* what the HELL?

Check in, Ask questions, get out. A shallow breath left him. The white lights are blurred, and he’s strapped to a table.

Check in, Ask questions, get out. There’s something covering his head and he can’t tell what. He clutches his eyes and let his echoes reassure him.

Check in, Ask questions, get out. Check in, Ask questions, get out. Check in, Ask questions, get———

CRASH AND SHINK AND BANK came down Connor, his head filled with resounding noise and the distant, washed out blur that was his last few moments on Earth. He collided with the pavement with a sickening crack— he figured that was his nose. A moist palm slaps against established red stone, finding it stable enough to heave his person up above. Just enough of an angle to get on his knees and register his arrival. The second blinding pain came like a bullet, his eyes gone into shock with saturated lights. An unholy sight for a set of eyes best comfortably with the grey noisy texture of cement and fluorescent lights. Connor reeled backwards, hands shot to his face in hopes he could rub the soreness from his eyes. Instead, he was met with an oily smear across his orifice. As he parted from his hands, he found that there was more to behold.

Eyes bulged from his palms, liquefied and swollen like pulsing tumors that drooped by the edge of his hands. Connor’s gaze followed up his arm to be faced with a stream of liquid black up to his orange sleeves. In replacement for a mirror, he grasped for his face— murky, damp, covered in oil. Now that he thinks about it, his vision seemed reinforced with blame given to the sets of eyes he feels upon his face. In blase retrospect did Connor itch at the ink’s gushing, the back of his nails filled with blackened pus. He peers inwards, squinting at a gross transparent whiteness— the remains of an eye, squished in his hand. His chest felt heavy, winded and felled— it wasn’t so much of a startling realization of his own mutilation rather than the alien feeling of being unaware that fell upon him.

Connor was used to being transfigured, for reference. From the very moment he was designated disposable, to be experimented and mutilated was his future and fate. Now, the single thing that he was left with was the stinging, lingering sense of starvation and a headache that phased him like a phantom pain. It took moments for his ventilation to cease, transitioning to merely vacillate upon the cobblestone floor. Fluid dripped from his hair like a cold shower, briefly glancing over drops of ink whilst he stood.

.. Well, hey. At least he doesn’t have a mirror, he’s not particularly curious as to what abomination he’s turned into today. He dismissed the idea, instead scouring the local scope for something more valued than his silent shock. Lo and behold, a few papers were flipped on their front and laden with neat ink. Still scattered across his landing site, flat upon uneven rock. Cautiously did Connor pinch them between his fingers before briefing his collected set. He found his objective slapped on the cover-sheet, more than convenient enough for Connor to muster up a bit of his will. Connor, insouciant and already aching, decided the moment his heel touched the ground— he wanted to get this over with.

❝God, I hope hell isn’t international. ❞

Connor didn’t take a moment to question the mortality of his soul— if he were still alive, and in hell, surely there’s some sort of Karmic balance he’s on the verge of tipping. Unfortunately, Connor knew jackshit about the bible and couldn’t care less unless SCP-343 gives him a blunt among blunts. He pressed onward, stepping onto the pavement and closer to those blinding lights, and among the blur of red, red and more red did he make out a tailcoat and suit. Then the little cane he held, and then the.. Yeah. Connor hadn’t even bothered to irate his neck by craning it up to meet the demon’s gaze, stretching his hand outwards. 

It wasn’t as welcoming as the Foundation’s bleak walls, but a bed was a bed, and wallpaper was definitely a welcomed change. Even if they were bright fucking red, it lacked the iron stench. An upgrade from cement sidewalks that seemed to glister in neon from dried splatters and billboards. Connor felt apart of the furniture in saturated garb, and also probably because of how far he’s sunk into the lounge’s sofa.

It was only a bit ago that he’d abruptly received assistance by a blondie that looked a lot like a panda and her gray girlfriend, to then given shelter with a scope of space that was free of his own guts. Or— at least for now, a doubt that prodded him every time he looked out the window. His eyes locked onto the ceiling that hung above him, skimming between ridges of old bricks and cracked paint as he settled into an unsettling realization. Here, compared to the ultra-violence and it’s denizen’s damnation, Connor was normal. The mundane, un-special one that gets left alone. Of course, he doesn’t get left alone because that was exactly what he was, but what else was new, honestly.

Connor sprung from the couch, dismissing the thought— the Foundation was his priority, and this is hell. And this hotel is probably a trap, and the longer he stayed, the more times he’ll die and die again. So, instead of thinking about that, he went in search of a drink, and what comes to his eye is the familiar flaxen hair of the quartermaster. What comes second is how short ‘her’ hair was, carrying on with the assumption it’s a haircut as he approaches.

The routine is precise in its inexactness. As soon as the Weather sounded throughout the streets, tunes blaring from unseen speakers - perhaps they were not speakers at all, the sound simply cascading from the clouds, like a gift bestowed upon them from the universe itself - Cecil would… well, Cecil would exist. Primarily, existence is consistently at the top of his to-do-list. While he remained seated in the here and now, he would text, call, scribble notes using a spork and a jar of white-out (now no longer white; now embodying the absence of color) he left around for reasons unspecified even to him.

Needless to say, he is always grateful for something more entertaining — he just wishes entertaining things came with a bell attached to properly alert him of their presence.

Sufficiently surprised, Cecil jolts before turning sharply in the direction of the voice, eyes blown wide; hair tussled. How his hair managed such a task without any administrations on his behalf isn’t something his mind is capable of acknowledging at this point, instead preoccupied on the jump-suited individual who just casually strode into his office (Oh, was that the knocking he heard?).

“Interrup—? No, no, you aren’t interrupting at all! In fact, we’re currently in the middle of the Weather Report… which has an impressive amount of repetitive but enjoyable thrumming mixed in with the, literally, roaring vocals. It rattles your core, doesn’t it? Sounds like we’re in for a downpour tonight.”

Slow blinks indicate the journalist processing what the man, who he now realizes happens to be carrying a few files; papers regarding something he was not privy to, although holds the promise of future insight. Oh, this feels incredibly governmental.

“A few questions? Regarding what?”

  It’s until Connor lowers gaze to the seated Radio host that he sees just how close his papers are to his orange-coated chest. He remedies that, opening the bit a few more inches wide to catch a better sight of his grasped reading. Monotone and printed and just almost crammed with paragraphs worth of instructions. Connor found it a little ridiculous that they’d give him the same filler context as though he hadn’t been doing this for half a decade now, and stares past it with apathy. It’s until he’s given the direct weather report that he bats his eyes once, then thrice.

Oh, it was raining.

Not that Connor would be able to tell, comes with being confiscated to the back of a truck that sported a single window on the roof. To keep his presence obscured was the authority’s answer. They can’t predict the outcry at the sight of anomalies amongst them—‘Amongst them.’ Safe to say, rain wasn’t a popular discussion at the Foundation, nor was it one of Connor’s fancies. He answers Cecil, accidental snark holding his tongue. ❝Yeah, bet that’s a blessing. I didn’t think you’d get much weather down here, I mean, guess it’s good if you have.. Crops? Screaming’s fine too, it’s a lil’ drowned out.❞

His lethargy was followed by a sigh, ❝Right, yeah, nevermind.❞ The radio microphone could pick up the sound of shuffling files, pausing at a gentle crinkle. ❝I’m here to ask questions about the town’s.. Atmosphere. Or, well, anything that’s been going on this week that could be counted as probably haunted or, weird.❞

— ✦ All eyes were on him in an instant, from the crew team to the backstage guests, all of them seemed annoyed & equally bewildered by this distribution. But mild confusion quickly escalate as the man’s appearance was taken into question. Short, stubby, but not an imp—he had no horns, nor a tail– not multiple colored eyes or lack of them; in fact this creature before them read as completely & utterly— human.

“Alright, break it up you shit slags, make way! What’s all this fucking commotion about?” calls a displeased feminine voice that sends a wave of hinted terror throughout the masses. As they clear & make a path for her, the owner of said voice is revealed. A incredibly tall woman with a pencil thin waist & large rounded hips suddenly towers over the small human in an instant. Her bright glowing red eyes & matching ruby red lips are like looking into the crimson hot flames of hell itself; it was clear that among these group of demons— SHE was the alpha presence.

“And just what the fuck are you suppose to be?” He says while looking them over, her neck seeming to nearly snap as she tilts her head & brings her hand to rest upon her hip. “Some fucking bum who wandered in from outside? Ahaha, oh you poor thing– y’know normally I’d shove a butterknife down your dickhole & kick you outta here—”

“BUT… given the time of year, I’m just overwhelmed with that jolly ‘Christmas Spirit’. Heh…. SO I’m going to give you 10 seconds to explain what the FUCK you’re doing in my studio and THEN split you down the middle. Go.”

Connor wasn’t bothered by stares. He also wasn’t bothered by the headlights up there actually, having seen it’s constant utility by scientists and doctors and anything that wasn’t eight feet and eyeing him like dinner like that Shakespearean cannibal. His back shot backwards with a grounded totter, the hairs on his limbs spiked against his convict jumpsuit— something that in any other situation he’d find a bit funny. Connor was the only person in the room that wasn’t convicted of a crime.

And then when lipstick Moses passes through the sea of bodily mutation, the harrowing chill he feels down his spine comes second to the saturated outfit that burned through his retina quicker than he could shudder and flinch. Almost.. Jarringly cartoonish compared to his own average proportions. Nothing he hasn’t seen before- just watching the gaze of the crowd follow her is more daunting than the sickening snap of her neck. Connor straightens and heaves as though he were winded by a vacuum, hands fumbling in desperate plights.

❝— Well—, wait—, wait wait— OKAY, I—I’M HERE ON A JOB, and— and I was sent down to confirm that this is hell and I just did that and I need to ask a fewdemonsquestionsandthenleave.❞

❝I don’t think a lot of people can say that they went to the Underworld as their pit-stop. Probably not a great place for a pitstop either.❞

It was a bit like white noise. The sort that the Foundation would replace the channels with a hefty font that read out REDACTED, administration plastered across its cheap cable television, the ones that were strung up high against the cafeteria ceiling. Now, a kid— regardless of channel— would eventually find torpor in the fleeting flickers of hue that played out on screen— and wake up the next morn’ with nothing a lick of sense. For Connor, that was passing out on the floor on a wood bench and table. If he was lucky, he’d find the floor blood-free by dawn.

His interviewee was a bit like that. The glass was a silencer, but he could still overhear bits like rubble dragged out from collateral. He dutifully ignored the neon sign, bright red and blinding that stamped NOW LIVE down on his head and reflected on the floor. Uniformed files in one hand, the other one rapping against wood. Not a thought spent for manners, without prior knowledge for the context of what a radio host meant besides the five-so couple minutes he’d spent standing there.

It was the weather, Connor found. What kind of weather do you get here? Besides heatstroke.

This is bad, this is bad, and this might be probably the lowest of his lows and fuck, that is saying a lot. The very least Connor could even do is joke about just how bad  it is. At least his convict uniform probably isn’t as noticeable to the red, red, and more neon red that clouded his gaze, he quipped. His eyes were frightfully shot, having suffered the consequences of submerging into the depths of hell equipped with vision adjusted to all the tints and shades of cement.

When Connor first received his assignment—  that he was going to be sent to hell, he didn’t think of it much. Rather, it was a misunderstanding— assuming  he was going to be shot through the head for a laugh. Now, he realizes the fire and brimstone that ██████ heralded revealed themselves as the bricks of a massive purgatory ghetto. Hell, it doesn’t even seem like most of them were suffering or repenting or anything. Just a whole populace of jackass sodomites having fun stirring shit where the cops finally can’t get them. Despite that, it wasn’t the idea of facing ‘eternal punishment’ that irked him, or— really, it was the sight of hundreds upon hundreds of demons. Eight-feet tall and unrestrained, not something he’s alien to, but he’s apparently the only Caucasian thing in sight. Connor pulled that grey beanie over his head just ‘till it covered an eye. 

And just after adjusting his hat did he have the misfortune of bumping into the sweaty backside of a gargantuan bull-furry, staggering away, and then in a comedic series of events, tripped over his foot and fell through two metal doors right into the entryway of a news-casting station.  ❝I--, uh, shit- sorry!❞

@antidemise··   wanted   a   starter   💗

        ❛   Look!   Isn’t it just beautiful?   ❜      

❝Yeah— yeah, it’s.. Nice.❞ Connor instinctively glanced to the sea turtle pecking at his toes, reflexively sending his whole leg away in a fret. ❝.. You.. Said that they don’t bite, right? .. Do they do anything else? Like— look, this is going to sound dumb, it is dumb, but is it.. Say.. Going to..❞