Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Curtain Call
Moxxie smuggled music like contraband.
He sat in a corner of the Knolastname library, a book on the history of firearms propped open on his lap. His brows furrowed, the arrival of gun powder on the plains of wrath not nearly as enticing as the curled paper hidden between the pages. Sheet music—thin, fragile, with notes dancing to a rhythm even an experienced musician would have difficulty following.
He traced a line of sixteenth notes, his brain furiously working to imagine the tune, his tail twitching in rhythm. He could almost hear the violins, the swell of woodwinds at the chorus, and the dark thunder of the drums crashing against a velvet stage. Then he turned the page, before prying eyes could grow suspicious.
He tried to take his time with this page. But the gory descriptions of the rebellion at Satan’s Crossing held no interest. Three times his eyes skimmed, not realizing he had passed the section on General Picket’s speech only to read the description of the first pistol brought onto the battlefield. He had a replica of that pistol, it was a gift from his father. Moxxie turned the page again.
Another hidden page, this one he struggled to sit still for. He mouthed the words: Satan’s Rise, the newest opera that had hit the streets of Notamafia Town in years. It had everything from scandal to roaring cellos. He had circled the dates until the paper had nearly torn. It was playing for three nights only, and the last night was tonight.
At thirteen, he still dreamed of playing on the stage as avidly as he had at five. Not in the smoke-choked backrooms where his surname carried the weight of concrete shoes. Not in the ledgers of debts where names were just as likely to be crossed out with blood as they were ink. Moxxie wanted music. He wanted stage-lights and dancers floating across a foggy backdrop. He wanted, for a few hours, to vanish into something beautiful and safe.
The bell chimed. He closed his book, slipping the sheets of music from page to coat pocket with a practiced grace. He hugged the book close, appreciating its role in making the day just a little more bearable before slipping it back on the shelf. It was time for dinner—and time to face his father.
Home was a place that felt like a well decorated cell. It was a prison of red carpet halls that stank of cigars and whiskey. Plaques of his father’s conquests, victims of jobs gone awry, decorated the herringbone walls like trophies. The ones that had made an impression on the family head earned the right to have their name engraved on the cold wood. The rest were just another set of wings, horns, or tails that made the mansion feel more like a taxidermy show than a family place.
Crimson, head of the Knowlastname family and Moxxie’s father, waited in his study. He didn’t turn as Moxxie stepped quietly into the room, giving the young imp a chance to gauge the mood of the day. His father was tall for an imp and, though older, had the snow white hair of a youthful man. The combination, especially paired with his icy gaze, was imposing to most demons in the Greed Ring.
He was dressed in his black jacket, the red of his kerchief and dress shirt stood out like a sinner’s blood. Two men sat in the corner chairs, silent muscle, both shark demons from the Ring of Greed. It was a business night. Moxxie’s tail coiled around his ankles, the spade tip flicking nervously. Had his stash of composition notes been found again? Mother had said they would be alright in his room.
"Moxxie," Crimson's voice split the air with its quiet finality. "Come here."
Moxxie obeyed, eyes down even as he made his way over. He forced his shoulders back, standing straighter than was comfortable for his digitigrade hooves. Crimson hated signs of weakness and disobedience, what those signs were were hard to tell even among the family’s experienced men.
"Do you know what power is, Moxxie?" Crimson's tail, a stiff, crooked line from years on the streets, twitched.
Moxxie dutifully said nothing.
"Power, son, is when men break at your word. Power is when a demon looks at you and prays to whatever sin they follow that you'll let them keep breathing for another week. Power...is what we take for ourselves."
Moxxie flinched when his dad turned to look at him. He couldn't bear to meet the red oceans of disappointment and hatred, but he had to. And he did, tail nearly touching the floor as he folded his arms behind his back and tried to look at attention.
His dad took a long drag of his cigar, puffing the foul smoke into his face. He struggled to hold back his cough, failing miserably as his dad straightened.
"Your mother thinks a good birthday present would be taking you to some sissy play. That may have been fine for a baby, but you’re not a baby anymore. You're a man, and a man remembers to tend to business before pleasure."
Moxxie's throat tightened. He couldn't keep his tail from coiling around his ankles, and a pointed look from Crimson spoke volumes more than a slap would. He took another puff of his cigar, this time blowing the smoke away from them before pointing the green cherry at an open file on his desk. Moxxie's heart sank at the row of names and amounts. It was a debt book, and one of the names Crimson tapped with a thick, ringed claw: Angelo.
"This one. Dockyards. Two days late. You'll be collecting."
The surprise surfaced before he could tamp it back down: "Me, Sir?"
Crimson's eyes flash toward him, a snarl of irritation frozen on his lips. "Did I stutter, boy? You. Tonight. With Alessio."
At the name, one of the corner men stood. Tall, lean, Alessio was dressed in a deep grey that complemented the blue hues of his skin. Just like every other shark demon of Greed, his eyes were gold with black pupils ringed in slate. It should have been a warm sight...but those eyes were just as cold as Crimson's. He was the head's right hand, and sometimes he was the only hand Moxxie had known of his father. The shark had taught Moxxie how to chamber and fire a gun, how to throw a straight punch, and how to take one of the same.
Alessio nodded to Crimson—a single, sharp movement. There would be no arguments. No questions.
Crimson turned to continue looking out the window, dismissing Moxxie with a wave of his hand. "Be a man tonight, Moxxie. No singing. No dancing. Prove your worth to the family, and maybe you'll make it to some other show."
Later, Moxxie sat on his bed looking over the playbill for Satan's Rise. The paper was creased and worn, the edges carefully torn to fit in the heavy volumes of his family's library. With a sigh, he opened it and let his eyes rest on the synopsis.
For a moment, he was able to imagine himself there: a chorus of the damned, Imps dressed like Satan's army marching across the stage, voices raised in unison while the orchestra swelled around them out of sight. It was a world where violence was performance. When the show ended, so did the pain and music. But the music, at least, Moxxie could carry with him long after curtainfall.
The world he was born in was different. No curtainfall ended the violence. No music brightened the dark moments. And the only thing he could keep were the bruises and, when those faded, the silence.
Alessio’s shadow filled the doorway. “Time.”
Moxxie folded the playbill, slow, deliberate. He slid it into the inside pocket of his coat, against his chest. The paper crinkled against his heart as he rose and followed the man into the hall where the lamps burned low and the night stretched endless beyond the door.
Moxxie didn’t look back.