Chapter Text
Pandemonium.
That was the word. Complete and utter pandemonium.
That’s what Hell was right now, and though many are inclined to believe it is always like this, that isn’t quite the case. There’s no eternal fire or constant screams of agony, no one is running around in a panic or crying for help, and there certainly aren’t any buffoons brandishing pitchforks (unless they have a mind to be sent to The Hole).
No, usually the residents of Hell are too downtrodden to do much of anything besides mumble in complaint among themselves. They stumble along the glorified hallway that is the Realm of Darkness without much protest, and only ever put up a fuss with one another, usually more out of boredom than any actual upset. You could say Hell is like a busy DMV or a long line at a sub-par amusement park. Crowded, musty, brimming with feelings of rage and despair that never actually bubble over. It was the exhaustion that was the true punishment. The consistency of nothingness, walking and walking knowing there was nowhere to go and nothing good to come.
Only now, when Hell’s one chance at redemption had been stripped away right at the cuff, all that anger had finally overflowed. The crowd of demons that had taken so long to be lined up for battle were in complete disarray, howling in outrage, projecting their frustration on whoever was the closest. Generals beat their troops with splintered batons, soldiers turned on each other, biting and scratching and tearing at uniforms. Someone had gotten ahold of a flamethrower and was torching anyone in a twenty-foot radius. Before anyone had the time to recuperate from the failed Armageddon, Hell had imploded and became a warzone within itself.
Luckily, the Prince of Hell was safe within their makeshift office, a sectioned-off platform raised above the ground floor where they could watch the chaos unfold. Despite this, Beelzebub did not have to endure any less conflict. Accompanying them was Hastur, Duke of Hell and new top demon ever since Crowley went rogue. Hastur was practically foaming at the mouth, drops of spittle flying as he heaved through gritted teeth.
“Let me down there!” He snarled, his inky black eyes focused on the fight below. Even the toad on his head looked irate, croaking in assent. “I can handle ‘em. I’ll put ‘em into place.”
“Absolutely not,” protested Malphas, the raven-headed Demon of Crossroads. “You’ll only get yourself killed…as killed as the undying can get. Better to wait this thing out and let them disperse.”
“That’d take too long,” Hastur countered. “We should shut this down now before they get any ideas. We kill and torture a few, make an example of them, stop this in its tracks.”
“They’re killing and torturing each other right now! Nothing we can do is going to quench their bloodlust.”
“Well maybe if someone hadn’t gone and botched the war, they wouldn’t have been so wound up in the first place!”
“Shut it!” Beelzebub barked, cutting them both off. They had been sitting quite idly on the throne since returning from the surface, holding their chin and growling quietly while their subjects bickered solutions. In their frustration they had scratched thin white lines over their jaw, and now tapped them absently as they came to conclusion.
“Crowley,” they said simply, as If that was all the answer necessary.
“What about him?” asked Hastur, embittered by the mere mention of the serpent. After all, it was Crowley who allegedly killed Ligur, seemingly befriended the enemy, and definitely stopped the Apocalypse.
“He’s a traitor, obviously. He caused this whole thing, didn’t he? He has yet to be brought to justice,” said Malphas.
The Prince nodded. “Exactly.” They stood, resetting their drooping sash. A fly materialized from the folds and began circling their head. Beelzebub’s Commander voice wasn’t very drilling, just as flat and disinterested as their typical speech, but it was loud enough that Hastur and Malphas knew these were orders. “Hastur, gather the generals that aren’t making arses of themselves, go get Crowley. Malphas, get Dagon on the loudspeaker. Tell them there’ll be a trial tomorrow, execution hopeful. Only the complicit can watch.”
Malphas wrinkled their nose at the arrangement, but Hastur seemed far too pleased to be tasked with Crowley’s apprehension. “Don’t gotta bring ‘im back clean, do I?” The look of morbid glee on his face was nauseating. Beelzebub’s lip twitched up.
“Just get him here whole, will ya?”
“No promises.”
And in a snap, he was gone. Beelzebub huffed, turning on their heels and heading off towards the exit. From behind them, Malphas crowed, “Where are you going, then?” The Prince did not grace them with a glance.
“To secure us a guillotine. And, if we’re lucky, restart this bloody war.”
***
“We have to kill him,” said Uriel tautly, without restraint.
“A bit hasty, isn’t it?” ventured Michael, rubbing her palms together with unease. She had not stopped wringing them since Gabriel returned empty-handed. Despite her position as the “lead” archangel, she was easily flustered when things didn’t go according to plan. “I mean, with the Apocalypse having just been stopped. We still have to reset things here.”
Gabriel was pacing, arms folded neatly behind his back. His usually friendly disposition had crumbled and was replaced by a dark, wrathful mask. This was not how things were written out in the Great Plan, he was sure of it. But that little twa-
That bast-
That bad angel, Aziraphale, had gone and mucked it up for all of them. Disrupted the Almighty’s masterful work. And now he was off in Heaven-doesn’t-know-where with that demon, Crowley, probably relishing in their victory. The thought alone made the archangel’s corporeal form flash hot with rage, but he forced himself to simmer for now.
“Uriel is right,” he argued. “Already there have been rumors spreading. Our troops are confused. They’re asking questions.” He said questions in the same tone one might say vomit or murder. Michael pressed her hands together firmly.
“Even so,” she said, “We cannot simply drop down to Earth and kill him ourselves. If anything, that’d stir up even more suspicion. We can’t have him being martyred.”
“Mm, you’re right,” came Gabriel’s reply, along with a wagging of his finger. “We’ll have to be clever. And quick.”
“Without getting our hands dirty,” Uriel reminded, although she looked like she wanted nothing more than to play the executioner herself. Gabriel was almost willing to let her.
For a while, they all stood in silence, deep in thought over the next course of action. After several moments had passed, Michael took a deep (unnecessary) inhale. “What if-“
Whatever suggestion she had, it never made it out for consideration. A stout angel with a mustache, still dressed in combat gear, burst into the hall with a gasp. “Sir--! Gabriel, um, you’re being summoned.”
Gabriel’s brows knotted, his lips pushed together. “Who summons anymore? Couldn’t they have sent a text?”
The angel shrugged, picking at his mustache. “M’ not sure they send texts in Hell, sir.”
There was a beat of silence. “Hell?” Michael chirped quizzically. “Who in Hell-?“ But Gabriel had already gone.
***
Beelzebub stood facing the lake, arms crossed tightly over their chest, eyes staring blankly out over the water. The Lord of the Flies was a ghastly sight to come across in the picturesque St. James park, but demons had a way to avert human gazes if they didn’t want to be seen. Besides the faint smell of grime and sulfur, no one noticed the Prince of Hell doing a summoning ritual in public. Which was convenient, since they were here to talk to an angel about committing a double homicide.
The fly atop Beelzebub’s head gave a disgruntled buzz, shimmying a little in place. “I know,” its wearer replied sourly. “You think those wank-wings would be a bit more punctual. That’s the word, innit? Punk-shoo-uhl?”
The Prince’s patience—a shock they had any at all--was just starting to run out when the air around them went still. A deep, daytime television-esque voice rang out from behind them, sounding half exasperated half-concerned.
“What do you want?” Gabriel asked, though it didn’t sound like the type of question there could be an open answer to. The demon turned to face him, expression steely. Unfazed. They had met earlier in the day, both trying to urge the Antichrist back into his role before the damage was irreversible. Even so, the intensity of the Prince’s ghostly stare was unsettling.
“The same thing you do, I reckon. Recalibration. Traitors on the rocks. War back on the go.”
The archangel blinked. He hadn’t expected such a straightforward answer.
“The traitors are, as they say, ‘a wall.’”
“AWOL,” the Prince corrected. “My people are on it. ‘Till then, you got a choice on how you wanna do this. Fly solo, and risk the deficit? Or play it from both sides?”
Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Are you offering your help?”
“I’m offering you a deal.”
“Angels don’t work with demons.”
A sardonic smile pulled at the corners of Beelzebub’s mouth. “Or so we thought, eh? Times sure are a-changing.”
The archangel bristled. Typical Hellspawn. But they had a point. Finding Aziraphale was one thing but killing him without starting a ruckus was another. And who was to say the demon Crowley would not escape their grasp and thwart them again? (How cruelly ironic that the serpent who was meant to be thwarted had become the one who thwarts.) And even if they managed to eliminate those two, there was still the Antichrist who needed repositioning, or else altogether replaced. With all of Heaven’s power, they could only do so much in Hell’s sphere of influence.
Beelzebub sensed his thought process, and tipped their chin in the archangel’s direction. “Tell ya wot. I’ll send one of my boys to kill your renegade angel. You give us one-a yours to help with ours. We get rid of the outliers and go from there.”
Gabriel found no fault in their logic, which, if anything, made him more suspicious. Evil was never logical. There were always errors in its thinking. Always something overlooked that would become its undoing.
“How do I know you’re not trying to trick me?” He asked pointedly, leaning a little further backwards. The demon sneered, showing off a row of sharp yellow teeth. For the first time, their words actually had some energy to them.
“Ya don’t. But I’m tellin’ ya like it is. We want the same thing! N’ my people aren’t gonna wait another six thousand years to rip yer bloody throats out!”
Gabriel winced. Their words were crude, but correct at the core. The angel troops were restless right now, still aching for the glory that was promised to them. He couldn’t imagine—didn’t even want to imagine—what it must be like in Hell right now. Judging by Beelzebub’s chagrin, it must have been bad. Bad enough to call an angel for help. At that thought, he smiled, earning a weird look from the demon.
Yes, this could work out quite splendidly, it seemed. There was no need for natural disasters or thousand-year competitions or ancient prophecies to start the Apocalypse. If anything, those were only side attractions for the main outline of the Great Plan, anyway. When they had two knowledgeable, high-functioning facilities operating together, they could easily make their own Armageddon. And this time, it would be simply cosmopolitan.
“I suppose you have a point, don’t you?” Gabriel finally conceded, his smile painfully bright in the evening dim. “How very clever. You have yourself a deal.”
Beelzebub exhaled slowly, trying not to look as relieved as they felt. Suddenly, something Malphas had said centuries ago came back to memory. They stuck out their hand. “Shake on it.”
Gabriel’s smile waned. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Shake on the deal.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit unnecessary?”
Silence fell. Beelzebub stared, unblinking, at the archangel until he felt uncomfortable in his own body. ‘If looks could discorporate’, he thought. Reluctantly, he grasped the demon’s clammy hand. Pain shot into his palm immediately, causing him to pull back with a jerk.
“Ow! What was-?”
As he pulled his hand back to inspect it, a little fat fly zipped between his fingertips, landing and nestling comfortably in the demon’s coat pocket. Left behind was a red mark shaped like two closely connected eyes. “Yeah,” Beelzebub droned. “S’not that I don’t trust you, ‘cept…obviously I don’t trust you, so just a precautionary measure.”
Gabriel scoffed, aghast. “Oh, I’m the untrustworthy one?!” The Prince shrugged, turning up their palms in a so-so manner.
“I mean, yeah. You can tag me too if ye want. Just makin’ sure you don’t step out of your way or turn your back.”
Gabriel frowned and made several other little fussy noises of agitation, which Beelzebub refrained from smirking at. With a huff, he extended his hand again, which they raised to take it assuming he would give them a similar mark. To their surprise, he turned his palm upward, and from it formed a centered white light like a tiny star. When it extinguished, the angel held a white and purple butterfly in his hand.
Confused, the demon opened their mouth to question, but no sound came out. The butterfly flitted over from its conjurer and, to the Prince’s great shock and dismay, perched ever-so-delicately onto the medal tied around their collar.
“There,” said Gabriel, folding his hands together. “Are we done? Good. I’ll uh, be in touch, then.” With a strained smile, he spread his hands on either side, and was gone in a blink.
It took a second for Beelzebub to regain their senses. “Tomorrow,” they blurted, breaking their seal of coverage from prying eyes and causing an alarmed passerby to glance over. Their voice lowered. “The trial is tomorrow." There was no response, of course, but the butterfly on their collar flapped its wings gently, one time and then again. The Prince had a feeling the angel had heard after all.