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The disheveled man again raised the bottle to his lips, finding a home in the familiar burn of the rye. He knocked his great head back, squeezing his black eyes tightly. Then, lulling it back down, he rested the bottle firmly between his two large hands, elbows heavily on his knees spread wide as he sat on the edge of his bed. His hunched and defeated posture was one he only dawned alone. No one really needed to see their ‘King’ (he hated it when they called him that), so small, concerned, unsure, broken.
Even his great, fleshy, bat-like wings, blackened, seared over time, folded behind him, their tired, thin skin feeling uncared for. Long, thin bones within feel fractured and brittle. His silk bathrobe hung lazily over his body. He was meant to be dressed well for this occasion, but he wouldn’t let that bother him right now. His inhumanly-long black hair hung matted and tangled around his depressed face. His goat-like horns, chipped and cracked, curling away from his features, kept the locks at bay so they couldn’t obscure his vision of the floor he’d let get a little too dingy for his liking over the past nine months. Gray skin, even showing the signs of rot he often worked hard to keep from the surface, black veins and blisters of his 6,000+ years.
As he stood wearily, bones cracked and popped into place. He lulled his head up again, black eyes following the lines of the things in his quarters. His demons thought it a castle, but it looked more and more like a human home these days.
Sure, it still sported scorched cobblestone and obsidian walls, magma-like grout flowing hotly between each one. Ageless and forever burning and dripping candles sat airily on black sconces, bearing the wax that had leaked from the flame and formed stalactites of the material long having kept the dark place dimly lit. But amongst the things one expects to see in such a place, one could also find a large, round bed, dawned in black silken sheets, knit blankets, and fluffy grey comforters. Bedside tables, today, adorned with countless bottles of the rye he liked so well. Books, lots of human books, decorated random parts of the place. The stationery, inks, parchments, and bic pens were messily scattered on an ornate roll-top ebony desk. The most extensive collection of music known to man, demon, or angel sat disheveled on his expanse of shelves, records, tapes, and CDs. Even in the modern age, he'd picked up a few thumb drives and terabyte hard drives at Costco filled to the brim with anything he cared to listen to at least twice. A giant flat-screen TV mounted on the wall across from his bed gives access to any filmography he’d like from any point in human history.
This was his home. Not on the main level, not up there with all the bureaucratic desks and paperwork, much too like the sterile cubicles of the place he’d fought so hard to be away from— except much, much smellier.
Satan heaved himself to his bathroom and to his cluttered vanity, where he practiced one of his favorite sins well. He swayed drunkenly, gripping the onyx counter. He looked in the mirror, pushing down the voices constantly whispering in his brain. He hated what they had to tell him more than he hated what he had to do. He grunted, straining as he pushed the liquor from his body, filling many bottles around the room. He left a little bit in his system, ‘liquid courage’, as the humans say. He could almost crack a smile at that.
He grabbed hold of the creams and bottles sent to him by a friend on Earth that were littered about and slowly half worked, half miracled his features into the more defined and preserved way he liked them. His face became fresh again, less leathery and more giving the illusion of the effortless purity taken from him when he rebelled. Next, he coaxed his thick hair from the tangled mess into the long, wavy stream it usually was, trailing a few feet behind his already tall stature. Then, as he miraculously dressed instantly (leaving his shoes to be put on manually, even miracles couldn’t tie them the way he liked best), he braided his hair neatly, taking care as he tied the end with a dollar store rubber band.
A voice broke out suddenly into the room, cracking as it interrupted the well-loved CD in its player, “your Disgrace?” Beelzebub called.
Satan groaned, equally annoyed by the loss of the sounds of Alkaline Trio’s “Maybe I’ll Catch Fire”, and what the voice being present meant. “Stop with that,” he barked. The Prince knew of his disdain for all of their formalities.
Ze hesitated for a moment before clearing zir throat and continuing. “If you’ll come up now, the human is about to be summoned.”
Those black eyes squeezed shut again, “shit,” he groaned. He really didn’t want to do this. “Grand, good job, gold star or pentagram or whatever. Gimme a damned second. Gotta put my shoes on.”
“Yes… sir,” ze settled on and let the CD fade back in.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…” he cursed like a mantra as he angrily grabbed his Doc Martens 1040s, well taken care of since the day he bought them in 1966, lacing them up just the way he liked. The way he’d been taught in the ‘70’s by a young man with an incredible liberty-spike mohawk outside of CBGB’s that tied one end of the lace, leaving it down by the toe of the boot and only using the length to zig-zag through the scuffed eyelets and slip knotted through the top, tucking in what was left to leave a worm-like imprint on his ankle later. As far as Satan was concerned, that was the only way to lace them and the only way to comfortably wear any shoe.
Heaving to his feet and standing his regular 7’4, he cracked his neck and stretched his wings. He knew he had to do this. But he really didn’t want to. He made his way from his quarters and up the dimly lit stairs, becoming dingier as he made his way up. He climbed them only one at a time, so he could think.
There had to be a way out of this, right?
It wasn’t like he’d meant to make the Antichrist. Not now. Or… really ever. He’d like to avoid it. He didn’t want another fucking war. And he didn’t want the world they were living in to end—with its dollar store rubber bands or Costco terabyte hard drives filled with human music. Just his lot after 6,000 years of fighting, if they even win. Not to mention his few connections on Earth wouldn’t last.
He knew it was supposed to be his department to tempt, but he swore it had been someone God had sent to tempt him that night. He knew she wasn’t, but if it was God’s fault, maybe it wasn’t his.
Well, it wasn’t his fault that playing a rocking concert with some humans always made him determined to take someone home. It wasn’t his fault that the band had picked a cover of Muse’s “Uprising” to end the show, putting him in even more of a high. It wasn’t his fault that that night, in particular, there were no men of his persuasion in the bar. In the haze of smoke and rye, it hadn’t been his fault that she’d approached him.
It wasn’t her fault, either. She couldn’t have known, and she was looking for some fun just like he was. Claire was a lovely woman, and he’d spent nine months drinking away the thought of what he’d done to her.
He’d forgotten his timing, that now was the worst time to say “fuck it” and do precisely that. He should’ve known to wait another thousand years before looking at someone with a vagina. And he should’ve known not to decide that since there was no tail for the night, he could at least settle and at least give this woman a good time. Women weren’t Satan’s thing, but her beautiful red lipstick reminded him of someone he couldn’t place. Instead, he’d decided that sex was sex that night, and as soon as it was over, he knew something was wrong. And not just how having sex with a woman felt to his very much intact homosexuality. He knew what had happened, what her next years would look like.
It hurt him even more when he’d offhandedly left his number with Claire, and she’d called him four weeks later to tell who she thought was called Lucky Young that she had become pregnant, and she wanted him to know, at no expectation of him. How understanding and expecting she was that he would want nothing to do with her or the child further than knowing.
This wasn’t how he’d thought it’d be.
He stopped before the door to where Claire would be summoned, where she’d be informed why the pregnancy was so difficult, where she’d have the child so they could be placed, and where time would begin to tick on the end of the world.
Satan leaned his forehead on the doorframe, swallowing back tears again. What had he done? What was he going to do?
He couldn’t let it happen like it was. And he couldn’t let his demons know what he was thinking. What he was planning.
He straightened himself, ready to put on a show for his crowd of rebels. Wherein after, he’d do whatever it took to change the outcome.
Terrified was not quite the word for how Claire felt. The weightiest of terms could not describe the feeling as she was rushed on a rickety gurney through dirty, dimly lit halls. The stench of rotting flesh,old, and burning feces overwhelmed her. And the beings that pushed her can’t have been human. They looked like walking corpses stumbling and shambling, their skin showing si gns of decomposition. This was not the place for a woman in labor. Claire writhed and screamed as her belly lurched and burned, feeling more like a victim in the movie “Alien” than someone in natural childbirth. Like her baby would burst through her at any second. The gurney burst through another corridor into a large room that looked too dirty to be a delivery room. Still, it had an outdated hospital bed that was undoubtedly for delivery. She had no idea where she was or how she’d gotten here. She almost took comfort in the belief that this was a nightmare, but another lurch of pain came from inside her that felt way too real. A short person swarming with flies dressed in what looked like ceremonial robes stared coldly at Claire as she was heaved onto the uncomfortable chair. She screamed as she was settled on it and contorted again as the pain burned deep in her. This can’t be normal. Her bones felt like they were crunching and breaking with the force of what was trying so hard to get out.
It can’t have been a second longer, and a man impossibly tall and large burst into the room. Wings splayed out in something that felt like a formality on his entry before they relaxed behind him. He approached her with heavy steps, looking the cleanest and put together of anyone here.
“Wh-where am I?” She demanded.
The tall man cracked a smile, “honey,” he said in a thick, familiar voice, “you’re in hell.” Something told her that this was not a joke, not a figure of speech, but that this man was telling the truth.
“Your majesty,” the two pushing the cart bowed at the waist at his presence.
He rolled endless black eyes, “stop that.”
The two stiffened and began working on setting up the station.
Claire really tried to ignore this, she was in labor, and she needed whatever had been taking such a toll on her body out. If what was happening to her was abnormal, in some twisted logic, maybe these abnormal people could help.
“I-I-I’m in labor,” she managed to breathe out.
The tall man nodded, “I know,” he found a stool and sat on it, looking a little silly with his height, like an adult on a tricycle. He pushed himself over dawning black gloves that seemed clean in such a dingy place.
“Claire Burham of London,” the shorter declared, “birther of the Antichrist—“
The tall man’s forearms swiveled on his elbows outward from his body, “Beelz,” he said exasperated, “I’m trying to work here. Can you cut it out with all the ceremonial shit?” He produced a small flashlight and stethoscope and checked Claire’s vitals, “let’s have a look at you,” he told her gently.
“No!” The shorter argued, “this is what we’ve been waiing for for 6,000 years, it is written.”
“Yeah yeah yeah,” he waved the complaint off, “I know what’s written. You know,” he turned to the fly-ridden one, getting distracted, “so was Dune, but you don’t see any bene gesserit running around.”
“Fine, can we get on with this?”
He cleared his throat, “excuse zir,” the tall man said to Claire, resuming checking her vitals. “Beelzebub is just… excited.”
“Beelzebub?” Claire echoed through her hard breathing. “You mean like,” she swallowed as she dared to think it, “Satan?” She asked quietly.
This man burst into violent laughter that shook the room. He shook his head next, “no, darling. That’s me.”
She blinked. Squinting at him a little closer. She swore this man was familiar, even if he really was Satan, and he looked so incredibly odd and inhuman she would’ve remembered seeing him before.
Satan took a moment to look at her state, riddled with harsh acne, sweat sticking her messy blonde hair right to her forehead, and her features contorted up in pain and confusion. This amount of pain and damage would kill any human not being miraculously kept alive by the child she carried. This was not what Claire deserved. He signed, moving down to the other end of the table where the work would be done.
Once he assumed that position, looking at the devil between her legs, it dawned on her.
“Lucky?”
Satan looked up at her, surprised. He tried to give a convincing grin, “the very same.”
Her head lulled back, and she sighed, “What the hell?” her voice was thick with confusion.
Another round of contractions started, and she contorted again as her insides mangled in unimaginable pain. She began to talk frantically through it, distracting her brain with other thoughts as she rambled, “My brother was meant to be here. He was going to wait for me and be there when the baby was born. My mother wanted to be but—“
Beelzebub stepped forward. Ignoring the human’s ramblings, cocking zirs head as ze looked at Claire's body. Ze knew the human couldn’t handle birthing the Antichrist well, but this looked worse than ze had thought. “Is the Adversary alright?”
Satan bit back the comment about how this was a child, and they were a person more than an adversary, but he hovered his hand above her body to check, “Yeah, it’s just fine.” He held in a sigh of relief. “But she’s not,” he nodded toward Claire. Then, Satan turned, “Is it written that I can knock her out for this?”
The Lord thought for a moment before shrugging zir shoulders, “I-I don’t see why—“
Satan didn’t wait for zir to finish, lifting a hand and splaying it in the direction of Claire’s face, and she fell back in an instant before she could even ask what all this meant. It’d be better the less she knew.
He focused on delivering the baby, and although the child still managed to contort her body wildly, Satan was able to coax out the baby, letting it work its way out and deliver the little boy safely. He immediately cradled the wet, screaming child. Tucking him close to him, he let him cry to clear his lungs for a moment before infusing his soul with a calm he was meant to be able to impress on people to get them to trust him. The child quieted, and Satan stared down at the writhing child. He sneezed a tiny little sound that warmed the demon’s cold, long-forgotten heart. Tears pricked at his eyes, and he forgot where he was. He felt love. It was an emotion long meant to be forgotten by a demon, but it surged through him now, making him feel dizzier than any liquor he could drown himself in. Lifting a finger, he offered it to the baby, and the boy accepted, wrapping his tiny little hand around Satan’s large digit. The demon sighed happily, and the little boy in his arms looked up with wide, black eyes that told him he was just as happy.
Satan thought about how he was the first person to hold the boy. He was the first person the boy accepted like this. He kissed the child’s forehead and rose from his stool. He covered a hand over the child’s eyes, endless black like his own, and when he pulled it away, the child looked up with human-presenting eyes, a blue-grey, like his mother.
He looked up at Beelzebub, controlling his expression, and nodded. Then, he raised the baby above his head and roared triumphantly. The roar was supposed to be a call to heaven and the Almighty that the Antichrist had been born, but really, it was more the fallen angel’s way of proclaiming to all of existence: “I love my son!'”
Beelzebub seemed happy with this and presented a wicker basket. The deep pang of disappointment Satan felt was insurmountable. He never wanted to be away from this child. He didn’t want to just hand him over to some pompous American diplomat to not-raise. He needed to be a part of this child’s life. That he hadn’t predicted. He’d only been thinking of Claire, a human he did care for, his friends on Earth, the Earth itself, and the coming war. But this changed everything. He needed to be up there with this child. He needed to be a part of his life. He couldn’t wait until his 11th birthday to try and play catch in the front yard of what used to be Earth. The child would indeed renounce him if he just showed up one day. No, no, no, that just wouldn’t do.
He gave another glance at the child, pressed one more kiss to his forehead, and began to cook up plan B as he placed the baby in the basket. He cooed up and gave a quiet giggle. Satan touched a finger to the boy’s chest, and gently he began to sleep softly in the basket. He ripped off the gloves and threw them carelessly on the floor. “So, that’s it then?”
Beelzebub smiled in satisfaction, “that’s it then.”
He cleared his throat, “What of… her?” He made a show of waving a lazy hand at Claire, now more peacefully lying on the table now that the baby had been delivered.
The Prince squinted, remembering she was even there. “We don’t need her,” ze said simply.
Satan was surprised she’d survived. Indeed if he’d left her awake, she would not have, and he was grateful he’d taken the care. He pretended to weigh his options before making a decisive nod. He walked over and began to heal her wounds. Her shattered pelvis, fractured femur, cracked ribs, and punctured lung. He took care to take some of her acne, only enough to not be too noticeable to her family. He put his hand gently over her abdomen, and it began to swell again. A human baby, derived from her genetics alone, she was expecting a birth, and that was all the explanation he gave to Beelzebub. She was fixed up and dressed in her own clothes again. He clapped his hands, and Claire disappeared from hell and would wake up to a more gently announcing labor in her own bed. He smiled and returned to his colleague. “Now what?” He smiled, looking only mildly interested on the surface.
“The baby will be handed off to the American diplomat,” ze told him.
He nodded, “shall we go then? Make the switch-a-roo?”
Beelzebub’s eyebrows furrowed, “no, sir. You put Crowley on that job, remember?”
A smile broke on Satan’s lips, “Crowley,” he felt the name in his mouth for the first time in a while. It always felt good. He cleared his throat, “great, my best man.” Beelzebub frowned a little, and Satan ignored it. “Then shall we take him to him?”
Ze recovered, smiling proudly, “I’ve taken care of that too, sir. Ligur and Hastur will take it up.”
He internally groaned, not just because he didn’t like those two, but because it meant he couldn’t be there.
“You‘ll radio in to give Crowley his instructions.”
Satan nodded slowly, an idea itching in his brain, “So… sounds like you’ve got a good handle on this then, Beelz.”
Ze nodded.
The taller grinned, “Well done.” He pretended to look around momentarily, considering and thinking of other ends to tie up. He knew he had none and had already made up his mind. “Well then,” he threw his hands up in a shrug, “looks like you won’t be needing me for the next,” he looked at his wrist where there was no watch, “oh, 11 years?” He nodded, “yup. Tell ya what,” he put a hand on Beelzebub’s shoulder, “you take care of this lot,” he waved vaguely toward the offices where his demons mingled (probably licking the walls even though he’d put up those signs), “and I’ll be slumbering in preparation for the war.”
He knew the demon would be too tempted by the thought of having authority while he was gone to question too much why he was going in the first place.
“Very good, sir,” ze nodded, grinning widely.
Satan put his hands on his hips and nodded too, “beautiful! I’ll see you in 11, then.”
Beelzebub tried to match his friendly energy, punching without effort in a sporing human gesture, “in 11 years, then.”
The toothy grin was genuine as he sank below the concrete.
Satan landed back in his quarters, clapped his hands together, and let out a triumphant “ha-haaa!” He’d gotten that part done. Now he needed to figure out the rest.