Chapter Text
Deep underground beneath the Kingdom of Hell, in a network of labyrinthine sewer passageways, a man known as the Moose was trying to squeeze all six-feet-four-inches of his twenty-two-year-old self through a grating nearly too small for the average twelve-year-old. It was an act of desperation --- he’d known that from the start, from the moment he’d come up with the plan and Andy had told him that it was impossible --- but he didn’t care; he had to get out.
Still, he was regretting his persistence as it brought him to the unfortunate position of having his torso caught in an unforgiving hoop of rusted metal, one arm free near his head but the other pinned with the rest of him, awkwardly trying to worm his way out without dislocating anything. He had to get moving, had to get out of the vicinity before anyone told Captain Azazel that he’d gone AWOL, but his luck had never been good and that didn’t seem to be changing. It was almost enough to make him turn back.
Except, then, the image of pale yellow eyes flitted through his mind, accompanied by memories of pre-sunrise wakeups, endless drills in rain and snow, the militant lifestyle he’d been forced into. Then, he remembered Andy and Max, Ansem and Jake, Ava, Lily, Scott. Then, he remembered the idea of a family, a concept he’d only ever heard of, a vague possibility of a mother, a father, siblings… the normal life he’d always coveted and never gotten to have. And, just like that, he knew: he would never --- could never --- go back.
As though a little more determination was all he needed, one more shove sent the Moose jolting forward, shoulder finally slipping free with a grunt. He let out a startled laugh at the victory before snapping his mouth closed and stilling in place, head cocked in an attempt to discern if anyone had heard.
No one had, but not for any good reason; rather, the noise was drowned out by the cacophony of bells ringing overhead, the sound of the alarm going out across the kingdom as troops were mobilised to track him down.
With the idea of being quiet gone moot, he let out a curse, sliding himself out the rest of the way. Too late, it occurred to him to catch himself before sliding out, already too far gone to prevent himself from plunging through empty space and splashing into the dirty water feet beneath him. Still, he was too ecstatic by his success to care about the dirty water sloshing over him or the noise his descent had made; things weren’t easy, but at least it was relatively downhill --- literally and figuratively --- from there on out.
He’d taken the time to plan out his egress, to make sure his plan was at least feasible. Too many had tried to escape without any real idea of what was required, failing as they ran into something unexpected --- tales ran wild about shapeshifters running through the slimy corridors, of wrong turns and hidden passageways that deliberately looked appealing but led only to death --- for him to improvise.
And so, rather than climbing the vertical tunnel to the holy-seeming glow of the chapel overhead or following the voices echoing through the halls or avoiding the seemingly sturdy re-bar grating to his right, the Moose dived down, feeling his way to the base of the grate. It wasn’t easy --- the current of the water practically swept him away before he could feel the bent re-bar --- but eventually he found the gap he knew would be there and swam through.
The tunnel on the other side was uncomfortably long, and his lungs were seizing with the strain by the time he saw light streaming down through the dirty water. He couldn’t restrain his gasp as he reached the surface, didn’t bother to try with the temptation of sweet air surrounding him when he finally kicked his way to the surface of the water. Intellectually, some part of him knew the risks, knew that caution was needed… but he needed the air and he’d take those risks.
The tunnel --- as predicted --- let out into the canal that surrounded the place. It was a hideous, man-made moat-like stream, un-affectionately termed Styx by the kingdom’s inhabitants, but at least it was sluggish enough that he could climb out onto the banks of the river, sticking close to the bridge to get a sense of his surroundings.
The sound of bells was still loud in the air, clanging vibrantly in the springtime air; there was no chance in Hell that anyone hadn’t heard them. Even if there were, the kingdom had effectively shut itself down. The walls --- still a good league away --- had shut their gates by now, quarantining everyone where they were, and the villagers had left for their own homes. The only people left outside were the Captain and his guards, the former overseeing the latter as they prepared for their searches. His time to escape was, quite literally, then or not at all.
It was surprisingly easy to slip, undetected, along the bridge’s supports, to reach one of the guards’ wagons and crawl underneath. He didn’t quite understand how he even made it --- Azazel himself was perched right beside the wagon, seated on his horse and talking about supplies with the driver --- but it wasn’t long before he was hidden safely under the carriage, held up solely by his grip on the wood. Then, the cart was moving and his job got that much harder, his muscles struggling to withstand the jostling of wooden wheels bouncing on the cobblestones.
As much as the Moose had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t do anything to draw attention… Well, he needed funds. He’d gotten used to stealing money and picking pockets over the years, so it wasn’t especially difficult to push out one of the wagon’s wooden floorboards and snake his hand up, feeling the familiar texture of a leather money bag and, nestled beside it, a sheathed dagger. Removing the dagger was child’s play; cutting the straps holding the bag in place even more so. Then, the bag was his, disappearing down into his pocket before either guard was any the wiser.
– – –
The next few days were hard. Hell was still on alert, the sound of bells still carrying across the intervening wilderness at odd intervals. The Moose had, after dropping from underneath the wagon, travelled on foot, passing by patrol after patrol of Azazel's soldiers still combing the area. He’d only seen a few that he recognised, but he didn’t dare approach any of them, uncertain which --- if any --- would help him.
When he reached his first destination --- a small street-side tavern colloquially known as The Roadhouse --- it was a relief. He hadn’t seen wagons passing in long enough that he felt as though he could actually approach, hadn’t even heard bells ringing in a few hours. He didn’t have to disguise himself either; the dirt of travelling by foot for the past few days meant that his clothing was torn and stained with road dust, just like someone travelling long-distance along unpaved roads. He didn’t think further about strategy, merely pushing open the door and walking inside.
It was a small establishment, darkly lit and filled to half-capacity with dust-covered travellers sipping from mugs of dark ale. The bartender stood behind the counter, hand pushing brownish hair from her face as she spoke with one of her customers; she didn’t look up until the Moose had sidled over to the counter, slipping onto a stool. As soon as she noticed him, she crossed the distance to stand next to him, tossing a rag over her shoulder and leaning down slightly. “What can I get ya?”
For a second, he hesitated. He’d heard she was trustworthy --- the great Ellen Harvelle had made a reputation for herself in whispers and gossip, known to help people who weren’t especially cosy with the Bishop and his politics --- but he didn’t really know. And yet the way she was looking at him --- brown eyes meeting his with honest welcome as she waited for him to answer --- made him believe her. “Help.” He paused, appraising her one more time. “I think I need your help.”
She nodded, solemnity taking over as she hummed non-committally. “What’s up?”
“The Bishop’s looking for me. I need to get out of the area.” He kept his voice low, hoping to keep anyone nearby from hearing the words.
And yet it was a noisy pub and he could only speak so quietly while still communicating his point and he knew the second he’d spoken that he’d been too loud. He knew even before one of the many hooded figures in the bar stood up, thrusting his cowl back to reveal the familiar yellow-eyed countenance of Captain Azazel, a grin on his face. “Hello, Sam.”