Chapter Text
Oneira’s office had reached that state of productive silence that only arrived after hours of uninterrupted focused work. The documents were organized in meticulous stacks on her desk, each one in its exact place according to a system only she fully understood. Her coffee cup, already cold but still half full, rested on a polished obsidian coaster. The perpetual reddish light of the Pentagon filtered through the partially closed curtains, casting elongated shadows against the dark stone walls that gave the office the feel of a private fortress more than a simple administrative space.
Her assistant knocked on the door with that specific pattern—three quick knocks followed by a pause—that meant “there’s a situation requiring your immediate attention but it’s not technically an emergency.” Which was oddly specific to have a pattern for.
Oneira looked up from the numbers she had been reviewing, her equine ears twitching slightly forward in response to the sound.
"Come in."
The door opened to reveal her assistant and, behind him in all her feathered splendor, Stella.
The Ars Goetia princess looked particularly elegant this morning. She wore an outfit that had probably cost more than the annual salary of most common demons, her crown rested perfectly on her head, and her posture radiated that natural authority that came from being born into infernal nobility.
But there was something else in her expression. That particular tension around her red eyes that Oneira had learned to recognize over months of conversations about her unfaithful husband.
Urgency.
"Stella," Oneira greeted, standing with the appropriate courtesy the situation demanded. "What a surprise."
"Oneira, dear." Stella practically flew toward the desk, her feathers rippling with every movement. "I need to ask you for the biggest favor I’ve ever asked in my life."
Oneira’s assistant lingered at the door, clearly unsure whether to stay or withdraw. Oneira waved her hand, and she left quickly, closing the door with a soft click that left the two women alone.
"I’m listening," Oneira sat back down, gesturing toward the chair in front of her desk. "Though I suspect this favor isn’t simply about coffee."
"No." Stella sat with less grace than usual, which was saying something considering that normally every movement of hers was choreographed for maximum dramatic effect. "It’s about my daughter."
Oneira raised an eyebrow.
Over months of endless conversations about Stella’s disastrous marriage, the one constant positive had been Octavia.
"Did something happen to her?"
"No! No, nothing like that." Stella hurried to clarify. "It’s just that… I have a political dinner tonight, with the other Goetia. You know how those things are—endless, boring, full of political posturing and conversations that are definitely not appropriate for children." She paused. "And normally I’d bring Octavia because it’s important for the royal family to appear united, but…" her voice took on that familiar tone of disgust "…that cheating bastard of a husband will be there. And I don’t trust him to keep his mouth shut for the entire evening. Especially if he drinks, which he definitely will."
Oneira wasn’t sure if she meant her husband or herself, but she could see where this was going.
"And Octavia shouldn’t witness another of their marital fights."
"Exactly." Stella leaned forward urgently. "Normally I’d leave her with the nannies, but it turns out they’re all busy today with other household matters. And I don’t trust anyone else on the staff enough to… well."
She left the sentence unfinished, but the meaning was clear. She didn’t trust anyone else to protect her properly if something went wrong.
"So I thought of you." Stella continued, her voice taking on that tone of desperate pleading she rarely used. "I know it’s a lot to ask. I know you probably have important work and that babysitting isn’t exactly part of your job description as an Overlord, but…"
She stopped, taking a breath.
"You’re the only person I trust enough for this."
In silence, Oneira carefully processed this information.
Babysitting a child—even if it was demonic royalty—wasn’t something she had particular experience with. Children were… complicated and unpredictable. They required a type of attention that was outside her usual comfort zone.
But on the other hand… Stella clearly trusted her. That kind of trust that was extraordinarily rare in Hell, especially between royalty and sinners who had risen to power. The fact that Stella was willing to leave her only daughter—her most precious possession… literally—in Oneira’s hands…
That meant something.
And besides, Oneira had to admit a certain curiosity. After months of hearing stories about Octavia’s achievements, her precocious intelligence, her fascination with astronomy, her musical talent… Perhaps it would be interesting to meet the girl in person.
"How long?" Oneira asked finally.
Instant relief flooded Stella’s face.
"Just until tonight. I’d drop her off around three, and I’d come pick her up before midnight. Ten, eleven hours at most."
"And what does she need? Special food, allergies, medical considerations?"
"Nothing special. She eats normally for her age, no known allergies, and she’s incredibly well-behaved, I promise." Stella was speaking quickly now, clearly wanting to seal the deal before Oneira could reconsider. "She reads a lot, loves the stars. Asks a lot of questions but they’re smart questions, not annoying ones…"
"Stella." Oneira interrupted gently. "It’s fine. I’ll do it."
"You will?" The hope in Stella’s voice was almost tangible.
"Yes." Oneira nodded once, decisively. "You can bring Octavia this afternoon. I’ll watch her until you return."
The sound that came from Stella was something between a sob of relief and a hysterical laugh.
"Oh, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you." She stood so quickly she nearly knocked over the chair. "You’re literally a lifesaver. No, better than a lifesaver. You’re…"
She searched for appropriate words, apparently found none, and instead launched around the desk to wrap Oneira in a hug that was surprisingly strong for someone of her slender build.
Oneira tensed for a moment—unsolicited physical contact had never been her strong suit—but gradually relaxed, tolerating the hug with a grace that surprised even herself.
"You don’t have to thank me so effusively," she said when Stella finally released her. "It’s just one day."
"No, you don’t understand." Stella wiped her eyes, clearly emotional in ways that went beyond simple relief over solving a childcare problem. "Via means everything to me. Everything. And the fact that I trust you enough to…"
She stopped, composing herself with visible effort.
"Just… thank you. Truly."
"You’re welcome." Oneira replied, feeling something uncomfortably close to emotion threaten her usual composure. "Now the practical details. What should I know about her routines?"
They spent the next twenty minutes discussing the specific details of Octavia’s preferences, her sleep routines—though Stella anticipated being back well before bedtime—, her current interests, and Stella’s emergency contact number in case something went wrong.
When they finally finished, Stella seemed considerably calmer, her posture returning to that natural elegance she normally displayed.
"I’ll bring her around three then," she confirmed, moving toward the door.
"See you at three." Oneira replied, watching as Stella left in a swirl of white feathers and expensive perfume.
When the door closed, Oneira allowed herself a moment of silent processing.
She had agreed to babysit a seven-year-old girl for the day.
Oneira, who had never had children of her own and who had barely spent time around kids during her mortal life, who frankly found young children somewhat… disconcerting in their unpredictability.
Her gaze shifted to Mara, who had partially materialized in the shadows near the window during the conversation with Stella. The shadow rippled with what was clearly barely contained amusement.
"Not a word," Oneira warned, even though Mara had no words to offer, but her form shook with what was definitely silent laughter. "It’s just one day," Oneira continued, more to herself than to her other half. "How hard can it be?"
Mara rippled harder.
"Don’t answer that."
At three o’clock sharp in the afternoon—because Stella was many things but unpunctual wasn’t one of them—the office door was knocked on again. This time, when the door opened, it revealed not just Stella but also a small figure partially hidden behind her mother’s legs.
Octavia Goetia was, objectively speaking, adorable in that specific way only demonic children could achieve.
She was small for her seven years—or at least what Oneira assumed was small, considering her lack of experience with child development—with feathers that were mostly white and gray in patterns reminiscent of a snowy owl. Her eyes were large and expressive, a pale pink that contrasted beautifully with her darker plumage, and carried that quality of intense curiosity Oneira had come to associate with young minds that absorbed everything around them.
She wore what was clearly clothing designed to be both elegant and practical, and held a book against her chest as if it were a protective shield.
"Via, sweetie," Stella crouched to be at eye level with her daughter, her hands adjusting the small dress with movements that were surprisingly tender coming from someone usually so dramatic. "This is Mrs. Manhattan, who Mommy has told you about. Remember?"
Octavia nodded, her large eyes shifting from her mother to Oneira and back, clearly processing the situation with a seriousness that seemed advanced for her age.
"The coffee lady," she said in a voice that was soft but clear. "Mommy says you make the best coffee in all of Hell. And that you’re very smart. And that you have better manners than most Overlords."
Something akin to genuine amusement touched Oneira’s lips at that characterization.
"Your mother is very generous with her compliments," she replied, moving around her desk to approach but maintaining a respectful distance that wouldn’t intimidate the child. "Though I must admit the coffee part is quite accurate."
That drew a small smile from Octavia.
Stella stood, placing her hands on her daughter’s shoulders in a gesture that was both reassuring and preparatory.
"Now Via, Mommy has to go to that boring dinner we mentioned. You’re going to stay here with Mrs. Manhattan for this afternoon and evening, and I promise I’ll come pick you up as soon as it’s over. Okay?"
"How long is that?"
"Several hours. Probably close to your bedtime, but Mrs. Manhattan will make sure you’re comfortable until then."
Octavia considered this, her eyes shifting back to Oneira with an evaluation that was impressive for someone so young.
"Do you have books here?" the girl asked finally.
Oneira gestured toward the shelves that covered an entire wall of her office.
"Several."
"And windows to look outside?"
"Yes."
"And you won’t be mad if I ask questions?"
"Questions are how we learn things," Oneira replied. "So no, I won’t be mad."
Octavia seemed to find this response satisfactory, because she nodded with a decisiveness that made her feathers ruffle slightly.
"All right then. I can stay here."
The relief on Stella’s face was immediate and obvious.
"You’re such a good girl," she crouched again, wrapping Octavia in a hug that was clearly more for Stella’s benefit than the child’s. "Mommy loves you so much. Behave well, listen to Mrs. Manhattan, and we’ll see each other soon."
"I love you too, Mommy," Octavia replied, her voice muffled against Stella’s feathers.
When they finally separated, Stella stood with a grace that took visible effort, clearly fighting the impulse to stay longer.
"Any problem, call me immediately," she told Oneira. "Anything."
"Everything will be fine," Oneira assured her with more confidence than she actually felt. "Go. Don’t be late for your political engagement."
With one last dramatic gesture—because Stella could never do anything without at least some theater—the Goetia left, leaving Oneira alone in her office with a seven-year-old girl who was now looking at her with a mix of curiosity and uncertainty.
The silence stretched for about five seconds.
"So," Oneira began, feeling strangely out of her element in ways she rarely experienced. "That book you’re holding. What’s it about?"
Octavia looked down at the book she was still clutching against her chest as if she had just remembered it was there.
"It’s about constellations," she lifted the book slightly so Oneira could see the cover, which showed an elaborate star map. "I like stars."
"Really?" Oneira gestured toward the chair in front of her desk. "Come, sit down. Tell me about it."
Octavia approached with careful steps, climbing onto the chair that was clearly too big for her. Her feet dangled several inches above the floor, swinging slightly as she settled in, but she didn’t seem to mind as she opened her book with evident enthusiasm.
"You see," she began, her earlier shyness evaporating as she spoke about a topic she clearly loved. "Constellations are patterns of stars that people used to use for navigation and to tell stories. Like Orion the hunter, who has a belt of three bright stars. Or the Big Dipper, which looks like a big ladle. Or Cassiopeia, which looks like a W in the sky…"
Oneira listened with genuine attention as Octavia explained various star patterns with knowledge that was impressive for her age. The girl had clearly spent considerable time studying the subject, and her passion for it shone through every word. It was… refreshing, Oneira realized. Talking to someone who was so genuinely enthusiastic about their area of interest without the filter of politics or posturing that infected most adult conversations in Hell.
They had been in this conversation for about fifteen minutes—Octavia had just begun explaining the difference between binary stars and multiple star systems with the seriousness of an academic lecturer—when there was another knock at the door.
Oneira frowned slightly.
She wasn’t expecting anyone this afternoon. She had specifically canceled all her meetings to accommodate looking after Octavia.
"Come in," she said, her voice carrying a slight tension.
The door opened, and Alastor entered with that casual confidence he always carried, his staff making that distinctive tap-tap-tap sound against the marble floor.
"Good morning, dear! I thought we could discuss expanding the radio locations toward the eastern district because I’ve been considering…"
He stopped abruptly mid-sentence, his crimson eyes landing on the small figure seated in front of Oneira’s desk.
Octavia turned in her chair, looking at the newcomer with obvious curiosity but without the fear most adults showed upon encountering the Radio Demon for the first time, and Oneira felt something close to resignation settle heavily in her chest.
Of course Alastor would show up precisely today, on the one day when she needed her office quiet and predictable to properly look after someone else’s daughter.
The universe—or more specifically, Hell—clearly had a twisted sense of humor.
"Alastor," she greeted in a tone that was carefully neutral but carried enough tension to communicate that this wasn’t a particularly convenient visit. "How… unexpected."
Alastor’s eyes moved from Octavia to Oneira and back, his smile widening with that particular gleam that suggested he had discovered something absolutely fascinating and had no intention of leaving until he had fully satisfied his curiosity.
"Apparently I’m not the only one with surprises today," he mentioned cheerfully, moving further into the office without waiting for an invitation. "And who is this charming young lady?"
Octavia, to her credit, wasn’t intimidated by Alastor’s presence despite his perpetual smile and general appearance that most demons found disturbing at best and utterly terrifying at worst. Instead, she straightened in her chair with a dignity that had clearly been carefully taught, her star book still held in her lap.
"I’m Octavia Goetia," she announced with a formality that was adorable coming from someone so small. "And who are you?"
"Alastor, entirely at your service." He made an exaggerated bow that was simultaneously mocking and genuinely courteous. "The Radio Demon, if you’ve heard the term. Though I prefer simply Alastor among friends."
"I’ve heard about you," Octavia said, her eyes widening with recognition. "Mama says you’re…" she stopped abruptly, clearly remembering that she probably shouldn’t repeat everything her mother said about various Overlords in polite company.
"Yes?" Alastor leaned forward with obvious interest, his smile taking on a quality of genuine amusement. "What does your mother say about me? I promise not to be offended no matter how terrible it is."
Octavia considered this for a moment, clearly debating between honesty and discretion.
"She says you’re very powerful," she chose finally. "And that you make very good radio. And that Mrs. Manhattan and you are… partners."
"Partners," Alastor repeated, looking toward Oneira with his smile widening even further. "What a diplomatic and technically correct term. Your mother has very good political tact."
"Stella has her moments," Oneira replied dryly. "And yes, Octavia is staying with me this afternoon while her mother attends a social engagement. Which, I must add, you gave me no choice but to cancel."
"Why would you cancel?" Alastor moved to the other side of Oneira’s desk, clearly with no intention of leaving now that he had discovered this interesting situation. "This is absolutely delightful. Oneira babysitting? I never thought I’d see the day."
"I’m not ‘babysitting’ in the general sense," Oneira corrected with a tone that was patient in ways she didn’t feel. "I’m supervising a very well-mannered and intelligent young lady for a few hours. It’s different."
"Of course it is," Alastor agreed in a way that clearly meant he wasn’t agreeing at all.
Octavia had been watching this exchange with obvious fascination, her head moving between Oneira and Alastor as if she were at a verbal tennis match.
"Do you two argue like this all the time?" she asked with genuine curiosity.
"We’re not arguing," Oneira replied.
"We’re absolutely arguing," Alastor said simultaneously.
They looked at each other.
"This is a civilized discussion," Oneira clarified. "Which is different from actual arguing."
"If you say so, dear."
Octavia clearly found this entertaining, because something akin to a smile touched her beak.
"Mommy and Daddy argue too. But their arguments are more… loud."
An awkward silence fell at that observation, because neither adult present knew exactly how to appropriately respond to a small child casually mentioning her parents’ marital dysfunction.
"Yes, well," Alastor recovered first, his tone taking on a quality of forced cheer. "Adults have different communication styles. Some people prefer volume, others prefer refined sarcasm."
"I prefer sarcasm," Octavia declared. "Volume hurts my ears."
"I agree with you!" Alastor settled on the edge of Oneira’s desk, completely invading her personal space, which she tolerated only because making a scene in front of Octavia would be inappropriate. "Now, before I so rudely interrupted, what were you doing?"
"I was telling Mrs. Manhattan about constellations," Octavia lifted her book as evidence. "Do you know about stars?"
"A bit," Alastor admitted. "Though I must confess my knowledge is considerably outdated. Astronomy has advanced quite a bit since my mortal days. Perhaps you could educate me?"
Octavia’s eyes lit up at the opportunity to share her knowledge with a new receptive audience.
"Of course! You see, the stars we can see from Earth are only a small fraction of all the stars that exist in the universe…"
And somehow, in a way Oneira hadn’t anticipated or particularly desired, she found herself spending the next hour listening to a seven-year-old girl give an impromptu lecture on astronomy to one of the most dangerous Overlords in the Pentagon, who seemed to be genuinely fascinated by every word.
Alastor asked questions—good questions that were clearly designed to encourage Octavia to elaborate rather than simply show off his own knowledge. Octavia responded with growing enthusiasm, her initial shyness completely evaporated as she spoke about the topic she obviously loved. Oneira simply observed with a mix of fascination and mild discomfort as this strange dynamic unfolded in front of her.
Because this wasn’t what she had anticipated when she agreed to look after Octavia for the day.
But she also had to admit, as she watched Alastor genuinely engage with the girl’s explanations about orbital mechanics…
It was almost… pleasant. In ways she didn’t want to examine too closely.
"So orbits are elliptical, not perfect circles," Octavia was explaining, using her hands to demonstrate the shape. "Which means sometimes planets are closer to the sun and sometimes farther away, and that affects things like seasons and temperature…"
"How fascinating," Alastor murmured, and to Oneira’s credit, he really did sound fascinated rather than simply polite. "And who discovered this?"
"Kepler. Johannes Kepler. He was a German astronomer in the sixteenth… or seventeenth… one of those centuries," Octavia frowned, clearly annoyed at not remembering the exact detail. "Daddy told me but I forgot which century specifically."
"Specific temporal details are less important than understanding the concept," Oneira offered. "The fact that you know who discovered the laws and what they mean is more valuable than memorizing exact dates."
Octavia looked at her with something akin to relief.
"That’s what I think too. But some of my tutors insist I have to memorize all the exact years of everything."
"Tutors often focus on the wrong metrics," Alastor said in the tone of someone who had held strong opinions about educational systems for a long time. "True education is about developing critical thinking, not rote recitation."
"Exactly!" Octavia practically bounced in her seat with enthusiasm at finding adults who agreed with her perspective. "I try to explain that to them but they say I’m too young to understand how proper learning works."
"The fact that you can articulate that criticism suggests you understand perfectly well," Oneira observed.
Mara had partially materialized in the shadows near the window during this conversation, rippling with what was clearly amusement at seeing her other half navigating this unexpected situation.
Oneira deliberately ignored her.
"Are you hungry?" she asked, realizing they had been talking for a considerable time and that children probably needed regular meals in ways adults often forgot to prioritize. "It’s almost four. Did you eat lunch?"
Octavia considered this.
"I ate something before coming. But I could eat again."
"Young ones have faster metabolisms," Alastor added unnecessarily. "Constant fuel is required for proper growth and brain function."
"Did you just compare child nutrition to mechanical engineering?"
"The analogy is solid."
"The analogy is strange."
"It can be both."
Octavia was clearly finding this exchange entertaining, because that small smile had returned to her beak.
"What kind of food do they have here?" she asked. "Mommy says your coffee is the best, but she didn’t mention food."
"We have a moderate selection of culinary options on the ground floor," Oneira stood, deciding that moving to a different location might be beneficial for everyone involved. "Nothing particularly elaborate, but sufficiently substantial. Do you have any preferences or dietary restrictions?"
"I don’t like carrots," Octavia declared with the same seriousness as someone making an important political statement. "But everything else is fine."
"Specific vegetable aversion," Alastor commented. "Universal among the young across all cultures and time periods. It’s a fascinating consistency."
"They’re not fascinating. They’re horrible," Octavia corrected. "They have weird texture and worse taste."
"Fair perspective."
Oneira led them toward the door, feeling strangely as if she were herding particularly verbal cats.
"Let’s go downstairs then. And Alastor…" she looked at him with an expression that clearly communicated her expectations "…assuming you’re coming with us, which seems inevitable at this point, please try not to traumatize any of the customers with inappropriate conversation."
"When have I ever traumatized someone with conversation?"
"Do you want the list by chronology or severity?"
"Both options deeply offend me."
Octavia followed them down the stairs, clearly fascinated by this dynamic between the two adults who had involuntarily become her supervisors for the day.
And as they made their way to the ground floor of the Manhattan Café—where regular customers looked up with obvious surprise at seeing the Radio Demon accompanied by the owner Overlord and a small Goetia—Oneira couldn’t help but think that this was going to be a considerably more complicated day than she had anticipated.
But also, as she watched Alastor make an exaggerated comment that made Octavia let out a genuine laugh… she thought that perhaps it wouldn’t be entirely terrible.
Just… unexpected. Like most things involving Alastor turned out to be.
The ground floor of the Manhattan Café was moderately full at this time of afternoon.
Demons of various types occupied the tables—some clearly doing business, judging by the scattered documents and low-toned conversations; others simply enjoying their drinks while reading newspapers or chatting casually. The familiar aroma of freshly brewed coffee permeated the air, mingling with that subtle background of something more that made Oneira’s products so addictive.
Several customers looked up as the trio descended the stairs, their expressions shifting from casual curiosity to genuine surprise as they processed exactly who was entering the main space.
After all, seeing both of them together with a child was definitely unexpected.
Oneira ignored the stares and led Octavia toward a table in the corner. Alastor simply followed with that confident stride he had, clearly unbothered by the attention he drew.
"This one is nice," Octavia declared as she climbed onto one of the chairs, which was clearly designed for adults rather than seven-year-olds. Her feet dangled several inches above the floor, swinging slightly as she settled in. "It has a good view of the window."
"What a strategic seat choice," Alastor approved, taking the chair to her left. "Always choose the location that lets you observe both the interior of the establishment and the street outside. You never know when useful information might present itself."
Octavia looked at him in confusion.
"Why would I need useful information? I’m just going to eat."
"It’s a habit," Alastor explained cheerfully. "When you’ve lived the kind of life I have, certain behaviors become automatic."
"What kind of life?"
"The kind that’s not appropriate to discuss with young ladies during meals."
"Oh." Octavia considered this. "The kind with a lot of violence?"
Oneira, who had been about to sit, paused mid-motion, looking at Octavia with growing surprise.
"Why…" she began carefully "…would you assume it involves violence?"
Octavia shrugged her small shoulders in a gesture that was far too mature for her age.
"Because we’re in Hell. And Mommy says everyone’s here for bad reasons. And that the more powerful someone is down here, probably the worse the reasons were." She paused. "Which means you two probably did really bad things."
The silence now was absolutely thick.
Alastor leaned back in his chair, his smile unchanged but something in his eyes suggesting he was genuinely impressed by the child’s logic.
"Your mother has taught you well about the nature of Hell."
"She says it’s important to understand where we live. Even if I’m too young to know all the specific details." Octavia opened her star book, apparently completely comfortable with this conversation that had made most adults squirm uncomfortably. "So was there violence?"
"Octavia," Oneira finally sat, her tone taking on that quality of an adult trying to redirect a potentially inappropriate conversation. "Perhaps we should focus on the menu instead of the life stories of those present."
"Why? It’s more interesting than food."
"Food is critical for survival," Alastor pointed out with zero helpfulness. "But you’re right that stories are more entertaining."
"Don’t encourage her," Oneira shot him a look that clearly communicated her disapproval.
"Why not? She’s asking perfectly reasonable questions based on logical observations about her environment."
"Because she’s a child."
"A very intelligent child who clearly already understands basic concepts about the nature of damnation," Alastor leaned forward, directing his attention to Octavia. "And to answer your question with appropriate honesty within age-appropriate limits: yes, there was violence. In considerable quantity. But the specific details are, as I mentioned, not appropriate for discussion during meals."
"Or at all," Oneira added.
"Or at all with young audiences," Alastor corrected. "Adults have different standards for appropriate conversation."
Octavia seemed to find this satisfactory, because she nodded and then changed the subject with the characteristic ease of children who had received a sufficient answer to their curiosity.
"What kind of food do they have? Mommy wasn’t specific."
Oneira felt tangible relief at the topic change, gesturing to one of her employees. The employee approached with visible nervousness, her eyes shifting between Oneira, Alastor, and Octavia with an expression suggesting she wasn’t entirely sure how to handle this particular situation.
"M-ma’am?" she stammered slightly. "How can I help?"
"Menus," Oneira said simply. "And water for the table."
"Right away."
The employee practically fled toward the kitchen, returning moments later with three menus and a pitcher of water that she placed in the center of the table with hands trembling enough to make the liquid slosh visibly.
"Anything else?"
"That’s all for now."
The demon retreated with obvious relief, leaving the trio to review the available culinary options. Oneira watched as Octavia opened her menu with seriousness, her large eyes scanning the options with intense concentration. The girl could clearly read well and was taking the task of selecting food with appropriate gravity.
"What’s jambalaya?" she asked after a moment, her finger pointing to the item on the menu.
Alastor practically lit up at the question.
"Oh, excellent potential choice. Jambalaya is a traditional dish from Louisiana—specifically New Orleans—that combines rice with various types of meat, vegetables, and spices in…"
"Does it have carrots?" Octavia interrupted with the practicality of someone with clear priorities.
"Not traditionally, no."
"Then it sounds good."
"You have excellent taste for someone so young," Alastor approved. "Though I must warn you that jambalaya tends to be spicy. Do you handle spices well?"
Octavia considered this.
"I’m not sure. I’ve never eaten really spicy food."
"Then perhaps something milder would be better for your first experience," Oneira suggested, scanning the menu for options that would be appropriate for a child’s palate. "We have sandwiches, soups, salads…"
"No carrots," Octavia reminded.
"No carrots," Oneira confirmed. "Though you really should try expanding your vegetable preferences eventually."
"That’s what Mama says too."
"Your mother is right."
"But carrots are horrible."
"It’s a matter of perspective."
Eventually they decided that Octavia would try tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich while Alastor ordered the jambalaya with that enthusiasm suggesting he had been waiting for an excuse to get it, and Oneira selected a salad because someone at this table needed to make reasonable nutritional choices.
When the employee returned to take their orders, she did so with speed suggesting she wanted to minimize time spent near this particular combination of customers.
"And to drink?" she asked, her notepad trembling slightly in her hands.
"Milk for Miss Octavia," Oneira replied before Octavia could request something potentially inappropriate. "And coffee for me."
"Same," Alastor added. "Your special dark blend, if it’s still available."
"It’s always available for you," the mare glanced sideways at the radio demon.
Alastor’s smile widened in ways suggesting he had noticed exactly that.
"How considerate."
Octavia was watching this exchange with obvious interest, her head tilting slightly in ways that reminded one of an owl examining potential prey.
"Are you friends?" she asked with the direct curiosity only children could achieve.
"We’re business associates," Oneira replied automatically.
"Who enjoy each other’s sweet company," Alastor added.
"Which is not the same as friendship."
"Isn’t it?"
"No."
"What’s the difference?" Octavia asked, genuinely confused.
Oneira opened her mouth to explain, then paused.
Because honestly… what was the difference at this point?
She and Alastor had started as adversaries—he had literally tried to kill her, which was a difficult start for any relationship. Then they had evolved into commercial associates with a mutually beneficial agreement about radios and coffee integration.
But at some point over the last few months they had begun spending time together that wasn’t strictly for business purposes. Breakfasts that extended beyond business discussions, conversations that wandered into personal territory, that growing familiarity that came from consistent shared time.
Did that qualify as friendship?
Oneira honestly wasn’t sure.
She hadn’t had many friends during her mortal life—her domestic situation hadn’t been conducive to healthy social relationships—and in Hell, most of her connections were transactional by necessity.
Except perhaps Zestial, but that was a different relationship built on decades of mutual respect and shared understanding of Hell.
This with Alastor was… complicated.
"The difference," Alastor said finally, saving her from having to articulate an answer, "is that business associates work together for mutual benefit. Friends choose to spend time together because they enjoy the company, even when there’s no immediate commercial benefit."
He paused, his eyes meeting Oneira’s.
"Though I admit the line between the two can blur with enough time."
"Then it sounds like you’re friends," Octavia concluded with the simple logic of someone not yet trained in the complexities of adult relationships. "Because you’re spending time together now and you’re not even talking about business. Mostly."
"The young lady has a point," Alastor observed toward the elder.
"The young lady should focus on her own social life instead of analyzing ours," Oneira replied, feeling something uncomfortably close to vulnerability threaten her usual composure.
"I don’t really have a social life," Octavia commented in an extremely casual and immediate way. "Mommy doesn’t let me socialize much with other kids because she says most demon children are bad influences. And the other Goetia kids are…" she paused, searching for the appropriate word "…stuck-up."
"Stuck-up?" Alastor repeated with obvious amusement.
"Uh-huh. They just want to talk about how important their family is and how much power their parents have and who has the biggest palace. It’s boring."
"Class politics among the noble youth," Oneira thought aloud. "Some behaviors are universal regardless of age."
"They’re dumb," Octavia declared. "I’d rather read about stars."
"Excellent priorities."
Their food arrived then, delivered by the same nervous employee who clearly wanted to complete this transaction as quickly as possible and retreat to a safe distance.
Octavia attacked her soup and sandwich with an enthusiasm suggesting she had perhaps been hungrier than she had initially admitted. Alastor ate his jambalaya with obvious appreciation, occasionally offering comments about the spices or preparation. Oneira simply ate her salad while observing the other two, feeling something strange settle in her chest.
She realized this was unexpectedly and disconcertingly pleasant. Certainly not something she had actively sought out, but now that it was happening she discovered she didn’t hate it.
Which was, in itself, mildly alarming in ways she preferred not to examine too closely, at least not right now.
Mara had materialized again in the shadows near her chair, rippling with what was definitely amusement at her other half’s transparent thoughts.
"Mrs. Manhattan?" Octavia’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.
"Yes?"
"After eating, can we do something? Not just sit and talk, I mean. Something… active."
Oneira considered this.
What did one do with a seven-year-old girl in the Pentagon for an afternoon?
It wasn’t exactly familiar territory for her, considering that—as she had mentioned to Alastor earlier—she had never had children of her own and rarely spent time around the young.
"What kind of active something did you have in mind?" she asked cautiously.
"I don’t know, whatever kids do for fun." The small one gestured vaguely. "Mommy usually makes me stay inside and read or practice piano. Which is fine, but sometimes I want to… move."
"Contained energy seeking release," Alastor observed. "Completely natural for her age."
"And how would you know about age-appropriate child behavior?"
"I read extensively, including texts on psychological development."
"Of course you do."
"Knowledge is power, dear."
Octavia had turned her attention back to Alastor with renewed interest.
"Have you read about children? Why?"
"At one point I had general curiosity about human and demonic behavior across various developmental stages," Alastor replied as if this were a perfectly normal explanation. "Plus, children are fascinating. So honest before society teaches them to lie properly."
"Does society teach us to lie?"
"Absolutely. They call it ‘tact’ and ‘political courtesy’ but it’s fundamentally the same concept."
"Alastor," Oneira interrupted before he could launch into a full philosophical discourse on ‘the nature of social deception.’ If it were a book, he would clearly found it. "Perhaps we save the lessons on cynicism for when Octavia is older."
"How much older?"
"Considerably."
Octavia had finished her soup and was now working on her sandwich while processing this conversation.
"So," she said after swallowing her bite. "Can we do something? Please?"
Oneira looked at Alastor, who simply smiled with that expression suggesting he found this entire situation deliciously entertaining and had no intention of being particularly helpful in providing practical suggestions.
"There’s a park," she offered finally. "Not far from here. It’s relatively safe, considering where we are, with trees and open space."
Octavia’s eyes lit up immediately.
"With trees to climb?"
"Possibly."
"Yes! Can we go? Please?"
Oneira considered the potential risks of taking a valuable client’s daughter to a public park in the Pentagon, where literally anything could happen.
Then she considered the hopeful expression on Octavia’s face.
And realized she had apparently developed a soft spot for enthusiastic children who just wanted to climb trees.
"Very well," she agreed, ignoring the way Alastor’s smile widened at her capitulation. "But under specific conditions. One: we stay within my sight at all times. Two: if anything seems remotely dangerous, we leave immediately. Three: you listen when we tell you to stop any activity. Understood?"
"Understood," Octavia nodded with a seriousness that was adorable. "I promise to follow all the rules."
"Good. Finish your food first, then we’ll go."
And that was how Oneira found herself, thirty minutes later, walking through the streets of the Pentagon flanked by the Radio Demon and a seven-year-old princess who was practically bouncing with enthusiasm.
This definitely wasn’t how she had anticipated her day going.
But as she watched Octavia point out various buildings and ask questions about their architecture—because apparently her curiosity extended beyond just astronomy—Oneira had to admit that perhaps this wasn’t entirely bad.
Like most things lately.
— ꨄ —
The park in question was a small green oasis amid the urban chaos of the Pentagon.
It wasn’t particularly large—perhaps a couple of acres at most—but there was enough vegetation to provide shade, several trees of different sizes and species that had somehow survived in Hell, and some scattered benches suggesting that at least some demons came here occasionally for something other than the usual violence.
The grass was a reddish hue common in this part of Hell, and the perpetually crimson sky cast everything in tones that were simultaneously beautiful and vaguely ominous. There was a small fountain in the center gurgling with liquid that was probably not exactly water, surrounded by a worn stone path suggesting years of use.
It was, in general terms, as close to “picturesque” as the Pentagon could achieve.
Octavia stopped at the park entrance, her eyes widening as she took in the scene with obvious fascination.
"It’s pretty," she declared with genuine surprise. "I didn’t know Hell had pretty places."
"It has some," the woman replied, scanning the area. "They’re rare, but they exist."
"They’re like little pockets of tranquility amid the chaos," the radio added, moving ahead with his staff tapping against the ground. "Though I must do a proper sweep before allowing our young guest to run freely."
"How prudent," Oneira observed as Alastor began a methodical circuit of the park’s perimeter.
His presence alone was generally enough to discourage trouble—most demons recognized the Radio Demon on sight and made the smart decision to be literally anywhere else—but there were occasionally those too stupid or too desperate to exercise proper judgment. There was a small group of lesser demons near the fountain who took one look at Alastor’s sweep and collectively decided other parks were probably better options for the day, dispersing with a speed that would have been comical if it weren’t so predictable.
After about five minutes of inspection, Alastor returned to where Oneira and Octavia waited near the entrance.
"Cleared," he announced. "The previous residents have decided they have urgent commitments elsewhere. How convenient for us!"
"Did you scare them?" Octavia asked with a curiosity that didn’t seem disturbed at all by the implication of intimidation.
"I simply allowed them to make informed decisions about their time usage," Alastor corrected with that tone radiating pure false innocence.
"That sounds like scaring them with extra steps."
"It’s a distinction without a difference."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you’re right but he doesn’t want to admit it directly," Oneira translated.
Octavia considered this, then nodded.
"So can I play now?"
"You can," Oneira confirmed. "But remember the rules. Within my line of sight, stop when I say, avoid anything that looks dangerous."
"I promise!"
And with that, Octavia practically flew toward the trees with an energy she had probably been holding in for hours. Her small wings—still not fully developed but functional for short assisted flight bursts—helped her reach the lower branches more easily than climbing alone would have allowed.
Oneira watched her with fascination and growing apprehension as the girl examined several trees with the seriousness of an engineer assessing structural integrity.
"She’s competent," Alastor observed, moving to sit on one of the benches offering a clear view of the area where Octavia was exploring. "More athletic than her preference for academic activities would suggest."
"Children are generally more capable than adults give them credit for," Oneira joined him on the bench, keeping her eyes on Octavia as the girl selected a particularly sturdy tree and began a cautious ascent. "Though I admit I don’t have much personal experience with that."
"You mentioned you never had children," Alastor said, his tone casual in ways suggesting this was a continuation of a previous conversation rather than a new line of questioning. "Was that your choice or due to some circumstance?"
Oneira considered how much to share.
On one hand, it was personal information of the type she rarely discussed with anyone. On the other, Alastor already knew she had been married—which was more than most people in Hell knew about her past—and it seemed silly to be evasive about details now.
"It was the circumstances," she replied finally. "My husband was infertile. Side effects of… certain lifestyle habits that affected his physiology in ways that made conception impossible."
"Lifestyle habits," Alastor repeated. "Sounds like a deliberately vague description."
"It is," Oneira confirmed. "Because the specific details are complicated and not particularly relevant decades after the fact."
Alastor didn’t press, which she appreciated. Instead, he simply nodded in acceptance.
"And you never considered… other options? After his death, presumably."
"After his death I was busy building a commercial empire from scratch," she replied dryly. "Motherhood wasn’t exactly a priority at that point. And by the time I had established enough stability to consider it…"
She paused, searching for the right words.
"By then too much time had passed. The moment had passed, if it had ever truly been there."
"Do you regret that?"
Oneira considered the question honestly, watching as Octavia reached a particularly high branch and sat on it with obvious triumph, her small legs dangling as she surveyed the park from her elevated perch.
"I’m not sure," she admitted after a few seconds. "Children require a type of attention and emotional commitment I don’t know if I’m capable of providing appropriately. My upbringing wasn’t exactly a model of healthy parenting skills, and my marriage certainly didn’t teach me anything useful about raising young life."
She paused.
"But seeing Octavia today, seeing how Stella clearly loves her despite all the chaos in her own life… there’s part of me that wonders what would have been different if circumstances had allowed that option."
It was more vulnerable than she had intended to be, more honest than was comfortable.
But Alastor simply listened without visible judgment, his eyes occasionally shifting to where Octavia was now attempting to reach an even higher branch with admirable determination.
"I understand that," he said finally. "Wondering about what could have been. Though in my case, I never had illusions about my suitability for fatherhood. My lifestyle, both in life and death, has been fundamentally incompatible with the kind of stability children require."
"And that doesn’t bother you?"
"Not particularly," Alastor replied with an honesty that matched hers. "I enjoy children in small doses, as evidenced today. They’re refreshing in their honesty, fascinating in their development, delightful in their unfiltered reactions to the world."
His smile widened slightly.
"But raising one would require sacrifices I’m not willing to make. My freedom, my autonomy, my ability to pursue interests that are definitely not appropriate for homes with young ones present… Those things are too fundamental to who I am to compromise."
"So you never considered marriage either. You mentioned that this morning."
"Correct. Hunting was, and is, an essential part of my identity. Compromising it for domesticity would have been like asking me to stop breathing."
"Your hunting is my coffee," Oneira rephrased, repeating that thought she had had during previous conversations with him. "Building the empire, perfecting the addiction, expanding the reach. It’s part of my identity. The kind of thing you can’t just set aside for the convenience of a relationship."
"Exactly," Alastor looked at her with understanding… or something more complicated to perceive. "Though I must point out that you’ve apparently found a way to maintain your empire while also… this."
He gestured vaguely between the two of them.
"This?" Oneira repeated, raising an eyebrow.
"Whatever this is," Alastor clarified in a way that clarified nothing, slowly penetrating the mare's skin. "This commercial association that has become more personal over time. Friendship, according to our young observer earlier. Whatever the appropriate term is."
"I’m not sure I want there to be an appropriate term," she murmured.
"Perhaps that’s the point."
A silence fell between them, not uncomfortable but charged with something. Octavia saved them from having to continue this line of conversation by calling from her perch in the tree.
"Mrs. Manhattan! Mr. Alastor! Look at me! I’m really high up!"
Both looked obediently, offering gestures of impression at her small achievement.
"Very well done," Alastor called. "Can you go higher?"
"Alastor!" Oneira reprimanded him immediately. "Don’t encourage her to take unnecessary risks."
"Where’s the fun in that?"
"In not having to explain to Stella why her daughter has broken limbs."
"Limbs heal. Especially in Hell."
"That’s not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
"The point is that I agreed to look after her properly, which does not include encouraging her to potentially dangerous activities to impress strangers."
"There are no strangers. Just us, and we’re clearly very impressed."
"…You’re impossible."
"I’ve been told that before."
Octavia, apparently deciding her current height was sufficiently impressive without needing to push limits further, began a careful descent. Her movements were deliberate and surprisingly coordinated for someone so young, clearly having climbed trees before despite Stella’s claims about keeping her daughter confined to indoor activities.
Once back on solid ground, she ran toward where they were seated, breathless but obviously delighted with her arboreal adventure.
"Did you see how high I got?" she asked with contagious enthusiasm. "I could see the whole park from up there! And even part of the street!"
"We saw you," Oneira confirmed. "Very impressive. Do you want water? You should hydrate after physical activity."
She had brought a bottle specifically for this purpose, anticipating that exercise would require fluid replenishment. Octavia accepted the water gratefully, drinking generously before sitting on the grass in front of the bench where they were, apparently unconcerned about soiling her dress.
"This is fun," the girl declared with satisfaction. "Mommy never lets me do things like this. She says it’s too dangerous or too dirty or too… something."
"Your mother is protecting you," the mare agreed. "That’s what parents are supposed to do."
"But sometimes it feels like a prison," Octavia replied with disconcerting wisdom coming from someone so young. "Especially when I know I can handle more than she thinks."
Alastor let out a laugh at that.
"Oh, you’re going to be an absolute headache when you’re a teenager."
"Why?"
"Because you’re already articulating sophisticated critiques of overprotective parenting dynamics. By the time you’re fifteen, you’ll be debating political philosophy with your mother about personal autonomy versus collective safety."
Octavia considered this.
"That actually sounds interesting."
"Of course it does," Alastor gestured toward her with his staff. "You have a naturally inquisitive mind combined with a solid education. It’s a perfect recipe for eventual intellectual rebellion."
"I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or a warning…"
"Both. The best observations usually are."
Oneira watched this exchange with a mix of amusement and mild concern because Alastor was definitely the type to encourage exactly the kind of independent thinking that would make Stella’s life considerably more complicated in about five to ten years.
But she also had to admit… It was pleasant to see Octavia so engaged, so clearly enjoying conversation that treated her as an intellectual equal rather than just a child who needed to be directed.
"Mrs. Manhattan?" Octavia had turned her attention to her now. "Can I ask a personal question?"
"It depends on how personal it is," Oneira replied cautiously.
"Why coffee? Like… why did you choose that specifically for your business?"
It was a better question than Oneira had anticipated, more thoughtful than typical child curiosity.
"For several reasons," she began, considering how to explain decades of strategic decision in terms sufficiently appropriate for a young audience. "First, coffee is naturally addictive. That creates a reliable customer base."
She paused.
"Second, it’s socially acceptable. No one judges someone for drinking coffee, even if they drink it excessively. Which means I can build an empire based on addiction without the stigma that comes with other substances."
"That’s smart," Octavia analyzed with approval. "Like… social engineering."
"Exactly, like social engineering."
"And is there a third reason?"
Oneira hesitated, because the third reason was considerably more personal.
"I like it," she admitted finally. "The process of making coffee, perfecting blends, creating a complete experience around its consumption. It’s… art, in its own way. And building a business around something I genuinely appreciate makes the work feel less like work."
"Ohhhh," Octavia nodded seriously. "Mommy says you should find something you love and find a way to get paid for doing it… Though she doesn’t love being a princess, so I guess her own advice doesn’t always work."
Oneira fell into an uncomfortable silence at the casual mention of Stella’s unhappiness. The mare was aware that she actually did like being a princess… What she didn’t like was what made her a princess: her husband.
"Your mother is in a complicated situation," Oneira said carefully. "She has family obligations versus personal fulfillment. They’re not always compatible."
"I know. That’s why I’m glad she has friends like you to talk to," Octavia looked at her with surprisingly perceptiveness. "You make her feel better. I can tell because she’s less angry after her visits with you."
And she was clearly going to be less angry if every time she went it was to vent about her husband. Octavia didn’t know it, but Oneira had probably saved her from many family disputes since Stella started going to her establishment more often.
"I’m glad I can help," her voice came out slightly softer.
Alastor had been watching this exchange silently, his expression impossible to read but his posture suggestive of interest.
"You’re lucky," he mentioned to Octavia. "To have a mother who cares enough to seek appropriate support when she needs it. Many parents simply… don’t."
"Did you have a good mother?" Octavia asked with that direct curiosity again.
"Exceptional," Alastor replied without hesitation. "She taught me everything important. Cooking, reading, thinking critically, defending myself from those who would try to take advantage of perceived differences…"
He paused.
"Though I admit she probably didn’t anticipate exactly how I would apply some of those lessons later on."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing appropriate for the present discussion," Alastor evaded cheerfully. "The point is that your mother clearly loves you and is doing her best in difficult circumstances. That counts for a lot."
Octavia nodded, processing this.
"And you, Mrs. Manhattan? Did you have a good mother?"
Oneira tensed slightly at the question.
Because no. She hadn’t had a good mother.
She had had a mother who had allowed her brothers to torment her without intervention, who had looked the other way when her father arranged her marriage to a visibly violent man, who had prioritized social image over her daughter’s well-being at every conceivable turn.
But that wasn’t information appropriate to share with a seven-year-old girl who clearly still had a relatively innocent view of the world.
"My mother was… complicated," she settled on, choosing her words carefully. "We didn’t have a particularly close relationship. Which is fine; not everyone is lucky enough to have strong family connections."
Octavia frowned at that, clearly trying to understand the concept of a family that wasn’t loving.
"That sounds sad."
"It was, sometimes," the black-clad one admitted. "But it also made me stronger in certain ways. It taught me to rely on myself instead of expecting others to rescue me."
"I guess that’s good."
"It can be. Though I would have preferred to learn that lesson in less painful ways."
Alastor was looking at her now with that intensity suggesting he was processing this information and filing it away for future consideration.
But to his credit, he didn’t press for additional details.
Instead, he simply reached over and placed his hand over hers—briefly, barely a second—in a gesture that might have been comfort or simply acknowledgment of her shared vulnerability. Then the moment passed, his hand withdrawing as Octavia began a new line of questions about whether there were other parks in the Pentagon and if any had better trees for climbing.
But Oneira felt the lingering warmth where his fingers had touched.
And she wondered—not for the first time lately—exactly what was happening between her and the Radio Demon.
And whether she should be more concerned about it than she currently was.
Despite that, they spent the next hour in the park in ways that were surprisingly peaceful for Hell.
Octavia alternated between climbing different trees—each one evaluated carefully before deciding if it was worth the effort—and running across the grass with energy that seemed inexhaustible. Occasionally she returned to where Oneira and Alastor remained on the bench, sharing some observation about something she had seen or asking a question about some aspect of the park that had captured her curiosity.
At some point, she had found a particularly interesting stick—though what made it interesting was a mystery only she fully understood—and was using it to draw patterns in the dirt near the fountain.
"It’s remarkable," Alastor observed as Octavia created what appeared to be a rudimentary map of constellations on the ground. "How she naturally gravitated toward visual representation of her interests. It suggests an artistic inclination in addition to the academic one."
"Stella mentioned she takes piano lessons," Oneira added. "Apparently she has talent for her age."
"Of course she does. She’s probably also excellent at math, science, anything else requiring structured thinking."
"Are you projecting?"
"I’m basing it on exhibited behavior patterns," Alastor corrected. "Though I admit a certain… identification with the young one who is clearly smarter than most adults around her and frustrated at being constantly underestimated due to her age."
Oneira looked at him with renewed curiosity.
"Were you like that as a child?"
"Unbearably so, according to most of my memories," Alastor confirmed with something akin to pride. "My mother was the only one who truly encouraged me. Everyone else found my… curiosity… annoying at best and threatening at worst."
"Threatening?"
"A mixed-race child in early twentieth-century Louisiana asking too many smart questions," Alastor said dryly. "You can imagine how that was received in certain circles."
Oneira could imagine it, unfortunately.
"Your mother was…?" she began, not entirely sure how to phrase the question appropriately.
"Creole," Alastor answered, understanding what she was asking. "Of French and African mixture. Which put me in the interesting position of being too dark for some circles and not dark enough for others. The kind of ambiguity that makes people uncomfortable everywhere."
He paused, his fingers drumming against his staff in a pattern.
"Though in retrospect, it probably made me better at navigating different social worlds. You learn to read people when your survival depends on understanding exactly which mask to wear in which situation."
"That’s a useful skill in Hell too."
"Absolutely. Though here the consequences of misreading are considerably more permanent."
Octavia had finished her constellation map and was now trying to find flat rocks she could skip across the fountain’s surface. She had found three so far, lined up carefully at the edge while searching for more.
"She adores you." Oneira watched as Octavia occasionally glanced back to make sure she was still being watched.
"The child?"
"Who else?" The mare rolled her eyes. "Or at least she’s fascinated. I’m not entirely sure which one."
"The difference is subtle at that age," Alastor replied. "Though I must admit the feeling is mutual. It’s delightfully refreshing to spend time with someone who doesn’t have a hidden agenda beyond simple curiosity about the world."
"Most adults have too many layers of politics and posturing."
"Exactly. With Octavia, when she asks a question, she genuinely wants to know the answer. She’s not trying to gain an advantage or assess weaknesses or any of the other things adults do when they feign interest… Though I suspect that will eventually change. Goetian education will inevitably include training in all those unsavory political skills that turn honest children into calculating adults."
"Certainly," Oneira agreed. "Although with Stella as a mother, I worry that spark might die out."
"I don't know her well enough to say that, but your doubts must be well-founded."
"I suppose so..."
They both watched as Octavia finally found enough rocks to her liking and began tossing them into the fountain one by one, clearly trying to make them bounce off the surface of the water.
The first one sank immediately. The second bounced once before sinking. The third managed two bounces, which elicited a delighted squeal of triumph.
"We should teach her the proper technique," Alastor asked. "There’s a specific science to making rocks skip effectively."
"You know how to skip rocks?"
"Of course. It’s basic physics, combining angle and rock type. I learned it young and honed the technique over years of occasional practice."
"Why exactly did you spend years perfecting rock skipping?"
"Why not?" Alastor replied as if it were logical. "Life and death are long. One needs hobbies."
Oneira couldn’t help but smile at that.
"Very well. Go teach her your perfected rock-skipping technique. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the education."
Alastor stood with an enthusiasm that was almost childlike in its quality, moving toward where Octavia was searching for more suitable projectiles.
"Miss Octavia!" he called. "Allow me to show you the proper method for maximizing skips."
Octavia’s eyes lit up immediately.
"You know how to make more skips?"
"Of course. First, you need to select stones with the right shape: flat, smooth, about the size of your palm…"
Oneira watched as Alastor proceeded to give his impromptu lesson on the physics of rock skipping, using terms that were surprisingly technical but presented in a way that clearly resonated with Octavia’s analytical mind.
It was… unexpectedly charming.
Seeing the very Radio Demon, the most recent Overlord and serial killer in life, patiently teaching a seven-year-old girl how to skip rocks properly. There was something almost domestic about the scene that made something strange twist in Oneira’s chest.
Because this was what it might have been, perhaps, if circumstances had been different. If her husband hadn’t been infertile, if her marriage hadn’t been abusive, if she had had the chance to be a mother…
It might have been this.
Afternoons in parks, teaching small things, watching as those young minds absorbed information and grew.
But it hadn’t been.
And sitting here wondering about untaken paths was a futile exercise that had materialized Mara again in the shadows beside the bench. Her crimson eyes watched not Alastor and Octavia, but directly at Oneira. And the expression—insofar as a shadow could have an expression—was something between compassion and understanding.
Because Mara knew. She knew about the marriage, about the infertility, about all the things Oneira had sacrificed or lost, or never had the chance to have in the first place.
"Shut up," Oneira murmured low, knowing Mara would hear even without speaking aloud.
The shadow didn’t respond verbally, but rippled in what was definitely amusement at her other half’s defensiveness.
"Mrs. Manhattan!" Octavia’s voice interrupted her thoughts. "Look at me! Mr. Alastor taught me and now I can do four skips!"
Oneira focused her attention on the fountain where Octavia stood with a perfectly flat stone in her hand, clearly ready to demonstrate her new skill.
"I’m watching," she confirmed.
Octavia threw with a fluid motion; the stone skimmed across the liquid’s surface one, two, three, four times before finally sinking.
"Perfect!" Alastor congratulated her. "The technique was excellent. With practice, you could easily achieve six or seven skips."
"Really?"
"Absolutely. Though you’d need a longer stretch of water to accommodate the distance. This fountain is somewhat limiting."
Octavia absorbed this information seriously, clearly already planning future attempts to improve her personal record.
Oneira discreetly checked the time, noting it was almost seven in the evening.
They had been in the park for over two hours.
And though Stella had said she’d return before midnight, Oneira suspected the political dinner would likely extend to nine or ten at minimum. Which meant several more hours of supervision.
"We should consider heading back to the café," she mentioned to the other two, standing. "It’ll be getting dark soon, and the park is considerably less safe after nightfall."
Alastor nodded in agreement, calling to Octavia.
"Time to go, little one. We’ve monopolized this green space long enough."
Octavia ran toward them, clearly tired but still with notable energy for someone who had been running around for over two hours.
"Can we come back another day?" the girl asked hopefully.
"That will depend on your mother," Oneira replied diplomatically. "But if you stay with me again, we can certainly consider another park visit."
"Will you stay with me again?"
"If your mother requests it and I have time available, then yes."
Octavia seemed satisfied with that answer, taking Oneira’s hand without asking first.
The three began the walk back toward the Manhattan Café, navigating streets that were beginning to fill with nocturnal demons. Alastor’s presence ensured most kept a respectful distance, and the fact that they were clearly accompanying a small royal child added an extra layer of “do not disturb” that most demons were smart enough to respect.
Octavia maintained a constant conversation as they walked, jumping between topics with a rapidity that was hard to follow: astronomy, rock skipping, whether there were animals in Hell, why the sky was always red, if the stars looked different from here than from Earth… Alastor answered each question with a patience Oneira hadn’t fully anticipated he possessed.
And she…
Oneira simply walked, feeling the small weight of Octavia’s hand in hers, and wondered when exactly she had started to enjoy this.
It hadn’t been what she expected when she agreed to Stella’s favor that morning, but now that it was happening… she discovered she wouldn’t change it.
For now she simply walked, listening to Octavia’s endless questions, watching as Alastor answered them with that particular charm he employed when genuinely enjoying a conversation.
And tried not to think too much about what it meant that this felt so… natural.
So right.
So dangerously close to something that might have been her family, if circumstances had been entirely different.