Fizz got to the motel first. A run-down little building with cracked paint and rooms so far out of date he wonders if they’re clean. The kind with bleached sheets and stains in the carpet that don’t quite come out; curtains that don’t open and windows that looked out onto a parking lot or an alley as the world sprang up around it.

Charged by the hour, Fizz booked the night–who knew how long this would take. A sad, sick profession of a love that was long since dead. Burned alive in the fire but unlike Fizz, it hadn’t survived–at least that’s what he told himself every time this anniversary rolled around. Stupid kids making stupid decisions not knowing how much it would hurt them later.

Mated to the person who tried to kill you; A+ punchline right there.

Cash had certainly made sure to remind him of that several times over the years. In hospital beds without limbs when he couldn’t push him away. Through locked bathroom doors as Fizz laid curled up and sick on the tile because it was the only thing that made him feel better when the fever set in. Telling him they’re in the same boat now, why not help each other out after picking the lock on Fizz’s bedroom door–so many nights sleeping on the fire escape because going inside was a slow suffocation in so many ways.

He hadn’t even reached out to Blitz for the first four years. Not until he’d WON Mammon’s pageant and had been fitted for better prosthetics. Thought about it. Wondered what he’d do if he knew what Cash had done–but even when he had reached out, he hadn’t been able to tell him. It’d gotten stuck in his throat like some barbed thing tearing through soft flesh the more he forced it forward.

What had Blitz done all this time? Had he suffered through it the way Fizz had with fevers and nausea and deep-rooted aching that didn’t go away even with someone else because it wasn’t him?

Maybe he hadn’t even noticed–didn’t like that thought.

Stepping into the room, he breathed in the stale air–some kind of fabric spray and an underlying funk from years of use–closing the door behind him. Didn’t bring much with him–a bag of clothes, shower supplies, condoms–just enough to pack into the small backpack he dropped onto the dresser. Magenta eyes catching himself in the mirror.

White, scarred face, broken horns hidden beneath a jester hat that was as much a prosthesis as the rest of his limbs. Splotches of red danced along what was left of him in uneven patterns–one red breast, one white–and his gaze snagged on his arms. On new prosthetics built by Asmodeus himself per Mammon’s request, and the small sad teenager still inside him wonders if Blitz will like them. If he’ll even want to touch him like this.

Time to find out, it seems.

A knock to the door has anxiety rising in a sharp spike up his throat and down his spine. Fear and excitement twisting together in a sickening way before he left the mirror and made his way to the door. Peering out the peep hole first, because he’s not a moron, he pulled on the best rendition of boredom he could manage before opening it. Swallowing to stop the shake in his voice before–

With a mug of some mild-scented tea on the table before him, Stolas sat in the early morning with his head in his hands. Up most of the night with violent nausea, he had both hands folded around his beak, breathing through his fingers as quietly as possible. Eyes shut against a headache, pounding on the inside if his skull. And, beyond himself, he can hear the even tempo of Blitz's breath as he slept in the bean bag, oblivious.

To some extent, it's a relief to be alone with it. He didn't have to explain the prickle in his belly where it threatened to overturn for the umpteenth time that night. He didn't have to push a smile or side-step a worried glance with simpering promises that it wasn't Blitz's cooking again. Whether it was or not, he couldn't say, so why play the blame game and hurt feelings on top of his own misery.

But it's not long before there's reddish daylight peeking through the balcony windows. Casting long stripes of light, through the curtains, across the floor. And even more than Blitz stirring, the sound of Loona's radio clock from the next room wafts past the wall. She slinks from a crack in her bedroom door to pad toward the bathroom. Stolas doesn't move, but her eyes catch the light, turning white in reflection of the dim shadows.

If she sees him, she says nothing. No 'good morning' or 'sup', and he doesn't call back either. His hands press fingers, knuckles, against the tip of his beak as Stolas opens his eyes in time for the bathroom door to open once more. She pads back in the wake of the toilet flushing and still they don't acknowledge each other as she closes her bedroom door again.

A chill makes the feathers up his back ruffle up and he runs one hand over the opposing forearm. Winter down is coming in. Talons click on kitchen tile as he crosses his legs beneath the table and is never more thankful for long sleeves. Because he's scratching at his elbow ditch and if the sweater weren't there, he would certainly be plucking the feathers. Anxiety is funny that way.

@birdcagxd gets another starter!

Moxxie is surprised he actually enjoys having Stolas in the office. It's nice to have someone to talk to about his interests-- he's been delighted to find he's got similar ones to the former prince-- and someone with a love of paperwork is refreshing considering how much the rest of the office hates doing it.

Still, he worries about how much change there is in the office, mostly for Blitzo. Moxxie goes into Blitzo's office after knocking, closing the door after him. His hooves click quietly on the floor as he walks over to him, putting Blitzo's coffee on his desk.

"Sir, do you have a minute to talk about something personal?"

Velvette's voice is a gentle beckon from the center of a storm. A storm of his own making. He was the storm. Valentino. Standing at the center of the wreckage of a set left in tatters. A room empty of bodies. Fled before the scream of his thunder as Val threw things and broke things. Anything his hands could reach. Anyone he could tear into. And here, amongst the void of broken glass and splintered wood, of soft velvet fabric torn open at the seams, his back received her.

There's a shudder to his wingspan where he stands. Soft ripples and expanse of delicate membrane against his back where nothing can hide the injury. Burnt. Charred and dead where it had smoldered like paper in the wake of fire, smoke, a bomb.

He doesn't turn when she speaks to him, but there's a soft squeak that gives way in his throat, like a cave-in. His ruby eyes are staring hard at nothing because he doesn't dare turn his head. To look at her without seeing her. He can't handle that.

Was that why he hadn't gone to see Vox either? Anger aside, what did he do when familiar features he loved so much turned into nothing before him. Just chalk bleeding together on wet pavement. Shapeless. Nothing.

His breath shudders when he speaks at last. Vulnerability he'll show her because it's her. No one else.

@birdcagxd gets a starter!

Heaven's chapel is limited to only the highest angels, and it's where Sabrathan thinks she's most likely to find Sera. After everything-- the destruction, the consequences of revealing the truth of the exterminations, the attempt to rebuild a peace between Heaven and Hell-- Sabrathan thinks Sera might need someone to talk to. And, privately, Sabrathan thinks she needs someone to talk to that might understand her guilt. She had, after all, provided the very angelic steel that had aided the destruction turned back upon them by the sinners, though she will not admit it for fear of the consequences. There's only so many times one can beg for mercy from the Speaker, and Sabrathan isn't willing to see what happens if she has to ask a second time to remain in Heaven.

She finds Sera there as she'd guessed, and Sabrathan walks down the row of pews until she reaches the one Sera sits at. She sits beside her quietly, looking up at the display at the front of the chapel, and lets the silence stretch for a while.

The  Knave  took  a  deep  breath  and  stepped  forward  from  the  darkness  that  shrouded  her  figure  —  the  crimson  moon  shining  brightly  from  her  eyes  in  the  dark  like  a  panther  in  the  night.  She  put  her  hand  up  to  cup  her  heart  and  bow  her  head.

“  Your  Majesty,  it  is  good  to  see  you.  I  apologize  for  visiting  you  this  late  —  came as soon as possible — is  there  something  urgent  for  me  to  attend  to?  ”  Arlecchino  asked  as  her  eyes  were  kept  firmly  on  the  Cryo  Archon  despite  her  bowed  head,  slowly  returning  it  level.

   VOX knows he should be grateful the Vees didn't ultimately disown him and act as if they never knew him at all. however, easier to admit than it is to know it. velvette’s words are only grating, poking at a still-sore wound that VOX isn’t ready to acknowledge, much less try and heal. he leans back against the wall, with folded arms he avoids looking in her direction.

"STOP PUTTING YOURSELF INTO DANGER!" PROMPTS

Perhaps that warning should have come a few seconds earlier because being the stubborn person she is, the Traveler definitely just pushed herself past her limit and now she was practically folded over in pain.

"You know...You might be onto something..." She whispered in between soft grunts and whimpers - desperately trying to keep a straight face despite the pain

"Owowow..."