forsaken and gone? Lord, have you abandoned your ways? Yes, yes you have. This knowledge inspired fury, this weakness.

He flung the skull into the ashen lands. Then, threw his hand into his chest, tearing forth the Tongue of Man, and ugly pike of rancid, black metal, possessing twin forks caked with rust. Abaddon split the air with a headless shriek, flinging himself and striking the ground with his spear, forcing it to rumble and violently shudder as veins of red snaked from the blow, erupting into geysers of crimson and flame.

HENCE, COMES, THE RECKONING!

He forced life back into this rotting pulp, willed his malice into the deep tombs of creation. Resurrect, o' Gehenna, and bring him your giants, your titans, your Nephilim. The True Son has forgotten. He abdicates his duty. His kingdom for a child's world of light and lust.

I will remind you, my lord.

I am Abaddon. And I return. I have plans for your city.