The Sin Hunter: Double or Nothing

The Unfortunate Meeting

Time doesn't exist in Hell. There's clocks and there's timers, but nobody ever pays attention to meaningless details like time. Deals are made when both parties feel the mood's right, exchanges occur daily, people go to bed whenever they feel like, it's a system of blissful, disastrous chaos that, in the most bizarre and unconventional way possible, twists itself into order. So when bars open or close, there's some kind of schedule. Break times are established, and everything flows as best it deems natural. On this particular occasion, when the skies above the city of Pride weren't speckled with the bloody stars of its inhabitants, Azazel found himself in a pub by the street.

Traffic outside rampaged on the sidewalk while inside the open bar space, slow country music droned in the back of the booth. At the counter facing a monitor with sports channels on all time, Azazel's clouded, smoking fingers twisted over a mug, tilting the contents back while the whole bottle downed itself against the fiery contents of the Lord of Wrath's face. Flames flickered and twisted in beautiful colors as the alcohol flashed over fire, then dissipated when Azazel struck the table with the mug, slumping over on the furnished wood table.

The Lord of Wrath was still sick. This artificial war had poisoned his insides and left the Demonic Night Lord drained of any feeling except choking and sorrow. His weary black eyes, now wrung with charcoal lines and a queasy, pale glow surrounding his pupils, drifted aimlessly to the door into the pub. There were other people in the bar, of course, but it was amazing to find the illustrious Lady of Envy walking into the bar beside her coworker. Satan was dressed in fashionable Wrath attire, with chains draped across shredded black jeans, a pair of dusty black cowgirl boots hiding her hooves and a weathered beige hat cloaking her pale green crop top and black jacket.

Satan hopped into the seat next to her fiery friend, ordering a glass of tequila before slumping over next to Azazel, her eyes aligning themselves with the weary, shaken black slits of irritation and sickness. "Hey big guy. You feeling okay?" Azazel reared his head back, the flames of his fiery head curling into the horns of a dragon before he erupted with a sneeze. Everything in the bar shook and exploded, turning in stunned, terrified silence as a searing, flaming hole in the wall tore through into the next building over. Satan craned her neck to see through the hole, eyes wide with shock while Azazel crashed onto the counter again, huffing.

"I...I feel okay. Nophig a biph of whiskey camph fibth..." The Lady of Envy folded her sleeves over, shuffling the curls of her deep black hair under the dusty beige wrangler's hat. "Y'know, Azazel, it's never a bad thing to ask for-" "Shuph. Up. Domph fibith thaph thentence." Satan slid away from the retort, her eyes wide in amaze and her lip curled up in surprise. "Okay then. Guess I won't." Satan found herself with her drink, paying the tab for hers and her contract brother's before sipping away. After a sparkling froth of tequila, Satan flipped around toward the open bar. She swirled the glass of tequila and ice cubes in the air in a slow, contented motion.

"Look, buddy, life's rough. I feel for you on this whole, 'Hell's starting a war, let's give the eldritch embodiment of wars a bad reputation,' thing, y'know? We all do, myself and your siblings." Azazel dragged his head across the counter to face his younger sibling, his eyes spewing white hot crystals from their brims as the flame tips on his head grew a dim, shivering blue. After a long, fiery sniffle, the Lord of Wrath shook his chains and drained the rest of his drink, leaving flaming, tendril-coated goo on the edges of the mug when he set it down. "Phthankth phor the walm welcome. I aprethiate iph."

Satan wrapped one of her arms across the bony, chain and muscle clad back of her brother, giving him a few good pats. "I hope you feel better soon, Zaze. Murph sends his best regards as well." When Satan hopped off of the stool to leave, however, Azazel tilted his sickened, weary head, gesturing a sickened, damaged hand. "Ampth you haph a good tibe phith thath Plague Doctor. He theemth cool." Satan turned slowly, keeping one gold gauntlet on the door while her body turned to face the Lord of Wrath. Satan smiled, tipping her hat with the other gold glove from her armor.

"I'll put in a good word for ya. Maybe he'll help you out sometime."

As Satan's swishing imp tail pushed past the door, closing behind her with a click, Azazel flopped over in his seat, rubbing his temples with shackled, weary hands, his eyes closed as heavily as anvil weights, and the Lord of Wrath slumped over on the bar, occasionally wafting small fumes of smoke past the melting mucus on his facial features. As uncharacteristic of him, the Lord of Wrath and the Tyrant of Torture himself had fallen asleep, peaceful as a little fiery newt.