Chapter Text
“You will be fine.” Dream’s words oozed from his lips like spilling honey from a broken pot. His expression was concealed by a porcelain mask, adorned with a black smiley-face. The angel had earned it when he graduated from the reform program, a gift to hide leftover demonic features still prominent on his face.
“No, I-!” Tommy tried to protest but was quickly silenced by his keeper. He was not a full-fledged angel yet, he had to graduate from his chosen division first. And because of his young age, he was assigned a keeper. All newly materialized angel chicks are.
The keepers are in charge of newly spawns, yet oddly enough, Dream wasn’t in the keeper division. Yet, Council had allowed him to take on Tommy despite the difference. Sometimes, Tommy wishes they hadn’t allowed it- and that, sometimes, he thinks Dream is still full of his unreformed demonic deceit.
“You listen- listen to me, Tommy.” The stern tone melted away into something soft, an artificial breeze gently passing through the strands of both their blond hair. “You can, and will, do this. You will make me proud.”
There was a nervous lump in Tommy’s throat, but he pretended it wasn’t there and ignored it. Showing weakness was unbecoming of a future angelic knight. Supposedly, keepers choose their angel’s paths- at least, that is what Dream told him.
But, from how happy everyone looked completing their basic trials, it makes Tommy think otherwise. However, he isn’t a child and won’t complain over it. Even if his size betrays him, smaller than the others, stature comparable to that of an eleven-year-old mortal. But Tommy has lived for one-hundred years already! He was destined to be a warrior, and nothing could ruin destiny. Apart from.. demons.
Dream says so anyway. And convincingly informed him it just takes time for his muscle to come in. Dream says there is just more training required for it to show.
When you graduate from your Heaven-duty assigned program, you receive your wings. Tommy now, currently, only has soft down feathers among the flesh protrusions on his back. It bothered him immensely.
He hated looking at his measly wings, and them always being compared to Dream’s expansive four wings, so he hid them under his cloak whenever he could. And he could frequently. People barely bat an eye towards him in Heaven, and he thinks perhaps it is because he is Dream’s disciple along with God.
“I will make you proud, Dream.” Tommy’s breath stuttered, words coming out hesitantly, unsure of his own answer. But, the more thought he put into it, the more determination blossomed in his chest like a budded tulip.
How he would graduate, one of the youngest in the warrior teachings, and proceed to be an amazing apprentice to Dream. He had already been so generously trained by the man of divinity, he couldn’t let him down and put it all to waste.
“Good.” Dream spoke expectantly, as if he knew what Tommy was going to say. Reaching forwards, his hands began to gently cradle the boy angel’s cheeks with his palms. It was a soothing touch, almost reminiscent of a father and son, but Tommy knew better. Knew it was fake.
“Because if you don’t..” There was a pause, Dream halting his speech as if he needed to indulge in his thoughts. Contemplating what he would say next. It filled Tommy with unease.
The air swirling around them became stale and still. A gradual wind no longer flowing, disappearing, and leaving behind a stiff atmosphere. It was awkward and tense and made Tommy wish he had his wings already, and the strength to just leave and begin his test already.
“You can bother not coming back.” Dream’s voice gave no way to his emotion when he finally finished. The feeling of anticipation sinking away into a pooling pit of dread.
His tone only further proved Tommy’s Bible teachings, that demons- despite reformatory- are dangerous. The four-winged angel spoke void of the carefully practiced sweetness he typically displayed. The hands- despite being in the presence of a supposed angel - felt cold against his skin. As if they were dipped in ice water and smothered in a glacier for eons.
The return coin in his pocket felt heavier than the feather light feeling it had before. When in a different realm, you cannot signal or hear others of your kind- like how you can in Heaven. And because he doesn’t have his wings, among others in the program, they each were given a return token.
Sucking in a quiet breath between clenched teeth, he didn’t- he didn’t want to be stranded. But, if he is to be good, to himself and to Dream, he must follow the angelic orders. Despite the impending dread he feels even just thinking about it.
What would he do if he was stranded? How could he begin to even redeem himself?
Tommy didn’t want to reply, horrified at how he’d sound or the thought of what he’d say. Dream constantly challenged his own emotions, fueling rage and harboring sadness. The keeper who had raised him, taught him what he knows, and pushed him to strive to be his best just- just threatened to disown him. If he fails.
He cannot fail.
When the graceful fingers on his face began to curl inwards, a promise of pain if the lack of reply continued; Tommy squeaked a breath as if his lungs were the ones being squeezed. It felt Dream was still the same demonic being he had been before Heaven, just now with a cherub disguise. A way to play pretend with a mask because- however many millennia he had spent in Hell- did not provide him enough entertainment.
“Yes.” Tommy fought the urge to reach his hands up, grab the wrists that belonged to Dream, and then yank downwards to get the grip away from his cheekbones. But he knew he wasn’t strong enough for that, despite the ever-growing urge to complete the action.
Angels didn’t bruise in Heaven, but they aren’t in Heaven anymore. Not right now, anyway. They were stuck between the mortal plane and Heaven; a place considered the in-between. “Yes. Dream.” Tommy tacked onto his reply quickly, snuffing out the shakiness before he let the words slip past his mouth.
“Good.” Dream released his hold, patting the young angel on the shoulder, before retracting his hands completely. Tommy felt relief with the movement, because maybe- finally- he would be able to begin his final task to graduation.
“Do you remember what is asked of you?” The higher angel’s tone was patronizing and judgmental, stoking a sense of resentment in Tommy’s mind that he hadn’t even known he had. “It is truly easy.”
“It would be awfully embarrassing if you fail. So, if I do not see you for a few centuries, then I will know you have failed.” Dream leaned in slightly, his regal posture somehow not wavering with the movement, “Because you will not be returning until you succeed. And if you fail, you are not hurting just your ego. You are tarnishing my reputation.”
“And neither of us want that, do we, Theseus?” The swirling black of the in-between felt distant and blank, a nothingness that- in the moment- Tommy wished would swallow him whole. He thinks if Dream didn’t wear a mask, he would have visible fangs protruding from his where canines sat.
If this was meant to be some form of wicked motivation, frighteningly, it was working. And Tommy hates it.
“Yes-! Yes, Dream.” Tommy’s hands, resting in front of him, bunched together. He felt his fingertips nervously pick at a loose thread on a hem of his cloak, pulling and pulling- and maybe if he continued long enough- it would unravel. The use of his God-given alias was enough to shake him to his core, to make him feel as though he was enduring a scolding for being caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Good.” Another ominous answer, and another reason to worry. “You will do great.” And reassurance returns. Dream confuses Tommy immensely sometimes, but he puts up with it. He knows- not really, but assumes- reformation is hard. The masked angel is only trying his best.
If only Tommy knew the truth.
“Goodluck. Remember your teachings. Do not forget your task.” Dream spoke indifferently, voice growing increasingly louder with each verbalized syllable. Soon, in what felt like a millisecond, Tommy’s vision went blank. It was as if his wish to be consumed by the in-between was granted, and he was to be sentenced to eternity in darkness.
Yet, the wish had not consumed truth, because in the time he took to blink- he saw himself now standing in an alley. His feet were firmly planted on what he recalls from Earth studies to be concrete, and upon a brief visual sweep, realized he was in the middle of the townsfolk jungle.
But, the mocking- not necessarily, but they felt that way- words Dream had spoken about remembering his final task irked him. It made a sheen layer of annoyance build against his skin, threatening to pile until he felt he needed a bath to be cleansed.
Stubbornly, instead of granting himself a respite, he readjusted the hood of his cloak. It sat fastened around his head, casting a perfect shadow to conceal the bright blue eyes of his face.
Part of the mission was to deal with the perpetrators while maintaining the secret of Heaven’s divinity from humanity. Because his wings were not full-fledged, he could not retract them from his outside appearance. At least, that is what Dream told him when he inquired and tried for himself.
He had only asked once after he saw a 400-year angel in his Bible teachings do it. Tommy is unsure if Dream was lying, but accusing him of such would be dignified with a punishment. And, as the holy code states, angels cannot lie. Dishonesty is a greater sin, especially to impressionable angel chicks. Not that he is one. So, that was the only time he had asked, remaining ignorant of the truth.
Tommy’s keeper had to bring him to Earth’s surface because he could not fly down himself. He couldn’t himself because of the underdeveloped symbols of purity on his back. He, faithfully, assumes Dream had placed him close by the location he was required to be.
Dream wouldn’t purposefully sabotage his soon-to-be apprentice, would he?
No. He would not. Tommy felt the raging war inside him, a mix between suspicion and appalment.
Leveling himself, he would push down any residual emotion or scowl of frustration, clearing out his head. He had to succeed, he has an eternity to dwell on Dream, yet only one Earthly night for one of the most important missions of his creation.
His final task, something that must be completed so he can be appointed an angelic knight, was to find a few imps on the mortal plane and bust them. They were, allegedly, selling Hell-forged blades. Not that he was scared, he barely felt worried over it! Imps were the easiest, arguably, creatures to send back to Hell. Hell, the place they themselves were forged in, as a morsel or plaything to other demonic animals.
The words “piece of cake” fell cockily on the tip of his tongue. If anything, the sudden overconfidence consuming him was to be his downfall. He would revisit that in the future, however. Because for now, he has imps to send back to Hell.
In the back depths of his mind, he knows that the surging self-worth came from the fact he didn’t have Dream nagging over his shoulder and bringing him down. Telling him he could do better and better with even short daily tasks. Now, Tommy can prove to him that he didn’t need the constant berating to do a good job. He will do a great job.
Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he relished in the quiet. Not the kind where everything goes still, like in Heaven when it grows uncomfortable and quiet, as if it was frozen in time awaiting a dethaw. Instead, it was peaceful. The untimed howling of bush-sheltered coyotes lurking in the night, and the occasional hoot of an owl high up in the tops of the trees.
Sucking in a breath deep enough to flood his lungs, testing the strength of his chest cavities’ capacity, he waited for the demonic scent to startle his nose. Part of his warrior training was to track down creatures where they do not belong.
In Heaven, pouches of artificial blood were used. So, he was not prepared for the smell of not one, two, but three demonic forces. It hit him in the face like a sharpened stone, wrinkling his bridge immediately, and causing an unconscious hand to fly up and pinch his nose shut.
Tommy bit back the gag and grimace threatening to creep up on him, hunching his shoulders over and furrowing his brows so tensely that the lids of his eyes were forced to close. The welling tears on his bottom lash had disappeared almost as soon as they sprung.
He wasn’t expecting something so.. intense. In celestial person, nonetheless. Imps- he hadn’t thought an imp would smell so strongly, that he would feel the need to crumple in on himself. Swallowing thickly, he took a second to himself, regaining the composure of a future angelic knight.
Huffing a breath sharply from his nose, his fingertips loosening up a tad from where they were clamping down to allow air to flow, he hopes to dispel some strength of the aroma. Thankfully, breathing in and out of his mouth seemed to aid some, and he was able to attempt to recover.
The way to find the creatures wasn’t completely lost, because he could still track the invisible line of smell to them. Readjusting his cloak overtop his head and body, Tommy would clear his throat, and begin down the alley into the opening.
Figures not from the mortal plane are banned from coming to the Earth’s surface, like angels and demons. But Hell’s Devil- and resident fallen angel- The Angel of Death, defies God’s rule and allows his lowly subjects to rise freely.
It then puts work on the angels, to the point God and his Council could no longer handle it on their own. Instead, they trained a division, and as the population grows, trusted angel knights train more and more of their pupils to become warriors.
Tommy was one of the lucky few to be accepted into the program this last time around. Because of a suspicious decrease in Hell spawn coming to humanity, they were going to be taking a break from teaching more angels to become warriors. And instead, focus them towards other divisions.
This is one of the other important reasons he has to pass this final quest. Otherwise, he won’t just be letting himself and Dream down, but the entire class of soon-to-be knight angels, and God.
When Tommy reached the opening, where the alley split into a cracked concrete road, he couldn’t say he was expecting what he saw. It seemed like a dock near the waters, and he could hear the gentle rushing of waves, but there were also a lot of buildings.
Each building, while not looking neat or pristine, had a metal door. On the walls there were cracks and crumbles of brick, dirt, and wood. The doors- reminiscent of a huge garage almost- were mossy and grime filled. But one attached to a smaller, the smallest, structure, had a gap wide enough open for someone to duck under.
Tommy stalked forwards with quiet steps, soles silent against the surface, and barefoot for optimal agility. His eyes kept an adept wander around, not frantic but calculated, watching for any movements within the shadows. In case anything may be lurking.
When the coyotes cried for a second time, louder and more prominent, Tommy stayed ignorant to if it was a sign. That what he was encroaching upon was more than he had bargained for within his time as an angel. Because a surface thought of his mind told him Dream would never- could never- purposefully sabotage him.
Sabotage his future in Heaven, his placement as a warrior apprentice, his faith to God. His inner-turmoil was treading on a tightrope wire, getting too close to a red zone. Dream was an angel. But, it is easy to forget he was also once a demon with how cunning he is.
A series of clatter from inside the warehouse struck a sense of startlement into Tommy’s bones, the hair on the back of his neck rising, and eyes widening in surprise. He was extremely close to the building now, across from the large metal door on the other side of the concrete street.
“He’s late.” A voice snarled from inside, the hiss echoing against each of the walls and flooding out into the empty walkway.
In a quick attempt to disguise himself, in case the imps come out, Tommy rapidly took in his surroundings, searching for a place to duck behind. He deduces that they hadn’t made a deal yet, with whatever consumer they were selling to, and sounded angry.
Tommy did not want to be caught in the crossfire, in the event the buyer does show up late- as they most likely will- and instead will wait to sweep up the pieces. To return the demonic creatures to Hell where they belong after brushing them into a metaphorical dustpan.
Not that he thinks a human can do much against not one- but three - imps. Imps aren’t strong, they’re weak, frail, and small. But they are still undead brutes of the night. Horrific and haunting to children’s nightmares.
“You!” The same voice was closer now, and the imp who cried it had spotted him. He wasn’t fast enough to hide. “You’re late. Why?”
Stuttering over his breath, unaware he would have to chat with a- of all creatures- demon, ran his mouth dry. Any words he had previously left him, and Tommy was stuck gaping at the approaching figure like a fish out of water.
The other had a temperament, it seemed. As they got closer it became more clear on what the Hell spawn looked like. Wavy brunet hair, combed to the front and swooping to the side of its forehead. A black turtleneck sweater with dustings of gray, perhaps from the rundown building it was just in, matched with a long-popped collar trench coat, jeans, and boots.
To Tommy, it seemed the figure was only wearing black- and that, somehow- it simply looked like an average human male. But when it was within a two arm's length distance, he could notice there were hues in his clothes.
Despite the moon providing a blanket of black overtop its critters of night, angels- when close enough to the animals- can see through the ruse of shadows. And even though Tommy has a strong hatred for the moon, he is the slightest bit thankful, because it now was confirmed that the other is his target.
“What? Cat got your tongue?” The demon rolled its eyes, reaching forwards to grab Tommy’s upper arm. Its voice was like oil, oozing and slick, dripping through the cracks of each letter it spat like venomous spit. “Doesn’t matter, you are already late enough. Let's go.”
Tommy’s scavenge for a hiding spot idea had long since been abandoned, and now, he focuses on avoiding the sizzling touch of the demonic creature. He knows it’s impure skin against his own angelic robe and flesh would burn a hole right through his arm- the place it was aiming for.
“Alright-!” Tommy gasped out, just narrowly ducking down and to the side awkwardly away from the hand. The creature looked unbothered, indistinguible stare directed towards him, as the arm remained extended in startlement. “Alright, yeah.”
The gravity of the situation truly hit when the scent of all three demons began to re-mingle, the salty taste of the ocean slowly meshing with it. It was a vile and indescribable aroma, let alone, now from three. The most in Heaven- blood bags for hunts- he had worked with was one, or even just a half.
Not three; especially not from three completely filled vessels.
A sly upturn of the demon’s mouth struck silent fear into Tommy’s being, a pool of anxiety beginning to formulate itself in his stomach. It was uncomfortable and nothing like he had experienced before; it being different than when he was with Dream.
With Dream, the nerves were surfaced. A tingle on his skin or the occasional flap of a butterfly or two in his chest. Nothing like the pounding of waves against his insides he felt now, threatening to overturn his thoughts, and make him sweat.
“Wonderful. I’m Wilbur.” Wilbur ’s voice was bordering a hiss, and Tommy could picture the snake’s tongue or possible scales that would litter his face, if he was not in a human disguise. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Swallowing thickly, and jumping from his thoughts, Tommy found his hands pulling at a loose thread on his cloak. He nodded vigorously.
“Right, yeah. Wilbur.” The boy of divinity pretended to remember, but angels were not blessed to tell lies well. If anything, Tommy received the short end of the stick on learning how.
His mannerisms were predictable and basic, not even Dream could teach him how to be dishonest convincingly. But it wasn’t like he wanted to teach that either. Dream would prefer to read him like an open book, as all the others in Heaven would.
“Right-! Mhm.. I remember.” Tommy continued in the silence, removing his fingers from where they were curling into his fabric, and instead using the palms of his hands to brush off the sleeves of his shirt. Of course, it was over top of his cloak, but Wilbur continued to stare devilishly, and it made worry bubble up thick in his chest.
“Then, let's go. We don’t want to make Phil and Techno wait any longer, do we?” Wilbur tucked his hands into his pockets, a swift and somehow elegant motion, somehow looking effortless as he kept his eyes locked onto the other in front of him.
Tommy thinks the demon would have offered his hand, if it wasn’t for the fact Tommy flinched away from the earlier touch. He seems regal and calculated, as if he was expecting whoever the buyer was to show up late.
“Nope, no. No, we do not.” Tommy continued to force words past his lips, better that than nothing at all. The figurative shock of ice water- freezing him- had melted away in the closer presence of the demonic creature. Allowing him to move and reply. Not that he wanted to.
Tommy assumed the man buying the Hell-forged blades would attempt to defeat the one- three - of them before he arrived. And then, as his precious internal plot suggested, he would swoop in and bag the garbage. But unfortunately, that proves useless, because the meat-sack of a human hadn’t even shown up. Which now leaves him, Tommy, to do it all on his own.
He can’t really be mad, not even as his feet quietly pad across the concrete behind Wilbur, because this was his Holy mission. His final exam: he was supposed to do it on his own. The creeping doubt cannot claw at his thoughts and threaten to sink them like a simple motorboat lost to the sea. It can’t. He needs this. Tommy needs this. He wants to make Dream proud.
On Earth’s surface, Tommy has noticed the influx in the way his emotions surge. How easy frustration can melt to rage then to collapsing anxiety. If he was mortal, Tommy wholeheartedly believes he would have crumpled by now to his knees, legs tucked tight to his chest, and tears of Holy Water streaming down his cheeks.
But his resolution, as an Angel- and his own personality- is too strong. He refuses to give in, and determination effortlessly courses through his entire being. It cannot leave him; it will not leave him. Not if Tommy can help it, at least.
Dream never taught him to never give up, Dream taught him how to continue pushing. To improve. He was created, by God, with his own strong-will. His own courage, bravery, and the feeling of requirement to complete any task given to him. A maiden of Heaven once told him this is why he would make an excellent knight.
Tommy agrees.
“Watch your head.” Wilbur didn’t give much of a warning, Tommy watching him quickly duck below the metal door, and himself walking right into it. If his body could create injury through non-celestial means, there would be a massive bruise on his forehead teetering on the edge of forming. But that doesn’t mean he still couldn’t feel the immense pinprick of pain.
“Fuck-! OW-!” Tommy seethed, teeth clenched, and immediately recoiling. His hand shot up to his forehead where the connection had been made, fingers massaging against the skin. It did little to sooth the pounding nerves, as if his skull had hit so hard, it snapped.
He was walking fast. The demon- right. It is a demon. Of course, the embodiment of a man was walking fast on purpose, causing him to lag behind, and in turn walk faster to keep up. Tommy thinks a laugh should be striking at his throat, but he felt no amusement or humor in the situation.
Wilbur, however, who had ducked back through to peer at Tommy’s reaction, did. A clear mix of joy and laughter crossed his face, a sick display of finding amusement in the other’s pain. He didn’t laugh, though. Instead, it seemed to be simply observing. As if he was looking for something, perhaps a reaction, or the bruise that would typically form on mortals. Tommy can say, with certainty, that Hell spawns are creepy, even in human forms.
“That-” Tommy sucks a breath in through his clenched teeth, fighting the grimace from overtaking his face. Pain overwhelms any sense of irritation- but fear, his anxiety, trumps over both easily. “I meant to do that.”
Wilbur only continues to watch, eyes trained on the way the boy rebounds and fixes himself upright. The demon only ducks back into the building once he is sure Tommy is following, and this time, not about to smack his head against a sturdy door. But Tommy doesn’t think the demon would actually care if he did; instead, just chuckle internally once more.
The feeling of his wings underneath his cloak, as he passed under, brush against the metal, elicited a shiver to roll down his spine. Like gel over top of a water hill. The down feathers did little to offer much of anything, besides a fluffy white coating that elders like to obsess over.
He’s sure, if he is caught, the demons would love to mount his wings on top of their fireplace. Albeit, they aren’t much as of now, but he doubts imps- of all creatures- would care. If they even have a fireplace. Tommy doesn’t know much about Hell, but he doesn’t think they have homes. There is- the way they’re depicted- no way they have homes.
They are of Satanic descent. Unholy and unrighteous. Tommy isn’t a murderer, it is against the angelic code, but if it wasn’t- he would have already taken down the spawn of Hell before him.
Wilbur walks fast again once they are both inside. He struggles to keep up, stumbling several times after accidentally stepping on the hem of his cloak. Tommy wants to ask the other to slow down, or to stop speed walking, but stays silent. He doesn’t want to risk speaking in fear he gets suspicious; not that it would really cause a raised brow.
The warehouse, inside, was just as dreary as the out. The walls were crumbly, moldy, and seemingly unsafe. The roof appeared as if it was falling, caving in on the building. Tommy didn’t worry for the stability of the structure, because he could always pluck and crush his coin for a rapid return back to Heaven.
And if it does collapse, the demons would be sure to return to Hell! It would be a win-win situation. But, judging by how Wilbur is leading him to an off-hand room, the door opened just a smidge with assumedly artificial light pouring through the crack, he doesn’t think they’ll be in the main-danger zone.
Tommy allows himself to slow, just a bit, when the stench of two more demons startles his nose. Their aroma was almost the same as Wilbur, but they each were somehow different, distinguishable and one, indescribable, is the most pungent.
He fights the urge to duck his head low, curl in on himself, or bring his hand to cover his nose. It would look odd and untrustworthy, especially a dead giveaway that he was an angel. Only those of angel descent can sniff out demons. Tommy isn’t sure if demons can smell-!
“Come on, then.” Wilbur beckons him from where he stands in the doorway, where they headed, however the wooden door just squeaks on its hinges when it is pushed open further. There is something alarming and dangerous in the way the disguised man speaks, voice eerie, yet venomous.
Tommy fights the way his hands twitch to fiddle with the loose threads, a nervous habit he always subconsciously turns to. He couldn’t appear frightened. Perhaps though, it could be in vain, Tommy thinks he vaguely remembers that demons can smell your fear.
But, there is no way, right? That was just a folktale told by keepers to newly spawns to keep them from wandering too far from home. Or stop them from fluttering down, riskily, to the mortal plane.
Wilbur waits, flicking his hand in another gesture when Tommy doesn’t quicken his pace. The bravery and courage he had feels like it is being sifted away into a large pot of nervousness, but he doesn’t stop walking.
Not until he remembers, these aren’t just any demon. These are imps in disguise- one of the easiest tasks he could have gotten! They just need a few drops of Holy water and a ceremonial preach to send them back. Back to Hell, where they belong.
Tommy feels anger towards the Angel of Death. It was only a small simmer in the back of his mind, always quick to forget once he remembers, but the Devil had never been good. They say he is a fallen angel, exiled for crimes against humanity and his own race, cast down below for the good of the people.
But he never stopped training, and soon, he rose. Rose to the top of his people and can easily slay anyone. Even God. Tommy never wants to see a fight happen, and he thinks the Angel of Death doesn’t either, but his overwriting of the damned souls' stay to Hell rule suggests otherwise.
If it wasn’t for him, Tommy wouldn’t be needing to send the three imps back to Hell. Nonetheless, it is his task, and he will do it. Even if all his boldness fades into naught, he will remain determined.
He squints as he enters the room, Wilbur stepping aside to allow him in first. Tommy slips to the side farthest away from the demon, in caution of Wilbur possibly trying to touch or grab him. The intense aroma stung his eyes, but he kept them peeled open, occasionally blinking away springing tears.
Inside was small. It was just- it was just how he imagined it to be. He isn’t sure what he figured, but it sure wasn’t this.
It wasn’t bare like the large storage unit, instead, more of like an office. The log-planked floor was polished and smooth, and the walls mirrored that same appearance, except coated with a light gray paint. The ceiling wasn’t threatening to fall, and all the furniture seemed well-put together.
There was a large desk, oval carpet in the center, and three chairs poised behind the office-like table. The seat farthest right was unoccupied, and Tommy made the assumption it was for Wilbur. However, the other two are taken, and deducing by their smell, they were demons.
The figures were shadowed at first glance, so if the smell wasn’t proof enough, the moon provided wonders. The overhead light flickered, and as Tommy took inch after inch forward, he stopped once he was on the closest edge of the dusty carpet.
It was grimy under his feet, soiled but not wet, and overall uncomfortable. The bristles felt like it was from a broomstick, and he couldn’t help but glance downwards. A dangerous game he was playing by taking his eyes off the demons in front of him, and allowing one to station behind him, but it would be all right. He hopes.
His faith in God has never let him down before.
When Tommy looked back upwards, after swiftly peering at the rug beneath him, the figures were no longer a pitch of night. They had color; it felt like the moment Wilbur had approached him. Tommy wants to know what the moon is up to, because he hadn’t moved a smidge from when he directed his sights downwards for a brief second.
Upon his inspection, he noticed the one farthest left was large- as opposed to Wilbur’s lanky frame-, had broad shoulders and a clean-cut jaw. It had tusks protruding its lower lips upwards, and by the other identifiable features, took the form of a piglin hybrid. The most common found down below serving the Angel of Death; at least, what they symbolized.
It had scars littering the exposed parts of his hands and arms, face adorning one across its nose bridge and left cheek. The injuries were completely healed over and likely have done little to no damage or inflicted pain. Tommy wonders when imps had gotten so strong.
The demon wore a simple white poet shirt under a regal red cape, white fur lining the top hem. The white wasn’t pristine or glamorous, instead- almost- dirty. Long pink hair was tied back into a messy braid, and it most likely cascaded down his back. Tommy couldn’t see past the desk and below his stomach, but by how there are minimal red splotches on the fluffy fur bit of his cape, he thinks it probably wasn’t always such a murky shade of red.
The demon onside was almost the same in stature, albeit a touch smaller. He- frighteningly- looked almost just like himself. Blond hair, longer and hidden under a green and white bucket hat, but pale with glistening blue eyes.
Instead of an elegant outfit stained with blood, like the companion to his side, he donned a simple green robe with a black unfolded turtleneck. The garments, most likely flowy when he stood, were pinned together at his chest with a heart. It had two black diamonds in its corners, though.
That symbol he adorned like a clip was used to represent those who have lost their life while giving service to their division in Heaven, he isn’t sure what it means in Hell. It must be something to have him wearing it. The heart, with the black, was referred to as the “Hardcore Heart” and is a prestigiously given award.
The demon, it looks just like him, he revisited. With its perfect shade of blond, pale skin, and even piercing blue eyes. Tommy felt a strong distaste for it, as if the creature was anything but a pathetic Hell spawn scavenging the mortal plane. There is no way he is an angel- no way!
Tommy feels a small sense of rage bubble against the outside skin of his flesh, burning hot with rage. He ought to give the satanic creature a piece of his mind, especially for wearing something so delicate to Heaven’s kind! It wasn’t meant to be paraded around like some kind of trophy, on a thriving damned soul, nonetheless.
Before he could speak, overwhelmed by irritation and anxiety, honing impulsive thoughts, Wilbur slid in. He had approached so quietly, that Tommy had to do a double-take, words dying out on his tongue, and a flinch coursing through his nerves.
“Now that we’re all here.” The one in the middle chair spoke. Despite only relinquishing four words from his mouth, Tommy felt a pull, a necessity to listen. Forced to hear, as if the demon was a Holy being of knowledge and wisdom. “We can begin.”
“Phil, by the way.” Wilbur didn’t have his attention towards Tommy when he spoke, Tommy knows because he turned his head, and instead kept his eyes trained forward. The underlying reason of respect striking deep, despite Tommy not knowing anything about the three imps.
A feeling of fear began to grow tenfold, his anxiety never quite disappearing, and only increasing now that he felt the situation growing more serious than he originally had first thought.
“And Techno, the bloodthirsty beast beside him.” Wilbur seemed unbothered by what he had just said, and Tommy gapes at that. Inwardly as to not show expression. The title only confirmed his suspicions, and a rattle of anxiety threatened to shake his body. “Watch out, he might just get you.”
The demon, unbeknownst to Tommy who was engrossed in his thoughts on how to not get murdered, chuffed out a quiet laugh. The amusement in his crimson eyes was clear to the other two demons, but to Tommy, he had a stellar poker face.
Wilbur, unlike Techno’s straight face, wore an expression of wicked delight. A route of evil stemming from inside him, void of any humane moral. Tommy felt the pinpricks of sweat on the back of his neck and forehead, beads of the Holy Water small like specks of sand, yet felt as if they were weighing him down combined.
“Hello-?” A voice called from outside the door. It was human. A man- why was- the man.
Realization struck Tommy like a bolt of lightning, jolting him into action from where he had been frozen in place. The man inside the warehouse, outside the door, was the buyer. The buyer who was late and now-! Tommy felt screwed.
Before he could be grabbed by the obvious lunge Wilbur was plotting beside him for him, Tommy fled. Or, attempted to flee. The soles of his feet padded against the hardwood with harsh slaps, and he extended an arm out to reach towards the empty doorway.
Tommy wanted out, it was a bad idea- he can’t believe he had played into the scheme. As if it would work. He feels stupid, but he can’t let it get the better of him; not if he wants to make it out alive and well. But, these were imps! What could they really do?
Just as he made it to the doorframe, a hand caught the back of his cloak, but his body continued to pump adrenaline. It soothed his fear and elicited a struggle of movements, thrashing and punching, kicking and screaming.
Tommy then felt himself pulled tight into a chest, his arms quickly pinned to his sides. It felt like a dream, not that he ever had to; being an angel with dreamless sleep, a perk- or downfall- of living with Dream himself.
Even while he continued to fight against the grip, loose fingers curling into his flesh, but not enough to hurt, that was a distant thought. His divine soul felt like it was going to drift from the confines of his form, watching from afar, like God himself.
“Leave me alone-!” He gritted out through his teeth, continuing to try and at least make some sort of dent in the strong demonic binds that cursed him currently. The one behind him, holding him, only grunted quietly, a soft chuff. That’s when he realized; the one named Techno had him.
Techno the bloodthirsty killer. An immediate wave of cold water washed over him, ice cubes dancing against his outer layer of skin, a sick sort of panic. He didn’t want to die, he wanted to make Dream proud. Tommy only wants to do what he was spawned in Heaven to do. To become a warrior in the knight division.
“My, my.” Wilbur’s voice was like a melody, smooth and angelic itself, yet an easily faked sort of divine bliss. “Look at what the big bad Techno has caught. A poor, poor little boy.”
Tommy swiveled his head fast to crane it towards where the voice came from, snapping his teeth at the air in a poor attempt to intimidate the other. His movements of struggle were beginning to die down, energy being sapped from his body at the fruitless effort, but he couldn’t give up. He just wouldn’t.
“Fierce one, aren’t you?” Wilbur laughed, the singsong of his tone devolving into a gritty wicked one.
Tommy’s wings were uncomfortable and itchy pushed up against, not only his back, but the chest of a demon. The down lining of the wing’s flesh was sensitive and loose, easy to pluck out or be rubbed off.
He just hopes the demon holding him doesn’t realize they are wings, and instead, are just protruding pieces of his cloak. Even, maybe, just something underneath the fabric. Or, not even realize they’re there at all! The angel-boy apprentice prays.
Tommy hadn’t noticed Phil left until he returned. The man, who was presumably in the warehouse with them, was now being dragged in behind the blond. He was on his knees and bound; hands tied behind his back, ankles together, and a slap of duct-tape over top of his mouth.
A churning of his stomach, Tommy realized he felt sick. The nausea and pit of anxious nerves grew larger and larger, what was one a bowl of two or three butterflies, had grown to an entire enclosure. He felt his face flush in rage, wanting nothing more than to help the man- he was a mortal, a thing of humanity.
The simple prayer and splash of Holy Water to send the imps back to Hell was easily forgotten amidst the panic sloshing around his mind. Not that he could really do anything with his body bound and hands rendered immobile.
“This man was the buyer.” Phil’s voice was even, not a question or suggestion, but a statement. Tommy continued to feel the draw to hear his every word, as if the imp was an elder angel. He knows that the creature isn’t, so why does he feel that way?
“And you,” Phil’s voice dropped dangerously low, booming against the walls, yet it was spoken at a normal volume; if not, quieter. “Are not. But, we knew that. And he knew that too, didn’t you?”
The man gave a vigorous nod, tears clearly welling up into his eyes. Phil stopped dead center of where Techno, Wilbur, and he were. The demon released the back of the man’s shirt collar, instead opting to grip onto his hair. As if it was a handle.
“Let him go-!” Tommy cried out, body snapping back to reality, and his struggling returning full force. It made no dent, however, on the fact Techno was built like a brick wall. Easily containing his flailing arms, and now, his entire might of trying to wrestle his way out. “Let me and him go-!”
He didn’t want to know what was about to happen, he waits and prays, in hopes someone will hear him. Will come down to save him. But his prayers of salvation cannot be answered as quickly as he hopes, because those in Heaven cannot hear him from down below on the Earth’s surface.
“Stop struggling, it will get you nowhere.” Sounds Wilbur’s taunting voice, a playful lilt to his words, as if he found minor amusement in the scenario. Tommy figures, as a demonic animal, he most likely does.
Tommy feels crushed at the realization that he cannot do anything to help or free himself. That doesn’t stop him from trying; these were supposed to be imps. Imps aren’t strong, bodily built, or clever! So why, why do these three imps appear different? Why can’t he easily beat them like he was trained?
Not to mention, their disguises don’t feel much like simple disguises. Ones that would conceal red flesh and hideous yellow eyes.
“Stop taunting him Wil,” Phil lightly chides the other, as if he was just a child committing a minor offense, like accidentally drawing off the paper onto the tabletop. “He is just a small thing.”
Tommy feels fury grow, and when he glances over to his left, he sees Wilbur with a devious smirk plastered to his lips. As if he was completely unbothered, not that he should be bothered. He most likely helped orchestrate the entire thing. As did all the three imps, working together, and possibly the man who now found himself bound on the floor.
It sickens Tommy further, watching as Phil redirects his attention to the man on the floor, writhing in his binds. Tommy thinks, if he could see Techno’s face, the deadly expressionless slate would also be filled with a wicked sense of enjoyment.
“Now, what to do with you.” Phil asks the question, as if it should even be a question at all. The man continues to cry, head tilted upwards now, eyes locked with the demon’s own.
Let him free, is what Tommy wants to say, "Let us go". But the words die out heavy on his tongue, as if he had licked lead. The whole operation, his final exam, was turning to shit. Absolute garbage. He wishes to be anywhere but here at this moment.
“Well, with that silence, I ought to think we just kill him.” Wilbur supplies after a few beats more of overwhelming quiet, Phil not tearing his gaze from the pleading face of the man; a simple human. Tommy clenches his teeth tight, jaw hurting, and struggles forgotten, eager to hear the response. By God above, he prays it isn’t a response in agreement.
“Well, you simply cannot say no to only one reply.” Phil says after two beats more.
Fuck, Tommy thinks, “No!” He cries out, “No-! Don’t, please. Don’t kill him- let him go!” Tommy begs, and he never thought he would have to beg a demon. It feels unbecoming, wrong, and imbalanced. It feels impure, haunting his soul with a grip so tight, like a fist desperate to not let go of its beloved item.
“Hmm.” Phil hums a tight-lipped noise, fake contemplativeness easily readable. And it must be that he wants everyone to see it, because the man begins to cry harder, and Tommy feels the bile building up in the back of his throat.
The pause was only a few seconds, but to both the man and Tommy, it felt like eons. Eons that Tommy’s angelic soul hadn’t lived, and he thinks because of the confinement in Techno- the demon’s- arms, his angelic soul will never live.
Phil reaches down, a hand still tight on the man’s strands of hair, yet the arm he is extending goes towards where the rope binds his wrists together. There is an echo of the sound a sharp object makes when it comes in contact with strained twine, until, after a second, it disappears.