Chapter Text
Quietly, he crept up to the edge of the building. With a quick glance, he determined that there were 10 guards. It would be difficult to get past them, but he could do it. He had to do it. The entire safety of the Pride Ring rested on his shoulders.
One of the guards approached the corner, foolishly keeping his eyes on the front gate. Once he was close enough, Blitz wrapped his hand over the man's mouth and pulled him around the corner and out of sight. He held him in a chokehold, feeling the man fight against him.
He persisted until the demon finally went limp. He slowly lowered him to the ground so as to avoid any unnecessary noise. He took the man's weapons and ammunition. Those would definitely come in handy later.
He cast another look around. Nine to go was not great, but he had faced worse odds before. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a smoke bomb.
Deftly, he threw it across the courtyard and watched as the guards scrambled, trying to determine where the fire had suddenly emanated from. The fire alarm was set off, and people started running around in a mad panic. Blitz used the opportunity to slip unnoticed into the mansion.
He snuck down the hall, crouched low. Intelligence had told him where the prisoner was being kept. He found the room quickly and entered swiftly.
There he was bound and gagged, waiting for his rescuer. “Your Highness,” Blitz said.
Lucifer was struggling against the ropes, but Blitz noticed the man was not looking at him. No, he was looking over his right shoulder.
Without hesitation, Blitz spun around and shot the assailant that had been approaching him with a dagger drawn. “You should have obeyed the rules of knife safety, muchacho,” Blitz snarled before returning his gaze to the King of Hell.
“What do you say we get you out of here, Your Highness?” He quickly untied the King and led him to safety.
“‘You should have obeyed the rules of knife safety?’ That was a stupid line,” Stolas mumbled, pushing away from his desk.
He rubbed his temple as he walked over to his whisky decanter and poured himself another drink. He eyed the absinthe bottle sitting in the alcohol cabinet. It wasn’t that kind of night. Not yet.
He strolled back to his desk and took a sip before dropping back in his chair. “Emails,” he whispered. That would be a good distraction.
He opened his emails and found several from his editor, Moxxie. Moxxie was a great editor who did wonderful work. He had been his editor since before they made the jump to Mammon Publishing.
Aside from his best friend, Vassago, Moxxie was the only one who knew his true identity. Well, Moxxie and his wife Millie. Moxxie told her everything. Luckily, she was trustworthy. Moxxie acted as the go-between for Stolas and Mammon Publishing.
He opened the latest correspondence. A very kindly worded email with yet another reminder that the first story outline, along with the first draft of the first chapter, would be due by Monday. Shouldn’t be a problem. After all, he had had a month, and in that time he wrote the world's shortest outline and 11 paragraphs from the middle of the book. Still at a complete loss as to what event led up to rescuing the king.
“What do you think, Blitz?” Stolas asked the empty room. “That has to be the what? The tenth email this week he has sent me, either slipping in or straight up reminding me about the deadline.”
Stolas downed what was left in his glass, hissing at the burn in the back of his throat. “Ahhhhhh. That’s the good stuff.” He said the line Blitz was known to say after a good stiff drink.
It was never meant to be a catchphrase or signature line. He had written it into the first book. It was a setup for when he confronted the villain and took a drink of the villain’s drink and said, “That’s the bad stuff.” It had been such a horrible line. Yet the readers ate it up. Suddenly “That’s the bad stuff” memes were everywhere. Ridiculous.
“You like the good stuff. We can’t keep getting the good stuff if you don’t cooperate a bit.” He huffed as he got up. Maybe tonight was an Absinthe kind of evening after all.
He poured himself a glass of the green liquid. He held it up to the light, watching how the contents mixed with the crystal glass sparkled and danced. “Come on, little green fairy, I need some help tonight."
He downed it quickly. He reveled in the burn. A burn that held a different heat than whisky. Pouring one more glass, he promised himself this would be the last one. He could recognize the telltale signs of reaching the point of having a hangover the next day if he did not stop.
Once again, he plopped into his computer chair. He clicked over to his story and grumbled. “Why can’t I see this story, Blitz? What is so different about this mission? You need to tell me the details, or how am I supposed to write you winning?”
He tried writing from the last line. Maybe if he just wrote something would come to him. After about a minute holding his fingers poised and nothing happening, he smashed his hands into the keyboard in frustration. This was ridiculous.
He switched over to the page containing his outline.
King Lucifer has been kidnapped by (?) because (?).
Blitz saves the day.
That was not exactly helpful, was it? “Who kidnapped the King, Blitz? Why did they do it?” He rolled his neck, trying to relieve some of the tension he felt. “Are you mad at me? It wasn’t my idea to change the story, you know?”
His original rough draft had the little Hellhound pup from the previous story still with Blitz. Stolas had been feeling a strong urge to slowly let Blitz settle down. Thus Loona came to be. An orphaned Hellhound pup who knew how to take care of herself. She had a prickly exterior to protect her tender heart.
She was helping Blitz with the case. Running errands, gathering intel, spying on people. Those kinds of things. Blitz offered her a job, and it was implied but never specifically said that the character might return.
Apparently, the outline for his newest book had caused quite the uproar in the publishing company. Loona definitely reappeared in the story. It started much the same way. She did odd jobs. Then Blitz rescued her from some bullies and invited her to stay with him.
Blitz was not one to show affection, but he let her have his room while he slept on the couch. By the end, Blitz was starting adoption procedures.
Moxxie explained that the publisher was worried about changing the formula that was proving to work so well. “Why fix it if it isn’t broken?” he had quoted to him.
Especially with a movie deal being in the works. They did not want to do anything that would compromise the series' popularity.
“They are giving you one month to readjust the outline and rewrite the first chapter. You can have Loona show up from time to time, but she really has to be more background. Blitz Buckzo isn’t a family man. Sorry, Your Highness.”
What Stolas thought of as a frustrating annoyance had turned into a problem. He could not see a story where Loona didn’t exist.
He clicked back over to the emails and, in frustration, replied to Moxxie’s email.
I am well aware of the deadline. However, trying to eliminate Loona from this story is difficult, to say the least.
By the way, I am extremely tired and annoyed to have to hear “This story is great. We love it. Now, change this and this and this, and then add that and that and that.
You do realize that the story that evolves from that is not my story anymore, right?
I will meet the deadline, or I will not.
He hit send and, for a moment, regretted it. He knew Moxxie was simply doing his job.
Switching over to the story one final time, he started talking to the screen again. “I liked Loona too, but she doesn’t fit your aesthetic." He dropped back into his chair, letting his arms fall on either side, his finger brushing the polished hardwood floor. “No one is ever interested in a single dad…trust me.”
He sat back up with a jolt. “I know…” He downed his drink. “I am going to make you tell me the story.”
He stumbled over to the liquor cabinet, pouring another glass of absinthe. “Let’s add some magic green fairy, what do you say?”
He stumbled some more as he headed to the bookshelf. He pulled out his grimoire, its ruby-red hellgem giving off a slight glow as if it sensed it was about to be used. The blue leather felt soothing in his hand. He set the book on the table, tracing the gold tooling before aimlessly flipping through the pages.
“If you will not talk to me willingly, I will make you.” He stopped at a spell. “There we go, this one will do nicely.” With blurry vision and a head that was starting to throb, he performed the spell. Just a simple spell to help hear Blitz in his head again. Well, actually, he needed to hear from two, did he not? It would only be fair.
So he cast his spell. The sensation of the magic mixed with the alcohol in his system was a strange one. Strictly speaking, magic was never supposed to be done while intoxicated. It could lead to unforeseen, sometimes disastrous, results. But how bad could it be when all he wanted was to get his creativity going again?
He moved his hands, tracing invisible shapes into the air. Magical symbols, while unseen by the naked eye, were most definitely present. He could feel the power pulsing through him, building…and nothing.
“Come on, Blitz. Tell me your story.”
Throwing the book in the general direction of the couch, Stolas huffed. He felt a wave of embarrassment come over him. What exactly had he expected to happen? Silly thing to attempt. Best to go back to his computer and work on an outline. Even if it was shit. He needed something to show the publisher, and he needed it soon.
Once again he plopped himself down in his computer chair and stared at his screen. Everything was still silent. Silence in his head, silence in his heart, silence in his house, just silence... what the hell was that sound?
Stolas cocked his head. Silence. He must have drunk more than he realized. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was 2:35. Perhaps part of the problem was that he was also getting tired. He was starting to imagine… There it was again.
Stolas listened more intently. The sound seemed to be coming from his living room. There was definitely someone in his living room. Had Octavia woken up and wandered in there? His instinct told him that it was not the sound of his daughter moving around.
Slowly and as quietly as he could, he got up and went to the fireplace, grabbing a poker. Wielding it behind his head, ready to swing at any moment, he slowly crept towards the living room.
It was dark, but even so, he could make out a figure scuffling around, looking through the chest of drawers. He was being robbed. He silently snuck up on the person. Just as he was about to swing, the person turned around quickly, aiming a gun directly at him.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Stolas’ arms dropped, poker forgotten. He couldn’t believe his eyes. What he was seeing was impossible. Still, something in him felt the truth of the situation. Cautiously, he stretched out a hand as if to touch the man to verify his existence.
“You,” he whispered, and then everything went dark.