Chapter Text
The weeks leading on from an annual extermination are nothing short of chaos. Most sinners adopt a crazed sort of behavior - some mourn friends, some attempt pointlessly to rebuild what they’ve made for themselves since their arrival. A lot of them drink, take drugs, intoxicate themselves with whatever way they can find, and understandably so - an event like an extermination is taxing on the brain, whether they’re as common as yearly or not. Even overlords display a hint of disorganisation in their actions. Exterminations only seem to be intensifying as of late, and there’s frantic calculation to be done to work out just how many souls they still have left in their possession.
Alastor knows the number of souls he has left down to the exact digit. With the streets of hell in such disarray and each sinner reminded of just how powerless they are, it would be foolish not to spend the day acquiring more of them. That’s what leads him out here now, wandering the streets of the city with a calm demeanour that contrasts everything around him.
He’s just secured a deal with the fourth sinner of the morning, who merely wanted stability and somewhere to stay after losing his establishment to unruly angels getting too passionate with their killing spree. Quite a null reason to sell a soul in Alastor’s opinion, but who is he if he doesn’t take advantage of these imbeciles and their poor decisions? He sends the chap on his way with an enthusiastic grin and a newly binding contract, slipping into an alley to collect his thoughts before seeking out the next.
Let it be noted that corpses are an everyday sight for him, especially so soon after an extermination, and no one is in a rush to drag them to a more dignified spot. He isn’t surprised to see the rotting shape sprawled on the pavement, a faint glow surrounding it that indicates it fell to angelic arms. What is surprising is the tiny red figure standing just beside it - likely a mourner or crazed individual making the most of the death and destruction on display. It wouldn’t be the first.
The first thing to note of this individual is their unfortunate lack of height. Standing at just three and a half feet, the little entity certainly seems like they rely on others to reach the top shelf. Or perhaps they resort to unorthodox climbing methods, using the disproportionately large shell on their back as an advantage. It’s patterned red with black circular spots - a ladybug. He can just about spot yellow tinted wings tucked neatly under the shell. A pair of black antennae match the look on top of their forehead.
He raises an eyebrow, contemplating a witty comment on the thing’s short stature, when it turns, and he abruptly comes to the realisation that that is a child.
Small children aren’t often seen in hell, especially not sinners. Yet here she is. Her eyes are big and bright with a type of innocence he hasn't seen since the living world. There’s a line of gold freckles dotted over her cheeks, as though someone dipped a paintbrush in glitter and flicked it in her direction. In true child fashion, there’s nothing polite to be said of her tidiness; her fingernails are caked with dirt and grime, and blood is splattered across her form, though none of it seems to belong to her. In her hand is a small rock fashioned into a dagger. The sharpest edge is stained with fresh blood, and a moment of observation reveals why. She’s carving at random into the corpse on the pavement, aiming for the places that leak the most blood. When she draws the desired amount she dips her grungy little fingers in to scoop it up and smears it onto the wall nearby. She turns to acquire more resources and makes eye contact with him. The little bug’s wings fold out in an instinctive manner, and for a moment he thinks she’s going to take off and that will be the end of that, but she makes no effort to move. She looks at him and blinks owlishly.
Shock is not an expression Alastor is willing to convey, whether it's to an enemy or a little urchin, so he eyes her with a hint of curiosity. “Well, well, well… Whatever do we have here?”
Silence. The little bug keeps oggling at him with eyes wide as saucers. She doesn’t look afraid, per se, in fact the only notable expression is intrigue. He steps over the corpse to view her closer, crouching down until they’re at the same level. “What a curious little thing you are.”
She blinks, not a hint of fear tainting her complexion. It’s highly likely that she doesn’t know who he is, but he’s had fresh sinners run from him simply due to instinct. Not this one; her feet are planted to the ground, orange eyes flickering as she studies him. The halves of her shell twitch a bit, seeming almost subconscious in their actions. The rock she’s been using to turn the deceased individual into her own personal palette rests in her palm as though it’s nothing more than a mildly interesting pebble.
His attempts at conversation have fallen flat, but he gives it another try. “Tell me, little bug, do you have a name?”
The child gives a simple nod, finally breaking the gaze to wander the alley a bit. She stays close by, remaining in the conversation. Alastor’s focus doesn’t leave her; he watches quizzically as she moves around. Her pacing seems motivated by emotion, and he can’t place his finger on what kind it is.
“And what is your name?” He probes as she marches up and down the alley and drags a stained finger across the wall.
“Faye.” The little bug replies, ceasing her movement to look back in his direction. Her wings wave back and forth slowly as though she’s fanning the emotion out.
“Faye…” The name rolls off his tongue. “What a fitting name. Tell me, Faye, where’s your family? Parents, caretakers? I can’t imagine they would be pleased with your current choice of activity.”
She’s resumed the act of bleeding the corpse dry in the name of art. Faye doesn’t say anything in response, her fingertips tracing circular motions onto the wall, though what she’s trying to portray remains unclear. Alastor leans against the wall opposite, resting his hands against his staff as he continues to watch her. It’s unlikely that the kid has been out here alone for a long time. A large portion of hell’s population are killers, thieves, perverts, and she’s a somewhat sickly looking thing, incapable of self defense. He doubts she’s passed by many in the city, not when so many sinners wouldn't just allow her to wander undisturbed without thinking of their own selfish desires.
“No parents, then?” He prompts at her silence.
The little thing shakes her head, wiping her finger on the hem of her torn shirt and then pointlessly reaching in for more blood.
”They’re still alive.” Interesting… She barely looks older than a toddler, and yet she’s discussing mortality like it’s old news to her.
He’s about to ask another question when he catches earshot of a noisy growl from her stomach. Of course, it's not as though food is freely handed out in a place like this, and being a child must make it twice as challenging to acquire it herself. She’s rather uncoordinated and likely not a good pickpocket.
Alastor isn’t sure what motivates him to do this, but he waves his hand, a faint wisp of green surrounding it, and hands her a simple bread roll. “Here. You can hardly produce quality artwork on an empty stomach.”
The child looks at him like he’s grown a second head. Her wings twitch with something akin to eagerness as she waits for him to change his mind and cruelly rip it away again. When he doesn’t, she wipes the wet blood haphazardly against the wall and takes the baked treat into her grip.
“Thank you.” She chirps, and promptly sinks her teeth in. What’s this… A vagrant with manners? Now that is abnormal… Everything about this morning’s events seem abnormal, and he’s only been with this child for the better part of twenty minutes.
“Not a problem.” He replies before the moment can fade too far. He rests against his staff, watching the child tuck in like it's her first meal in years. She has to have been finding food somewhere, lest she perish of starvation. “Out of curiosity, my dear, how do you usually find food?”
Faye glances up, her thought process managing to deviate slightly from her bread roll. She straightens up, chewing away as she points to an establishment across the street from the alleyway. “They throw out old stuff every morning. In there.” her finger directs his eyes to the large trash can just outside.
So she’s salvaging trash to run on. By the looks of her small and scrawny frame, the arrangement isn’t working in her favor. “Hmm. I take it they don’t throw out an awful lot?”
Faye shakes her head, taking another bite. The bread roll is quickly being reduced to mere crumbs. “He catches me sometimes and then he hits me with a wooden board until I fly away!”
Alastor quirks an eyebrow with a mixture of distaste and amusement. There’s something humorous in her blunt tone - evidently she hasn’t developed much of a filter. “What do you do about water? I can’t imagine a bakery would supply a lot of that.”
The little bug steadies herself on her feet and makes a show of wandering to the back of the alleyway. He keeps his eyes trained on her as she jumps at the side of a building, wings puffing out a bit to send her up high enough. She tugs on a slab of concrete just under a drainpipe, shifting it a certain way, and then a light trickling sounds out. She dips her head under, taking in a mix of rainwater, dirt and leaves, though she spits the leaves out. Alastor idly wonders if she’s grateful that there hasn’t been much acid rain as of late.
“Well, aren’t you brighter than you look?” He comments as she adjusts the slab and drifts back to the ground. Faye wipes her mouth on a stained sleeve and blinks up at him quietly. She’s been staying in this alley for quite some time, if the scenery is anything to go by. There’s a collection of plastic cups scattered in a corner, a substitute for building blocks or whatever kids are supposed to have. A filthy bundle of assorted fabrics sit in the other corner, likely her bed. How cosy…
The sight brings on an emotion he can’t place. Not sympathy; sympathy is a foreign concept to an overlord such as him. You don’t obtain as many souls as he has with the use of sympathy. Yet something stops him from simply walking away to continue today’s errands. He watches Faye from the corner of his eye as she seeks entertainment in the form of decorating the wall with blood. Every child he’s encountered before today has the same reaction to blood - an ear piercing scream and enough tears to drown in.
There’s something very different about Faye. About her nonchalance, and the way she's stubbornly clinging on despite every odd being against her. He watches her for a long moment, trying to wrap his head around the situation. A young girl forced to survive on her own for months, with no one to care for her or provide access to basic necessities. It tugs at the thin strip of morality he has left - he can’t just let her carry on in this manner. There’s something within him that refuses to sit idly by, and he has no clue what it is or why he’s feeling it.
Alastor is no parent, that much is obvious, but he knows someone with a large amount of misplaced kindness and a habit of taking in strays. He crouches down beside the kid again, breaking her gaze from the wall. “Little insect… Are you a fan of adventures?”
Faye tilts her head, contemplating the question. “What kinda adventures?”
“Well, exploring new places, for one.” He supplies as he straightens up to look down at her. She stares up for a long moment as though she’s trying to read him. “Perhaps you might like to find somewhere to fit in.”
“I can fit in lots of places!” Faye informs. Her wings fold up, the halves of her shell hiding them once again as she tries to make herself as small as possible. It’s unusually endearing,
“Oh, really?” Alastor feigns surprise, reaching a gloved hand out to her. “Shall we put that to the test?”
The ladybug looks at his hand for a long moment, quiet and still. Her expression holds the same hesitancy most have before shaking his hand - except he has no interest in her soul. There isn’t a lot he could offer this child that she hasn’t learnt to supply herself, and though he’s out here to secure more souls in the first place, he isn’t about to trick a child.
A tiny, grubby hand finds its way into his. Faye’s skin is rough and stained with all sorts, and she shifts the hand around a bit like she isn’t sure what she’s doing. It wouldn’t be too surprising if she’s never held a hand before - she certainly doesn’t seem nurtured.
“Where are we going?” Faye asks curiously, looking up at him with those big orange eyes.
He isn’t sure why he’s making this decision. He never does anything simply out of the good of his heart. It’s not like him at all, and yet there’s something compelling him to take her with him.
“Do you know what a hotel is, little bug?”