Chapter Text
Three months had passed since your arrival in Hell… and subsequent mental breakdown.
You remembered it like it was yesterday. Stepping off that elevator and seeing that blood red sky for the first time, unable to tell whether it was day or night. Taking in the sight of the sinister city before you and the twisted, inhuman creatures prowling its overcrowded streets. Watching said creatures maim, murder, and otherwise brutalize one another right out in the open. Wondering what the fuck was going on, what you’d done to end up here—you couldn’t remember that part—and when you were going home, because this horrible place certainly wasn’t home. It wasn’t where you were supposed to be.
Welcome to Hell! an ominous neon sign read from the roof of a rundown butcher’s shop.
You remembered falling to your knees on the side of the road, tears streaming from your eyes, screaming bloody murder with your hands over your ears. Collapsing onto your side, nose stinging from the acrid stench of the world around you. Hearing “ Somebody shut that bitch up! ” before blacking out.
You remembered waking up later in the exact same spot; apparently, not a soul had cared enough to move you. When you finally came to, and realized no one would bother to help you, you set out to help yourself. This couldn’t be Hell, you told yourself. That couldn’t be possible. This was all in your head, and if your head was to blame, you needed someone to set it straight.
As it turned out, there weren’t really any mental hospitals in Pentagram City, or the rest of Hell for that matter. Go figure. But there was, as you discovered, a “Community Center for the Mentally Fucked” on the far side of town. You checked yourself in immediately, and thus began the next three months of the most unorthodox “treatment” you’d ever received. Three months of the best Hell (it really was Hell, you quickly learned) had to offer in mental health resources. Saying it wasn’t what you’d hoped for was an understatement.
But it was better than being out there.
You stood outside at the top of the front steps, wringing your hands together. During your time here, you’d made an effort to look at the city and its grotesque urban landscape as little as possible, but you were looking right at it now, filled with dread. It was an image you were going to have to get used to, because any minute, your ride would be here.
“I’m not sure I’m ready,” you murmured.
“You’re ready,” Dr. Whyle replied. “You were ready two weeks ago.”
You looked down at that. Whether that was true or not, it didn’t mean you wanted to go. This place sucked, but at least there was routine. Familiar faces. Relative safety from murderers, cannibals, and other assortments of criminal assholes Pride had to offer.
You couldn’t believe that this was your life now—or rather, afterlife. Just like on Earth, you had to go out and get a job and work for the rest of your pitiful existence. Why did you have to pay bills in this nightmare version of Brooklyn? Why couldn’t you just get tortured with red-hot pokers?
You sighed. There was no point avoiding this any longer. As much as you wished you could ignore the rest of Hell, you couldn’t spend a hundred, maybe thousand years rotting away at the Center. Even if Exorcists showed up tomorrow to carpet bomb all the sinners in Pride, you would at least feel better knowing you’d tried to make something of yourself, wouldn’t you? You weren’t a perfect person, or even a good one—you’d ended up in Hell, for fuck’s sake—but you weren’t a coward.
At least, you weren’t going to stay one.
At that moment, a sleek black car pulled around the block and came to a halt at the bottom of the steps. Inhaling deeply, you turned to Dr. Whyle. “Thank you,” you said, giving him an earnest smile. “For everything. I know we didn’t always see eye to eye, but—”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Dr. Whyle glanced at his watch. “End of my smoke break.” He tossed his cigarette butt away, turning towards the front doors without so much as a final look in your direction. “Get lost, kid. You’re welcome for the charity work.”
He slammed the door shut behind him, leaving you alone on the steps. You couldn’t say you felt hurt. If you were being honest, you weren’t even sad to see him go. Even in your mostly-isolated time here, you’d come to learn how few fucks people in Hell actually gave.
Better time than ever to get with the program, you supposed.
The car below honked impatiently. You took another deep breath, then released it and, holding your tiny bag of belongings, headed down the steps. You opened the door, greeting the driver with a wave as you climbed into the passenger seat. “Hey, Quinn.”
“Took you long enough,” the green-blonde Sinner snorted, drumming her long nails on the steering wheel. “Five more seconds and I would’ve dipped.”
You winced. Shit. “You would’ve?”
Quinn groaned. “Ugh, no,” she said defeatedly, turning the wheel and pulling away from the Center. “You know I hate your sad face. It’s like a kicked puppy but even sadder and more pathetic.”
You looked down into your lap, smiling to yourself just a little.
“Besides, we had a deal,” she said. “You needed to get out of that shithole.”
You shrugged. “It wasn’t that bad…”
“It was a fucking piss party,” she said matter-of-factly. “Bunch of dickless fucks trying to act high and mighty. Keep you from real living. This is real living, bitch.” With her free hand, she grabbed a bottle from the drink holder and took a swig.
You chose not to comment on her apparent dive back into alcoholism. Once upon a time, Quinn herself had stayed at the Center in an attempt to get sober. The two of you had become unlikely friends, and she’d even given you her VPhone before she’d decided a week was long enough to go without booze and fucked off.
“You seem happy,” you said.
“Uh, yeah, duh.” Quinn grinned as she pushed down on the gas, going faster and faster down the street. “Believe it or not, I am doing great, babe.”
She swerved and hit a pedestrian, sending him flying to one side of the road, but you tried not to dwell on it. “Nice, um—car. Goes fast.”
“Sure does,” Quinn said proudly. “She’s my baby. Working like a dog does have its perks sometimes.”
Working like a dog. That was about to be you, pretty soon. “How is Velvette?” you asked tentatively.
Quinn rolled her eyes. “Same as always,” she said. “Hates us, hates the clothes, hates everything. Hours are terrible. But it’s aaaaaaall worth it when that check comes in.” She laughed. “This’ll be you too, babe. Just you wait.”
You knew she meant to comfort you, in her own way, but that didn’t make you feel any less heavy. You might not have interviews with any of the infamous Vees lined up, but if you were going to stay with Quinn, you still had to get some type of job. “Sounds like a nightmare,” you remarked.
“This is Hell, sweetheart. Everything is.”
^ ^ ^
Quinn’s apartment complex was on the other side of the city in the Entertainment District, only a few blocks away from the V Tower. The tower was the first thing you noticed when Quinn rounded the corner and finally parked the car; it was huge, probably one of the biggest buildings in the city, with a triple-V emblem glowing at the top for everyone on the streets below to see.
Oddly enough, it was probably the first thing you’d seen in Hell that didn’t unnerve you. There was a strange, intimidating air about it, but it also looked almost… dazzling.
“I can’t believe that’s all you have.” Quinn’s voice broke you out of your trance. She was shaking her head, and you realized she was talking about your minuscule bag. “Ugh. You’re gonna have to borrow some of my clothes.”
You avoided her eyes, embarrassed. “I can… get my own,” you said, before you could think about it.
“With what money, bitch?” Quinn sighed. “Look, it’s fine, okay? C’mon. Let’s just go upstairs.”
Her apartment, you soon found, was a surprisingly spacious two-bedroom, two-bath. It was rough around the edges, and messier than you’d like, with empty bottles all over the floor and some weird stains on the counters and walls, but the last thing on your mind was complaining about any of it. You were lucky to be here, lucky to know anyone at all in this crazy place, let alone someone you could trust. You were glad Quinn had drunk-texted her old number all those weeks ago and decided to keep talking to you ever since.
“Alright, this one’s yours.” Quinn showed you to one of the two rooms, almost entirely empty with some unusual white powder sprinkled here and there on the floor. “Might wanna vacuum. Fuckin’ bitch Trish had to waste some coke before she left.”
It was Trish you really had to thank for your ability to move in. She and Quinn had had a nasty falling out just last week, and it was most of the reason you had even considered leaving the Center. Luckily for you, she wasn’t expected to return anytime soon; you just had to prove to Quinn you were worthy of staying here in her place.
You set down your bag on the mattress and turned towards your friend. “Thank you,” you said, suddenly emotional. “For all of this. Seriously. I—I won’t let you down.”
“Oh my God, this might be worse than the sad face.” Quinn grimaced. “Don’t get all sappy on me, okay? This is just for a little bit. Just put your big girl shoes on, make some money, and you can get a place of your own. Capiche?”
You nodded, swallowing to keep your emotions down. “Yeah.”
“Oh, and I’ve got some house rules.” She held up her hand, counting each rule with a clawed finger. “Don’t touch my shit—that includes my booze, my drugs, my panties, whatever. When I wanna share something, you’ll know. Don’t use all the hot water, or I’ll kill you. Close the door when you’re fucking somebody, I don’t wanna hear that shit. And no TV after midnight, unless I’m not here. Got it?”
You nodded again heartily. That all sounded more than reasonable. “Got it.”
“Cool. I’m gonna go out.” Quinn stretched. “Night’s still young. Your phone works, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Great. I guess call me if there’s something wrong. But only like, really fucking wrong. Uhhh, lock the doors, obviously. And look for jobs, m’kay?” She swiveled around, heading towards her own room. “When you’re a working bitch you can come party with me.”
You might have laughed at that. Even if you were a “working bitch,” you doubted you’d want to go out and party anyway. Your idea of a fun evening was curling up on the couch, watching TV.
If Quinn was going out tonight, maybe that’s just what you’d do. As long as you were still looking for jobs, of course.
You took a second to look around the room— your room. It was completely barren except for the mattress on the floor, which had at least been given a pillow and a blanket, and a small lamp. It wasn’t that dissimilar from your room at the Center.
You noticed the connected bathroom, and you picked up your bag before stepping into it and flicking on the light. Unsurprisingly, Trish had left it in poor shape, with a frankly disgusting mirror and more conspicuous stains on the walls and floors, but you chose to ignore the bathroom’s state and began to unpack your things.
You’d been fortunate enough to take a few items from the Center, mostly small toiletries and little else. You set up your toothbrush and toothpaste, arranged your shampoo and conditioner inside the shower, and placed your hairbrush next to the hand soap you’d nabbed from one of the Center’s bathrooms. Admittedly, most of your belongings had been stolen rather than gifted to you; you weren’t proud of your acquired tendency to “borrow,” but given the Center’s general apathy towards you and the other patients, you hadn’t had many other options. At the very least, you’d only ever taken what you needed.
You reached into your bag, withdrawing your cuticle scissors and iodine. You held them in your hands for just a moment, staring silently. Your heart rate picked up speed. It was just this morning that you’d last used them, frightened and anxious over the day that awaited you. You could feel the cut on your forearm tingle, as if it yearned to be opened up once more.
Your eyes lingered on it, concealed by the bandage you’d put on it earlier. Your tools were right here. You could take the bandage off, see the scar you had created, watch that familiar red reappear and dry and heal over again…
You jerked your head away, putting down the scissors and iodine. You opened up one of the drawers under the sink, placing them inside and shutting it without uttering a word.
Not right now. Not tonight.
With all your things in their designated places, you allowed yourself to take a long shower once you were sure Quinn had left the apartment; you couldn’t risk breaking that hot water rule on your first night. When you were dressed in comfier clothes, your hair dried and your teeth brushed, you took your newly-charged phone to the living room and settled on the couch with the blanket from your bed.
You almost felt guilty making yourself so comfortable in Quinn’s home so soon, but you reminded yourself that not only was she out, she didn’t mind what you did as long as you followed her rules. You didn’t like how quiet the apartment was, hating to feel alone, so you found the remote and turned on the TV.
You decided not to be picky about the channel; you weren’t here to hang out—it was just background noise while you looked for jobs. When the TV flickered on, however, and started playing a show you recognized, you found yourself looking up from Soulsearcher, Hell’s job site. It was one of Vox’s game shows, Sink or Swim —and just so happened to be one of your favorites.
Vox himself stood to one side of the massive board screen, addressing the two contestants facing each other. He cleared his throat, then read off of the card in his hand. “Name something you can’t leave the house without.”
The Sinner on the left smacked his button first. “A gun!” he shouted.
The audience clapped, voicing their approval with enthused cheers. “A gun,” Vox repeated, as if testing the word on his tongue. “Well, let’s take a look.”
The camera cut to the board screen, which showed the word “gun” accompanied by two angry red Xs. The audience made sounds of disappointment.
Vox shook his head. “Looks like that wasn’t a match,” he tutted. “Might wanna give Ms. Carmine a call, Anton.” The audience chortled, and Vox turned to the other contestant. “Lori, what’s your answer?”
The younger-looking Sinner on the right beamed. “My VPhone. I’d never go anywhere without it.”
The audience hollered approvingly, and Vox grinned wide, revealing his sharp cyan teeth. “ Great answer, Lori,” he said, pleased. “Let’s see the board.”
The camera cut to the board once again. This time, the answer appeared on the screen with a bright green check mark, and the audience cheered loudly. Your lips quirked into a small smile. You wondered why Anton hadn’t guessed that first.
“We have a match, ladies and gentleman!” Vox announced. “Fifty points for you and your team, Lori. And just a friendly reminder that the VPhone Sixteen will be out in just three weeks, everybody. Mark your calendars.” The audience applauded harder. “Thank you, thank you.”
You couldn’t help but watch the show more and more intently as it went on, practically forgetting all about Soulsearcher. In the back of your mind, you began to regret turning on the TV; in truth, every time you did so, ever since you’d arrived in Hell, you couldn’t seem to focus on anything else. You’d been an avid TV watcher in life, but here, TV seemed to be something else entirely. Something… more powerful.
At the Center, you’d had almost nothing to do, with very little around to distract you from your own thoughts. There were some trashy romance novels available to read, and a couple shitty board games to play with other patients, but other than those, all you had for entertainment were the TVs set up around the Center. Most of them were locked on porn channels, but a few played other shows, and most of the shows in Hell, you found, were either hosted or sponsored by Vox. It made sense, once you’d learned about the Vees; Vox and his company, VoxTek, controlled the media people watched on their TVs, on their phones and all other kinds of screens. You weren’t quite sure why, but every time Vox appeared on one of those TVs, you couldn’t seem to look away from it.
You’d pass the hours at the Center watching his game shows, stay up late in bed with your phone and fall asleep listening to him interview the most eccentric demons in Hell. There was something about Vox that drew you in. He had an undeniable charisma to him, not unlike the TV hosts of the human world, but he was also more honest, unafraid to be blunt; somehow, it made him seem more real, less practiced and proper. His deep, lilting voice was strangely comforting, and could easily put you to sleep. He had a sadistic side that was impossible to ignore, but oddly enough, when you were watching him do his thing, everything else seemed to fade into the background.
You sat on the couch a while longer, eyes glued to the TV. Vox told jokes and asked questions, and if a contestant answered enough questions wrong, they were fed to a shark somewhere below the stage, to the amusement of the audience. As the winners were being announced, and the episode neared its conclusion, you could feel your phone sliding off your lap and your consciousness beginning to ebb.
You wondered what it would be like to work for Vox. You’d thought about it before, naturally; you’d watched so much of him, why wouldn’t the idea cross your mind? But you were sure you knew what it was like: a never ending nightmare of work, thankless labor and running from set to set all day long. Chasing a man that was so busy, you’d probably never even get to see him.
Chasing? What were you talking about…. Why would you want to chase Vox…
You yawned, eyes fluttering shut. You wondered if Vox had a secretary. He definitely did. He probably had dozens, actually. In fact, you were certain he had every single position in his company filled, from now until the next century. What if he didn’t, though?
It didn’t matter…. He’d probably never hire you anyway.