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"Hello, fellow newcomers. Welcome to Hell!"
That entire quote was read right by your eyes—I am in Hell. The Underworld; the Realm of No Return; Oblivion. There's a fuckton of names for the realm itself, which was a baffling thing to realize that, hey, it's not a flaming cesspool of lava and magma, with a volcano going off in the distance!
Quite…earthly, at most.
Everyone surrounding me seemed like decent people who couldn't be that fucked in the head to do something ethically and lawfully wrong to be sent to the Hole. Handful of 'em were in their thirties and fourties while a teeny few were young as I or older.
What's my reason for being here?
Well, that's another story.
As The Big Boss explained where everyone was and where they'd remain for the entirety of their lives, he then chided, "Anyone have any questions?"
One guy rose his hand—waving it. Lucifer gave an intrigued hum and the man questioned, "Can we get redeemed in any way?"
A smug smile tug at the demon overlord's lips as being asked such a question that would, of course, pique interest in those who believed in the fate of redemption. He gave a simple gesture—a shaking head while he rasped out 'no' while chuckling.
"Wait- why?" Another woman piqued up, worry washed over her slightly wrinkly face.
Satan himself replied with a condescending tone, "The good ol' Bible Man told me that y'all ain't allowed in his pearly haven of Good and Purrrrrrity! So, stick it out. will ya?"
Honestly, how bad could it be? Sure it didn't seem all that colorful and bright in comparison to the ground above us—Earth—but case and point: it felt like it. Of what once could be described as a scene of a flourished green cliff being near the once mirrored sky blue waters and jagged belows of the hill were paled, like a monochrome photograph in the olden times. However, everyone that stood on that cliff had the colors of red, black, periwinkle—practically the entire rainbow—on them.
Then, he spoke the cursed words that were kryptonite to a social awkward fuckwad like me—"Get in a circle and let's give a lil' info about ourselves!"
The horned man became psyched once hearing the groans of everyone who simply despised these sorta things. Icebreakers, the bane of any person who have some weird ass secrets. Like, y'know, eating Flamin' Hot Cheetos with pickle juice!
Not like I do that…haha, fuck.
So the Overlord started with a proud cough, clearing his throat, "I'm pretty sure you all know who I am. Satan! Lucifer! Lord of the Flies, Father of Lies? Ring a bell for any? Or maybe Mephistopheles? Sheesh, you lot give me weirder names than the next child to some Soccer mom."
Stifled chuckles were heard amongst the circle while the few exchanged glances at each, knowing glances. Satan decided continued on with who he is and what sweet fuckery he's done—it's pretty fucking evident he kinda tried growing out of the rebellious, bad boy phase but that flopped miserably. However, he assures himself with a simple hushed, "I'm a changed man. Does that mean I'll go back to The Big G and ask for the job back? Nope—in fact, I like it here!"
"But anyways," he switched the subject to us, "Who wants to go next?"
Nobody rose their hand or even spoke up to volunteer. It truly felt like the stereotyped imagery of the Underworld itself.
He shrugged at us, soon deciding with an on the whim choice to pick us off like the sitting ducks we were. And I'm allowed to say this because—
"Oh, fuck me," I mumbled. That index finger was pointed right at me.
With a quirked eyebrow, he asked, "What was that? Either I didn't hear you or I probably did and you just said that you wanted to…fuck me?" Then, a cackle follows as he was amused by such wits that weren't even there for me to be fucked by the Overlord of the Underworld.
Like holy fuck, what the fuck? I'm pretty certain I wasn't interested, however…
"Me? Say that? Nooo-hooo. I didn't! You must've heard it from, uh, someone else." A simple white lie told into the face of Lucifer. Fucking Lucifer! A man with horns and a condescending smirk on that rather luscious scarlet skin? If there was a place deeper than Hell, then gladly take me there—
Then, a blonde, slim woman scoffed aloud from the circle, arms crossed with impatience bleeding on her face. She then blurts out, "Stop actin' like some lovesick couple! You," she pointed at me with teal, acrylic tips, "reply to him so we can get this over 'n done with!"
I exchanged a simple, neutral frown.
The lady glared at me as I tried to speak who I was before, uh, a Certain Thing happened. So, I did:
"The name's Nadine," I started off with a quiet voice. "I don't have much to say besides being sent here for…unknown purposes. Seriously, I don't have the reason tattooed on me!"
Everyone glanced at their tattoos—the tattoos of the biblical sins and crimes they've committed while in the middle plane. Some had them on their wrist, while others had it on their thigh and upper chest. Wherever it was, it was there and it followed them.
I, however, didn't get the ink imprint. Not even on the back, either.
Most of the people gave dazed looks at me, eyes of green, hazel, brown and blues staring at me in confusion, awe, and great terror. Mainly terror, for one thing. They must've heard from the get-go that everyone gets tattooed in Hell when entering into the crooked, rickety gates.
The Overlord hummed in interest at the secret, "Alright, Nadine, you've spoke your part. Anybody else?"
And like that, it was back to playing Spin the Wheel.
Within the gathered hour or two (did time even exist in this plane? Oh well), there were a lot who stated that they just downloaded content illegally from the Internet to some major shtick to fraud or theft. 'Course, the real major shtick was engaging in some grizzly murder case, which would've made some uneasy.
Then we made it to the final victim of the Spill the Truth game, the other that was young as me.
They wore a wine red hoodie with black print markings at the shoulders and chest, knees pulled up to their chest as they hid their face from view (which was an astoundingly terrible idea!) when the point of the bottle pointed at them; waiting.
Everyone, including me, stared at them. This person has worse anxiety than me!
"So kid," Satan chimes in, "what's your crime? Or crimes, if I'm going by what the Gatekeepers told me."
Their hooded head rose from their knees, glancing at the horned man with a bleak and honestly bored frown. They simply shrugged before going back to sleep—wait, they were asleep?
"Whaddya mean you don't know?", the Overlord cackled. "Or you don't wanna show us?"
"Thought you knew, big red. Ya heard from the guards 'n so did y'all. The Inked Woman of Murders."
Oh—grisly murder case! Just lovely! Just what I needed!!
ABSOLUTELY NOT GET ME OUT OF HERE!
As anticipated, this got some aghast gasps from some people near the hoodie dude. Some even scooted away from them as the result. "Big Red", as stated by the gal, became flustered by the coined nickname from the murderess.
"What's wrong, Big Red?", she grinned. "Don't like being called that? Or what?"
He cleared his throat, standing back up and hovering over the inked woman. "So we have Uninked Nadine and Crawling in Sins…?"
"Penelope," replied the girl.
"You two would make a lovely friendship," one of the jackasses that was sent down here—or cursed, I bet—by being the pompous shitshow he was, quipped. "Of course, who am I to say? At least I'm not afraid."
He was further from Penelope than most, mind you.
The Devil himself gave out a boisterous laugh. "You lot would make a nifty group of those tired of each other! I bet on it!"
"So…ya mean, like, we're in a sorta sitcom in your view?", a girl with pink highlights that emitted emo-scene vibes questioned
Again, a chuckle from Satan, "Yup. And I'm your boss! Have fun knowing each other!"
Then, just like that, he vanishes in a bursting curtain of flames that consumed him and left a trail of ash.
The rest of the group either glanced at me or Penelope, of whom rose up and stretched. So she was asleep, just pretending she was a shy gal. Nifty trick if I say so myself.
Then, she walked over to me, hands enveloped in the hood pockets.
"You seem to like my hoodie, dontcha?", she asks. Out of everyone that she could've went up to, I was the chosen game! And the chosen game that got questioned!
Nadine.exe has somewhat left the chat.
"Your hoodie? N-no dude. I mean, it's cool and whatever, but—"
An index brushed itself against my lips. What. "Dude, shush. I stole it from one of the demons 'ere. It was rockin' so I just had to get something on my way here."
Now that she says it, it does have symbolic fire ringlets at the sleeves and folds of the hood that encased her head. She had a rather placid, laidback smile plastered on her face as she talked to me throughout the entire group session.
"So, whatcha like? Or what were ya like, heh."
And
"I could nab ya another hoodie if ya want. Or their guts. Either way goes."
I felt myself cringe at that statement and she gave out a simple chuckle at the response. Someone glanced over at us, eyes that were neutral became narrowed in disgust—it was the acrylic nails girl, of whom was oh-so appropriately named Angelica.
You could never trust a bitch with "Angel" somewhere in their name. First-hand experiences can have an extraneous result later on in your life.
Or, ya know, don't trust anyone with A in their name.