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Of all the things that have captured the hearts and minds of many an artist, Hell yet remains the most utterly fascinating.
Below the City lay ruins and rivers, run down deep from their age, eroding ever more rock and bone as the eras passed on. Yet under even that, say some, lay a pit of sinners in their unending torment, closed off behind heavy gates, forever tainted by blood and wailings.
A monstrous thing it is, in size and severity, and in that it remained with every retelling of its nature. A labyrinth of one's own mistakes in life, painted were its walls with it even, and the destination of final rest for most alive.
Deeper and deeper the City's residents fell, away from the watchful eyes of the stars and too far below the rivers to follow any of their myriad flows. To claw and crawl one's own way out would be a feat unbelievable, to go down on purpose a madness.
To go down again and again would be insanity, lunacy.
And indeed, there was a lunatic in red about to set out on what was by most measures of life a new-worn path - made by and for themselves. They had made one too many mistakes, as was the usual, and had to pay the price in pain.
Their star shone in that white-gold that made them giddy if they stared too long, sky painted in reds and blues and purples and every colour a sky has or could be, in places like the City or its Outskirts.
They allowed themselves a moment to look, longer than a minute, two, as almost an apology. Their star had been so dreadfully neglected, never being given enough time to be admired as it truly deserved, never being anything to them but a lonely guide up high. Their star wasn't mad at them, they know in their unbeating heart, it knew of their troubles and their plights as if living through their eyes. The guilt did not fade.
So there they stood, a silent apology in each passing second, in each tick and tock of their idle head, smoke clouding the area around them, surrounding yet never covering their sta-
Hold on, smoke?
At that, the recognition that they had indeed been apologising for entirely longer than they thought, they - in of course their most professional of manners - jumped, startled, and whipped their head behind them hard enough to jostle whatever in it made their chime sounds, breaking up the delicate silence.
There she stood, cig burning lower than she usually lets it, face angled up to the sky, to the light that cradled her gently, shone bright off her hair. Red eyes, of deepest crimson, moved smooth and slick from myriad stars to their face, eyebrow raising at their reaction.
Clutching at their heart like they needed it, the manager tilted their head, slight, in a question of how she managed to visit the star with them. An unsaid question only answered with the shortest of shrugs.
Yet looking back, given it was them that allowed the stars to see and help the Sinners unburdened, perhaps if given the focus the Sinners could see the stars just like them. Dante by all means was still Sinner no. 10, perhaps that one thing of themselves was less unique than they thought it’d be.
But of course in the moment, the shock turned around and reminded that ever-burning manager that they had a job to do, even with an audience of two. To set off to Hell's leviathan gates and pull out their Sinners from eternity. And of all the people to bring with them, Ryōshū was certainly not the worst choice. At least she’d have some interest about it.
They held their hand out to her, so she could not get lost as they trailed a path made only for them. One that she did not take of course, grabbing onto a looser part of their jacket and having her arm half slung across their shoulder, jabbing them with a look that let her say to hurry it up with nary a movement of her lips.
So along they went through the warp and weft of the starscape, colours shifting, drifting in and out of existence, sight and understanding. The road they walked was smooth only with time and the light of their star, the surfaces underfoot changed with every second and every tick of that clock. Sights were different each time they went, never settling into one distinctive shape or style and yet never interfering with that path they knew to take.
Her arm held them tightly, eyes messy and unfocused as she attempted a glance of each splatter of cosmic gore on display as they walked. Her eyes strained from it, close to yet different to the sensation of looking at the sun itself. She still remained walking alongside them, trailing smoke besides them as her strides each sought stability - an inevitability of two walking the path of one.
Finally, their surroundings surrendered themselves to their destination, from painted mirrors stacked layer over layer to smooth and featureless stone, spread to each end of the horizon and beyond.
In the centre, of course, were those familiar doors.
She had let go of their jacket as the area stabilised, eyes locked on and shining in a gorgeous view as she walked towards the two monoliths of carved stone, her manager jogging slight to keep up with her excited pace.
Her behaviour was not unexpected, for one with an eye for the arts of agony, nor would they doubt if other Sinners would approach the only thing there - but there was something to her in that moment, almost giddiness, at what could lie behind and beyond that stone. It was a piece of art all its own.
The doors did not respond to her, to her sheathed sword's swings at its surface, to her running calloused and gloved hand alike upon its surface - upon each screaming, climbing, clamouring figure inscribed for eternity, trapped inside a statue bewitchingly outside of normalcy, reality - to her eager eyes crinkling from her smile as she was intoxicated by its every detail.
The screams remained omnipresent behind, yet getting louder each step closer Dante took towards them. The gateway itself seemed to shake in recognition, not enough to dislodge its newest faithful artist, but enough that it could then heave itself open at their demand. Hell had its own master, just as it was the master of its Sinners. For of course a thing of the dark would worship one so blessed by Light.
Hands clawed and grasped for any air outside of the inferno, to cool themselves with it, to let their skin breathe, to simply have the ability to boast of temporary escape to their fellows.
Some with nails ripped and tore all else around, talons first used upon themselves had blood clotted, rotted underneath - each a danger of passing along the infection of rabidity. Others simply went limp past the door, movement of no consequence or meaning, pushed towards the fount by a thousand of their more determined peers, unable to think of any but their torture, unwilling to even think on much at all.
Yet still some wailed to each and all that could hear, of how their sins have branded them, their torture stranded them with nothing but their numerous tears for company, emaciated as they were. Hopelessness remained to them a virtue, the thing they most valued within the eternity of the infernal. Or perhaps was it the knowledge? That which placed them above the layman and that which made them know deeply of their higher point – to see the outside, to see a hand reach in day after day and emerge with others in tow, to know escape as a possibility, inevitability for some such like themselves, ah, was that the meaning held?
Remaining, though, were those accepting of their punishment. Consumed now only with the desire to spread stories of themselves, undeniable evidence that they did indeed exist by clawing away as the very torturer of their captor. Or to simply fit with all the others, craving above all an acceptance into their new mundanity, craving that passion of their peers and pretending they had it until they had forgotten to act.
Perhaps it was hunger, yes, for anything that could provide satiation for their cold and hungry lives, their empty and charred husks past the scabbing shells of rot that ran through each and every bit of their remaining marrow. Hunger for what they had before, what they had taken for granted when their lungs still took in air that blew along with the winds.
Perhaps, perhaps, but there was little reason to ruminate on that front.
The two who still stood upon their feet looked at each other, rapturousness meeting facelessness, and one moved to bow themselves against a door to lean in, as they always did. The damned of the door seemed to have a whisper less pain than the others where they lay, leeching their sins off to another in an almost pitiful manner.
Flames flickered, black and gold, black and gold, almost dispelling the hands around them as they reached inside, looking for features familiar despite their lack of skin. The stench of blood was nearly overwhelming then, the sins of too many burrowing into covered skin, trying to dig below it and burry in like a stubborn tick. To parasitise off of fresh blood and lift their burdens, as if they deserved it. Around them open palms and twitching fingers were hesitant to pull upon them, to have that light Dante was blessed with sear them in totality – so instead they found another target.
Ryōshū was of course, the worst target to pick. Slicing any hand that came her way, leaning right besides her manager and down towards the depths. There was little to see past glimpses, but – oh the glimpses she saw. All manners of tortures, agonies upon agonies, pain and cries the likes of which she could and would not previously imagined had imbedded themselves within her eyes. It was the greatest gift one could gain from their muse, and especially one who did not dare dream of what she has not seen.
And when she looked to deep, had her eyes too wide, breath too shaky, grip on her sword-arm too tight and felt her sanity slink away and melt downwards so give some poor soul unneeded lucidity, she felt the flames against her newly melting skin. The source of which had a face half tilted towards hers, to check she still remained as and where she was. A few more hands were cut down between them, and 11 had grabbed onto any reachable part of her manager, clothes wrinkling under them.
They’d been ready to go for a while, simply staying to allow her a view. Awfully kind from someone who couldn’t hide how the act made them twitch and tremble.
She pulled back, ripped herself from her heaven before she lost herself in it, pulling a startled clockhead back with her, and she passed out in a veil made of white and gold and red.
The two awoke in a hidden corner of the battlefield, Dante still spasming and shaking from the rewind, even moreso than usual – an adverse effect of staying past the doors too long. Ryōshū herself was much better off, coughing and putting herself upright as her abdomen knitted itself back together, blood unpooling from the floor, its heat returning as it filtered itself back through un-severing veins. Still making the time to hang a cigarette off the corner of her lips.
She looked at Dante, a still burning enthusiasm in her eyes, and a woozy little laugh crept up the back of her throat. She stood in a fluid motion and the rewind finished, still behind the cover of the broken warehouse behind her, reaching out and grabbing them by the arm and pulling them up, clock right near her face, enough for her to light her cig upon their head, as it burned hotter in lieu of blush, whispering to them:
‘T.Y.D.’
Dropping them swiftly onto their unsteady feet and striding onwards to the rest of the Sinners, leaving behind a trail of smoke and a stuttering, blushing mess of a manager.