Very important to me that reality in hell is a little bit fluid, a little wack. Valentino’s wings fold around him, as long or short as he needs them to be, defying topology, rolling into sleeves and then unfurling in an instant. Don’t try to follow the lines and planes because the geometry gets non-Euclidean. Sometimes Alastor is wearing shoes and sometimes he has hooves jutting through the good leather—but the soles go back to normal eventually so he doesn’t complain. He’s ripped Vox open several times before and it’s always a tossup if he’ll find a flesh heart or a circuit board in his chest—he has to think had about the taste of iron so the fluid spilling out from between his wires tastes like blood and not WD-40. When Nifty runs it seems like she has six skittering legs. Zeezi is always just too big for whatever room she’s in, regardless of its size. Velvette’s plastic fingers bend seamlessly like real flesh while her wrists joints seize if grit gets in them. Pentagram city is too small for its inhabitants. There are entire neighborhoods you might never know about because you have to know about them to get there. The streets bend and twitch and groan. When someone sings the lights change and the scenery shifts. Injuries hurt more if you expect them to, confidence can buy invulnerability. There is no fixed truth; Hell isn’t a place, its the collective dreaming of the dead and the damned and the demonic, a whirling surrealist strangeness only given some measure of solidity by a hefty dose of angelic power and the sheer number of thinking creatures who dwell within it.

This is EXACTLY how I imagined their friendship back in the 50’s 😭 this artist cooked so hard ♥️