Next Chapter: The Grimoire (Part 1)
[Scene: An overlord Disgraced...]
The bar was dim, cramped, and smelled faintly of scorched liquor and cheap perfume. Neon lights from outside pushed through the smeared windows in fractured blocks of color, flickering across the tables and the slouched figures leaning over them. In the far corner, half-buried under shadows, sat Vox. The once-imposing TV Overlord hunched over the counter with his shoulders drawn inward, the glow of his screen-face dulled to a weak bluish haze. Static crawled along the edges of his display, flickering every time his thoughts wandered back to the same humiliating loop; VoxTek was gone. His ratings were gone. His supporters were gone. Valentino has everything now. He stared down at the empty shot glass in his hand. Vox muttered a bitter curse under his breath. "Bartender. Another." The female hellhound behind the counter rolled her eyes but obliged. She poured the drink without ceremony, sliding the shot toward him with a practiced flick of her wrist. "Try not to fry the counter again." She spoke.
Vox ignored her. He took the glass, swallowed the contents in one gulp, and let the burn settle in the pit of his stomach. It did nothing to help the ache of failure, but he kept drinking anyway, if only to fill the silence clawing at him. A voice drifted in from the barstool beside him. Rough, unimpressed, and unmistakably irritated. ''So you're a deadbeat too? Trust me, I know how that fucking feels."
Vox turned his head.
Sitting next to him was a figure he recognized instantly, though the sight of him was almost unthinkable—Adam, former commander of Heaven's Exorcists (now a sinner). Now his armor was gone, replaced with wrinkled thrift-store clothes. His once-pristine wings were ragged, feathers bent and broken. His expression held the same exhausted shame Vox felt simmering in his circuits.
Vox let out a humorless scoff. "Fantastic. Fallen choir boy company. Just what I needed tonight."
Adam shrugged as if that alone required effort. "Hey, at least you didn't get shanked by a tiny psychotic cleaning lady....''
Above them, a television switched to breaking news—one of the few left in Hell that still carried a signal Vox no longer controlled. A reporter stood outside the Hazbin Hotel, her microphone pointed toward a figure beaming with the kind of hope that felt like an insult in Hell's gloom. Charlie Morningstar spoke with infectious enthusiasm, her eyes bright as she described redemption becoming a reality. "It feels absolutely incredible!" Charlie said. "This is only the beginning. Anyone can change if they want to!"
Adam let out a low whistle. "Damn. That bitch really fuckin' did it."
Vox didn't answer. The static on his screen spiked sharply. He pushed himself off the barstool and headed toward the exit without a word.
[Scene: Outside from the bar...]
The night air was thick with neon and noise. Street vendors shouted over each other, imps laughed drunkenly on the curb, and the glow of storefront signs buzzed against Vox's dimming screen.
He walked alone, hands in his pockets, each step carrying the weight of everything he'd lost.
Then—SPLASH.
A cold drink slammed into his chest, soaking his suit and sending droplets sizzling against his circuitry.
"What the—?!" Vox sputtered, sparks crackling violently across his frame.
Vox approached him slowly, seething.
Before the imp could crawl away, Vox grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him upright. Electricity surged through Vox's circuitry, illuminating his screen with furious static.
"Do you have any fucking idea who I AM?" Vox shouted. "I am VOX—goddammit! The head of Vox—"
The words faltered. "…VoxTek."
From his back, electric cables erupted like snapping serpents. One wrapped around the imp's throat, tightening as the imp kicked and clawed helplessly at the air. Then the sound hit him. Laughter. Not the respectful kind. Not nervous laughter from terrified onlookers. Mockery. A small crowd had formed—succubi, imps, a hellhound or two—staring and pointing. "Hey, isn't that the guy who tanked his whole empire?" a female succubus giggled. "Yeah!" a hellhound added. "Hey Vox! I hear a diner down the street needs a dishwasher! You fucking loser!"
The laughter grew, swelling like a tide of needles pricking at his pride. Vox's grip weakened. Static overtook his display. Something inside him flickered—a sensation unfamiliar, unwelcome, and humiliating. Irrelevancy. The cable slithered loose and dropped the imp onto the pavement. Vox turned, pushing through the gawking crowd as they continued laughing behind him. He didn't look back.
His fists clenched, sparks trailing behind him like embers from a dying fire. ''Charlie Morningstar. Her hotel. Her redemption bullshit. Her friends....''
''They took everything from me...''
[Scene: Back in I.M.P Headquarters....]
The office of Immediate Murder Professionals felt heavier than usual, like the fluorescent lights themselves were exhausted and ready to flicker out.
Blitzo slumped in his chair, elbows on his desk, face buried in his hands as he muttered curses about employees, humans, and superhero wannabes ruining everything. The only sound in the room was the anxious spin of a cheap fidget spinner between his fingers.
Then came a knock.
Blitzo froze, shoulders stiffening. "Ugh. Come iiiiin," he groaned, dragging out each syllable like he hoped it would scare the visitor away instead. The door creaked open. Stolas stepped inside, feathers settling as he shut the door behind him. He looked different, concern softening his usual theatrically regal posture. "Blitzy… are you alright?" he asked quietly.
Blitzo shot him a look, incredulous. "Oh, I dunno, what do you fuckin' think, Stolas?" He threw his arms up. "My three best employees. Well, besides Moxxie, obviously, just walked out on me! Walked out!" His voice cracked, frustration and panic bleeding through. "How the hell am I supposed to run this business now?!"
Stolas walked forward and eased himself onto the edge of the desk. "They are likely just upset about—wait…" He tilted his head, frowning. "Why exactly are they upset? What happened while you were all up there?"
Blitzo exhaled sharply, pacing behind his chair.
"Well," he started, counting each grievance on his fingers, "we took the target down. Clean job. Easy. But then two shitheads dressed like knockoff superheroes swooped in and messed everything up!" He kicked at the desk leg. "And now those humans know about our whole operation! Everything! Everything, Stolas!"
With a sudden jerk of his wrist, he hurled the fidget spinner at the wall. It clattered against framed paperwork and fell pathetically to the floor.
Before Stolas could say anything, another knock tapped against the office door.
Blitzo let out a noise that was somewhere between a growl and a scream. "WHAT NOW?!"
He stormed across the room and yanked the door open.
Standing in the doorway, dusted with glitter and smugness as if they were accessories, were Willy Wackford—grinning ear to ear—and Andrealphus, his posture refined and icy as ever.
Blitzo blinked once. Then again. His jaw dropped. "Andrealphus? What the—what the FUCK do you want?!"
Stolas stood from the desk, face tightening with immediate distaste. "Andrealphus," he said sharply. "Is this a joke? You came here to gloat? You and my darling sister have gotten exactly what you wanted—"
Andrealphus's lips curled into a delicate, serpentine smile.
"Oh, dear Stolas.." he said in a smooth, mocking coo, "I am not here to boast." He raised his hand, tapping a claw gently against his chest. "Though I must say, I do find the idea rather tempting."
Blitzo bristled. "Then why the hell are you HERE?!"
Wackford leaned forward, breath smelling like cheap cinnamon liquor. "Howdy-ho, folks! We got ourselves a little business proposition fer—"
"Silence, William..." Andrealphus murmured, holding up one elegant finger. Wackford instantly zipped his lips shut with an audible zip sound.
Andrealphus stepped inside the office, the temperature seeming to drop with him. His eyes shifted between Stolas and Blitzo, evaluating, calculating. "I am not here for theatrics..." he continued softly. "I am here for something… important...''
He paused for dramatic tension—clearly savoring it. Then he smiled wider. "In regards to your grimoire…"
Stolas's feathers bristled. Blitzo stiffened. The name alone shifted the air from tense to lethal. Andrealphus took another leisurely step into the room, hands folded neatly behind his back. "Well..." he said, eyes glinting with cold satisfaction. "We need to talk...."
[Scene: The proposition....]
Willy Wackford shifted behind Andrealphus, hat in hand, offering a pitiful grin that probably worked better on desperate clients and less on two royally pissed-off demons.
Andrealphus flicked imaginary dust from his sleeve. "As I was saying before the… interruptions… we are here for a mutually beneficial arrangement. One that pertains directly to the upcoming Full Moon Festival in the Wrath Ring."
Stolas stiffened at the mention. His feathers seemed to bristle, subtle but unmistakable. Blitzo noticed—because of course he did—but he stayed seated on the desk, swinging one leg like a bored teenager.
"What kind of proposition are we talking about here?" Blitzo asked, squinting. "And make it snappy. You two showing up together is already gross enough."
Stolas added, voice low and cold, "You have some nerve stepping into my presence after everything you and Stella have done, to me. And you believe some… business pitch can rectify that?"
Blitzo crossed his arms. "Yeah, spill it, Elsa. We don't have all day...''
If Andrealphus took offense, he hid it well. He began pacing slowly, the soft click of his shoes echoing through the office like a metronome of arrogance.
"Oh, gladly," he said. "As you know, the Full Moon Festival is nearly upon us. A time when the Wrath Ring's corn-eating, mud-rolling inbreds gather for entertainment." He smirked as though already imagining the spotlight. "And since you, dear Stolas, are no longer Prince of the Ars Goetia, the role of celestial demonstration falls to someone, well, more… suitably powerful."
He clasped his hands behind his back and turned, face glowing with self-satisfaction.
"And what better person to do that..." he said. "than me?"
Stolas rolled his eyes with enough force to shift gravity.
Andrealphus continued, savoring every word. "Octavia will be attending this year. And I happen to know she expects quite the spectacle. So, in exchange for the grimoire…" He paused, letting the weight of the offer sink in. "I will allow you to see your daughter."
A sharp breath escaped Stolas. It wasn't loud, but it was enough—his eyes softened for half a second, shining with something raw and vulnerable. Blitzo saw it. He hated seeing it.
"And even if it is only for a short time," Andrealphus finished.
Blitzo scoffed hard. "Yeah? And how the fuck does this help me, genius? Hello? I don't exactly wake up in the morning thinking, 'Wow, I hope a frosty bird man gives my boyfriend visitation rights.' So what do I get for this crap?"
Without hesitation, Andrealphus produced a crisp, fat wad of cash and held it out like bait on a hook.
Blitzo's pupils dilated. The tension vanished from his face faster than a sinner at an exorcist parade. In one swift motion, he snatched the cash.
"Deal!" he blurted. "But you better give the grimoire back when the festival's over. I can't run my business without it, alright? And no funny business!"
Andrealphus giggled—a soft, chilly sound. "Oh, trust me. You will have nothing to worry about."
He turned sharply, coat fluttering, and Willy scrambled after him as they exited the office.
Silence fell.
Stolas stood motionless, staring at the doorway as if expecting the two to burst back in. Blitzo, meanwhile, fanned the bills in his hands with an appreciative whistle.
"Dear Lucifer, Blitz..." Stolas muttered. "You are remarkably easy to persuade."
"Hey!" Blitzo snapped. "Other imps would kill for this kind of money, okay? And besides, our bathroom's got that plumbing issue and I've been meaning to fix it. This'll cover it." He pocketed the cash triumphantly. "Anyway, let's round up my other employees and head to the festival, if we can find them that is....''
Stolas exhaled, part weary, part resigned, but followed as Blitzo marched toward the door.
[Scene: Regaining back the glory days....]
The Pride Ring's neon glow washed over the sidewalks in a mixture of reds and blues, each light flickering like a dying heartbeat. Vox walked with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, chin tilted downward just enough to hide the bitterness twisting across his screen-face. Two passing denizens slowed as they recognized him. One nudged the other with an elbow, and both burst into snickering giggles the second they thought they'd walked far enough ahead. Vox heard every sound, every breath of mockery, every hushed insult. His circuitry buzzed with irritation, but he forced his steps to remain even. Calm. Smooth. Controlled.
He used to be the one who laughed at others for their misery.
He used to be the one they looked up to.
Now he was the punchline?
Vox ignored them as best he could and sank down onto the bench beside a bus stop. A drunk sinner lay half-slumped beside him, snoring loud enough to rattle the bench. Vox glanced at him once, then looked away, disgust curling in his throat. 'Is this what it's come to? Sharing space with passed-out vermin?''
His fingers flexed inside his pockets, his screens flickering between irritation and static. 'What am I supposed to do now? Where the hell do I even go from here?''
He remembered the spotlight. The applause. The numbers—towering, glorious numbers—rolling upward and upward as he set Hell's entertainment on fire. He remembered how it felt to stand above everyone else, to have the entire damn Ring respecting him.
He remembered what greatness felt like.
And he refused to believe that was over.
Vox leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the cracked pavement. His circuits hummed in restless thoughts. ''There must be something. Some angle. Some move. Something to remind everyone who the hell I am…''
The distant rumble of an approaching engine dragged him out of his spiraling thoughts. The bus rolled to a stop with a squeal of metal, the doors hissing open.
Vox's gaze drifted up and froze.
On the side of the bus was a bright, obnoxiously cheerful poster: "THE FULL MOON FESTIVAL – WRATH RING – ONE NIGHT ONLY! EXPERIENCE MAGIC, MAYHEM, AND THE CELESTIAL SPECTACLE OF THE AMAZING ANDREALPHUS!''
Vox's screen brightened.
Then it hit him like a spark straight to his motherboard.
Why bother groveling for Hell's respect when Hell had already chosen its laughingstock? Why chase the same audience that had turned on him?
Why stay in a world where he was just another fallen overlord?
He stood up slowly—then all at once. ''If Hell won't worship me again… maybe the living world will.''
He imagined cameras, millions of them. Faces glued to screens. Voices chanting his name. Humans—fragile, desperate creatures—falling over themselves for a new deity of entertainment.
A world that worships trending idols.
A world already obsessed with screens.
A world is primed for someone like him.
The neon lights reflected off his monitor face as an enormous, wicked grin formed—jagged and electric.
"Oh…" Vox whispered, his voice buzzing with new life. "Oh, that's it. That's exactly what I need to do."
He stepped away from the bench, shoulders back, ego swelling again like a revived beast.
If Hell wouldn't give him the glory he deserved…
Earth would.
And he would make sure they loved him.
Fearfully.
Loyally.
Unconditionally.
Vox's grin sharpened as he vanished into the Pride Ring's pulsing lights with an ominous low laugh. It is time for a new era of entertainment....