Chapter Text
The night that Valentino dissolves Angel Dust’s contract, acid rain falls. He has until sunrise when Vox inevitably announces that Vee Studios is looking for a replacement. No one could replace him, though. He is the best thing that ever happened to all of them in that gaudy tower. He is the only pornstar in that tower that could have scored a win over that bitch Tiffany Titfucker, then did. There will never be another Angel Dust, even if Val tries to make one by force.
Angel walks away from V tower, making it a point to keep it at his back. He has nowhere to go, and no money left. Just before security escorted him out, Angel had enough time to pack a single carryon suitcase and Fat Nuggets’ carrier with the animal inside. The suitcase is part of a matching set, gifted by Valentino himself when Angel first signed his contract. Val thought it was nonsense that Angel carried his clothes around in duffle bags then. It wasn’t like he had enough money to afford luggage like this. Val lured him in with shiny things and promises. Val promised safety and stardom, but only delivered one of the two in return.
Angel pulls his suitcase with Nuggets attached carrier in his secondary set of hands. In his primary, he fiddles with the sealed cellophane from a pack of cigarettes containing his last fix for the foreseeable future. He empties the contents into a handkerchief and partakes without hesitation. There may not be a next time with his dust. He makes it a point in his mind to savor the high when it comes on.
He steps forward and feels that familiar knot behind his eyes tighten. His steps start to get lighter as he walks. It is heaven; the closest he will ever be. The high clears his mind and allows him to focus on one thing at a time. Angel pulls out his cellphone and opens his messages. Cherri will let him crash till he figures things out. He opens up the latest conversation with his best friend so he can easily give her a call, but when he hits the green button, something is wrong. The line won’t connect. He pulls the phone down from his ear and discovers that the service provider has disconnected the line. He closes his eyes for a split second out of frustration.
The next time he opens his eyes, though, something is wrong.
He looks back down at the phone in his hand and realizes that he is too high. The screen makes him sick to look at. Even the street light above him is far too bright. The world is spinning too quickly for him to handle. He never lets go of the suitcase despite this. He’d never see Nuggets again if that were the case. Any number of demons and perverts walking by wouldn’t hesitate to snatch an untouched bag, especially one with resale value and an exotic pet inside. Bracing himself on the lamppost, he rids himself of the contents of his stomach. He uses the adrenaline and five seconds of clarity afterwards to begin to cross the street and walk towards a cafe where he sees people inside. He never makes it there, though.
Before he collapses on the side of the street, Angel Dust barely has enough sense left to unzip the carrier, allowing the animal inside time to escape the inevitable crash. As Angel falls, he twists himself and ends up on the pavement, face first pitifully, in a heap of limbs. When he goes to try to correct himself, he realizes that he can’t. His arms and legs simply will not move.
It has to be the drugs. Of course, Val would give him a bad batch as a parting gift. The packaging should have told him as much.
Angel doesn’t flinch when he hears a car stop next to him. He can’t react as two strange men pull him to his feet and place him carefully on his side on the floor of a white limousine.
From what Angel can see, luxury surrounds him. The lights and carpet are a fine, deep red. He smells cigar smoke and vanilla, some sort of booze, expensive cologne too. He is devastated. He wants nothing more than to sit up, to prostrate himself in front of such a powerful being, but he can’t. No matter how hard he tries, his arms and legs simply will not work.
He feels the thud of his suitcase hit the floor next to him, and feels Nuggets trod over to his face not too long after that. He sits and snorts contently, unaware of the situation.
“I think you should keep him, Boss. Could be good for morale.”
“If they’re correct, Angel Dust has found himself without a contract,” someone replies. His voice is low and smooth. “Who says I’m sharing?”
Despair sinks deep in the pit of Angel’s stomach. At this point, he knows Val has had something to do with this. This is all one massive, elaborate trap. Maybe his contract is still intact after all, and this is some massive power play.
Angel wants nothing more than to run from this powerful someone that smells of vanilla-flavored cigars. He wants to leave this life or prove himself worthy of the title that comes before him, neither of which he can do. He longs to be petted and caressed and told that he’ll be okay. But no. All eyes are on him, pitying him, laughing.
With a snap of someone’s fingers, all are silent. “How far are we from the casino?” The boss asks.
“Ten minutes, sir,” the driver responds.
“Send word ahead of us. I want Angel Dust taken to the second floor, cleaned, and cared for by Nifty and one of the nurses. No one is to lay a hand on him. Are we clear?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Anything else?”
“No, boss.”
“ Good .”
******
Angel doesn’t remember making it to the Casino, or the next three days for that matter. The next thing he remembers is someone sitting him up and wiping a warm washcloth across the clammy skin of his back. He is being washed by caring hands who humm as she works. Every single bone in his body aches as the woman cleans him. Her touch burns icy hot as she wipes sweat from his brow and ensures every single part of his body has been washed. This, he is thankful for. There is no possible way that Valentino's cells remain immediately on his skin. Angel's body is his own once more.
The woman comments on bruises and scrapes that she sees littered throughout Angel’s body without expecting a response. She remarks how the bruise on his face is getting better slowly, how it’s yellowed now, “and no one has been in this room aside from myself and the nurse. Boss’s orders.”
“Thank y-” angel stammers out.
The woman drops what she’s holding on the floor and runs over to him. “Oh! there you are!” She smiles at him. It’s warm and genuine despite razor sharp teeth. Angel gets a good look at his one-eyed caretaker. She is pale, short and skinny, probably weighing all of 10 pounds soaking wet. Niffty, he assumes, is just that. She's interesting to look at and watch as she moves about the room, frantically dusting and cleaning everything within her line of sight.“You rest,” she says, “You’re safe here.”
So Angel does. He closes his eyes and rests, lets the tremors from the sudden lack of cocaine take over him and exhaust him. He doesn’t dream though. He hasn’t done that since he died.
Niffty returns later in the evening with another woman at her side. This time, Angel is of more help. As much help as a dope-sick demon can be. Every bone in his body is on fire. Every inhale is acidic; exhale dust. His mouth is so agonizingly dry that he feels his tongue will crack off and break if he opens his mouth. Angel feels as if his legs have been asleep for days when the women usher him out of bed. When he takes a step, he's barefoot on broken glass.
The walk to the washroom takes an eternity but the women are patient. They help Angel into a pair of pink slacks and a matching white jacket. When Niffty steps back to look at him, her eye tells him that something is unsatisfactory. When he looks in the mirror, Angel sees it too. The suit is too loose on him, too masculine a cut. There's something more though, aside from the suit.
Angel doesn’t see himself. This must have been what he looked like when he died. His eyes are sunken in, glassy. There's something cloudy about them too. He is a shell of what he once was. However, that isn’t saying very much.
“You’re meeting the Boss today,” Niffty tells him. “You have to look your best.”
“Then get me an airbrush and some paint. I look like hell froze over.”
Niffty laughs from her chest. “I like you. I hope he keeps you.”
“Keeps me.” Angel knows exactly what it means the moment the words leave his mouth. He goes numb when Niffty explains completely nonchalantly that the boss has been drafting a suitable contract since he found him in the gutter.
What a wonderful first impression that must have been.
Niffty doesn’t say anything else after she notices Angel’s expression. She just leads him out of the washroom and down the hall to an open sitting room. She stands to the side at the door frame and bows. She steps away hurriedly and walks swiftly down the hall and out of sight. Angel turns to face the room he is now in. It is set high in the building on a curve with floor-to-ceiling windows. That's all he notices before he sees the cigar smoke rising from a red velvet armchair, facing the window on the far end of the room. He wastes no time in making himself visible but keeps his own eyes on the floor out of respect.
“Angel Dust is contract free?” Angel has heard that voice before though it takes him a moment to place.
“Yes, sir,” he knows better than to treat a strange Overlord with disrespect.
“Good,” he says, nearly a growl. He sits confidently, keeping his body language open and inviting. He holds a cigar in his right hand, the same one from the night before. Angel sits when the Overlord motions to a matching chair set next to his own. “I think you'll find this one to your liking.”
Golden paper manifests before him with a snap of the Overlord’s fingers as leans back in his chair. Angel can’t bring himself to look at the paper in front of him. Something inside him tells him to run, wants him to thank the kind man for letting him sweat it out in one of the guestrooms of this casino he’s never been inside. He has better places to be.
Not really. Cherri doesn’t even know where he is.
In front of this overlord in such a large, elegant room, Angel Dust has never felt so small.
“You will live here, by my side until the end of time. I will provide you with everything you will ever need and want. In turn, I ask for your soul.”
Angel Dust doesn’t respond, simply sits with his hands folded in his lap. “I’m sorry,” Angel says. It's all he can manage. His eyes can barely focus on the words in front of him, when he tries, he feels sick. “I-”
The overlord simply rises from his seat in response. He shows no anger, no pity, and keeps his voice level. He strolls over to the window and looks out at the city skyline. That’s when Angel notices how high up he is, truly. The neon lights from the billboards and signs outside paint the Overlord in a beautiful light, pinks and blues. Now, Angel truly looks at him, he sees what he wanted to before. He sees power. “When I look out at the Pentagram from here, I notice three things.”
“What are they, sir?”
He’s feline in appearance, shorter than Angel by quite a bit, and he walks with a slight favor to his left leg. Only slightly though. Had Angel not been looking, he never would have been able to tell. His suit is finely tailored to fit him. Yellow dress shirt with matching gray slacks and jacket. His sleeves are rolled halfway, allowing for just a hint of yellow to show on the cuff. He seems different from the other Overlords that Angel has come into contact with. Most of them are in his pants by now.
“V Tower, that bullshit Hazbin Hotel, and my reflection.” He turns around to face Angel, practically looking through him as he speaks. “In case you hadn’t noticed, this casino is one of the tallest buildings in this city. I saw it built from the ground up. I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted.” He walks towards him, standing directly in front of Angel and places a hand on his cheek. He takes a moment to caress Angel’s cheekbone with his thumb.
Angel doesn’t mind. It’s soft.
Angel signs the contract. He doesn’t know anything different.