Chapter Text
Moxxie isn’t sure how he ended up in Pentagram City.
Scratch that, he knows exactly how. Blitzø’s Satan-awful hand-drawn map is confusing as fuck. Stick figures, random arrows, there’s even a fucking sea monster in the corner.
‘All maps have sea monsters, Moxxie. You said you wanted accurate, and here I am, just trying to accommodate your weird history kink. Are you really going to question history and kinkshame yourself, Moxx?’
‘Yeah, Moxx, don’t kinkshame!’
He really could have done without Millie jumping in and adding on to Blitzø’s obnoxious rambling.
In the end, it’s Moxxie’s own fault for trusting his boss. Especially because maps do usually have sea monsters, so Blitz wasn’t even lying when he said it was accurate!
Just because there is no sea… anyway.
Moxxie is in Pentagram City, trying to find his way back to Imp City. He’s been trying for hours, just walking in circles as he tries to find some street sign or bus stop or something. He sighs, rubbing his forehead with frustration. He’s going to have to do it. He’s going to have to go in and ask for directions.
He looks around, the streets lined with imposing buildings, neon lights, and trash fires, and then at the large, shiny door of the eyesore of a tower he stands next to. He knows he’s walked past this one a few times now—the three Vs at the very top are very distinctive.
The doors are heavy as he tries to push them open, when somebody walks by and the doors slide open automatically with a woosh. Barely as tall as the stranger’s knee, they don’t even notice Moxxie as they head to the elevators. Moxxie wanders closer to the receptionist desk as he watches. Four arms… how many guns could he hold if he had four arms?
The elevator opens and the tall, four-armed stranger enters, so Moxxie continues his quest for directions. With dismay, he eyes the imposingly tall receptionist desk. “Satan damn it,” he mumbles. He’s okay with his height, really he is. It’s just so inconvenient outside of Imp City. Everything here is made for tall people, and it’s not even remotely accessible. Maybe he should complain to somebody, there has to be a building code they’re violating or something. Anyway, the situation at hand—attempting to get assistance.
“Um, excuse me?” Moxxie calls, his voice competing with the TVs lining the lobby and the noise of people milling about. Moxxie tries again to no avail.
He sighs. He really had wanted to avoid this. He closes his eyes for a moment, praying to Satan that he doesn’t fall on his tail and embarrass himself, and jumps up to grab the edge of the desk. He uses his superior parkour skills to scramble onto the desk, hooves slipping a little when he tries to stand.
The person staffing the desk doesn’t even look up at him, playing some game on their phone.
“Hi, sir? Or…” Moxxie realizes he isn’t sure if the receptionist is even a sir. “Or ma’am? Or, um… I’m sorry, what would you like to be called? I apologize, it’s rude of me to assume, please tell me what you’d prefer. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. If you’re uncomfortable. Even if you’re not uncomfortable, I’d still like to know.”
The receptionist looks up halfway through Moxxie’s ramble, raising an eyebrow.
They stare at him. Moxxie stares back. He tries again.
“I… I really am sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. Oh Satan, maybe Blitz is right, maybe we do need sensitivity training…”
The receptionist looks at Moxxie like he is a diseased rat, and then they press a button on some phone-like contraption on the desk, waiting a moment before speaking into their headset. “Hey, there’s a… possum or something on the desk. What do you want me to do with it?”
“I’m not a possum!” Moxxie squawks, offended. What’s with people thinking he’s a possum?
Looking over at their computer, the receptionist hits a few buttons. “It’s talking now, what—I know you know it’s talking, sir—no, I’m not implying—sir? Sir?”
They lean in, frowning at the computer screen, sighing. “Sir, are you—ugh, fuck my life,” they groan, roughly pressing what looks like an End Call button and pulling off their headset in frustration. They lean back in their chair, glaring at Moxxie.
There’s a sudden surge of electricity from the screen on the desk and Moxxie jumps, startled, nearly falling off the desk as a new person—man—TV? suddenly appears behind the receptionist.
He stares at Moxxie for a moment. “You’re an imp.”
“Uh… yes, yes sir, TV… sir. Mr. TV. I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“Vox,” the TV man says, rolling his eyes and pressing a few buttons on his watch before looking up at Moxxie again. “Val says he didn’t hire any imps and you're way too small to be Velvette’s. I can probably find a use for you somewhere, though.”
Moxxie is irate. “Excuse me, Mr. Vox, sir, but I already have a job!”
“Oh yeah, and what’s that?” Vox asks, distracted by something.
“I go up to the surface and murder humans,” Moxxie says proudly. Perhaps he shouldn't admit to being able to go to the surface, but who’s going to hear him besides the receptionist who hates him and this Vox person?
Vox pauses and frowns at Moxxie. “You what?”
“I… kill humans. For money. With guns.”
“Huh,” Vox says, thinking for a moment. “How—”
“My boss has this thing—a relationship, really, but he refuses to admit it to himself—with a Goetian Prince, who very generously allows us access to a Grimoire that lets us travel to the surface to commit murder. It’s… a business. I.M.P.? Maybe you’ve seen the billboards? Or the commercial?”
Vox narrows his eyes, sifting through his memory bank. “Did it air for 3 hours in the middle of the night on that weird horse channel? Not really sure why we still have that channel, it only ever gets one viewer…”
Moxxie sighs. “Yes. Yes, that’s the one.”
“Okay, well, you’re hired. I can get you outfitted with some Carmine guns officially but you can borrow some of Val’s until then. Come on, let’s go.”
“I’m not—I already have—I just want directions to—”
Vox ignores him, halfway to the elevator before he pauses to turn around.
“I said come on, I don’t have all fucking day and I really don’t want to clean blood off my goddamn suit again today. Hurry the fuck up.”
Moxxie understands a threat when he hears one. He scrambles off the desk and toward Vox with a squeaky, “Yes, sir!”
“That’s more like it,” Vox mumbles as he hits the ‘up’ button to call the elevator. They’re both silent as they get in, Vox hitting the number 69 absentmindedly.
Moxxie is 110% sure the tower is not 69 floors tall. It’s maybe 20 at most.
“Can’t wait for that fucking antlered bitch to see I have a bodyguard, haha! He’ll be so jealous.”
A jolt of realization hits Moxxie as he remembers the broadcast that went out a while ago and shut down Pentagram City’s power, and he finally recognizes Vox. Satan, he's so embarrassing.