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New Year's Eve, a day on which Kurt Wagner is compelled to attend numerous parties. What they don't tell you about making lots of friends, is that your many friends will all desire you to attend their party, and only their party. A problem when one's powers do not include multiplication. But teleportation is truly the next best thing, and Kurt has a plan. Being a hero can be a part time gig, but not so the vocation of priest. It’s alright, he can't really be partying like other people anyway, and even the most louche of his friends and acquaintances understand that.
The plan is to attend Kitty’s party first, followed by all the others, and then to skip through the catalogue as the clock flips over and the fireworks get going, that way no host can complain that he wasn't present at their shindig for the vital moment. It's a good plan, and it's immediately deranged by his arch enemy and most loving parent - Azazel.
While Kurt's moving between realms, praying, as is his way, the red skinned fiend appears from somewhere inside the Brimstone Dimension itself, appears out of the obscene sulphurous murk and grabs him, dragging him into another sub-realm of hell.
Kurt struggles, kicking at his father. “Let me go! Mein Gott, help me, the devil has me in his clutches!”
Azazel only clutches at him harder, disguising the bear hug with sinister laughter. “Hahaha, stop fighting, you overactive do-gooder. I nabbed you a ticket to a better party than any you're off to.”
“Pardon?!”
“What? You think you're the only one who parties, Mr Nightcrawler?"
“I don’t party.”
“I know for a fact you party.”
“Stop spying on me!”
The party Azazel takes Kurt to is one completely unsuitable for a good boy such as himself, and also inhospitable to human life, but that’s a secondary concern. Legit demons attempt to spike the hero’s drink, right in front of him, leading to an epic father-son team up as Azazel takes exception to this expression of disrespect.
“The only one who drugs my children is me!” the pirate and or businessman roars. Epic teleporting men completely dominate the fiery, lava covered battlefield, never once touching the burning ground as they swing swords at evil spirits. But since Hell possesses infinite legions, eventually Azazel checks his fancy watch, sees that time is few, and grabs Kurt by the tail, teleporting away as the latter is about to pull off one of his coolest moves.
“You’re a party pooper, that’s what you are. Not a supervillain or mythical being, just a party pooper.” mutters Kurt, when he looks up from his perch on the roof of a Disney Store, and comes face to face with the Times Square countdown, its seconds already ticking away ominously amidst neon fireworks. Below him, the crowd holds up hundreds of phones, and whoops like a single gelatinous entity. “All my friends are going to kill me.”
Azazel keeps his gaze fixed on the ticker, and his hands on his son's tail. “I'm sorry.”
“Don't lie to me.”
“Ooh, it's a sin. I know. But I'm not lying. I am sorry…not so much for the party pooping.”
On the screen, as the final ten seconds tick away, Chuck Norris in a suit pops up with a ring and a question. Kurt stares at the side of his father’s face for long enough that he only just catches the last second of the old year. Cheering and annoying noises break out in the square, along with enough confetti to choke a herd of elephants.
“...Happy new year.”
“Happy new year, my boy.”