Chapter Text
Husk stared at the eyes that had murdered his family. They were cold, full of hatred and malice. And was that... remorse? He really should stop looking in the damn mirror. With a turn, he headed out of his room to wait outside Angel's, another day with the stuck-up, ungrateful princess. Or was it prince today?
It's not that Husk didn't like Angel. Quite the opposite. Angel was flambuoyant and exciting, but childish. Immature. Ungrateful. His life was easy as a royal. He didn't face hardships like Husk had. The small clink of a claw on his sword's hilt echoed rhythmically in the corridor. He wondered if Angel would like Husk more if he knew Husk's past.
~~~~~~~~~~
𝟏𝟗𝟒𝟑- 𝐖𝐖𝐈𝐈
"Sir! There's no space, no escape! We've been ambushed!"
Henrik's blood ran cold. Germany was winning. The camp was smothered in soldiers and dead bodies piling higher and higher. With a scramble through a small window, Henrik raced to the small jets, a few kilometers away. His legs burned in agony as he jumped in, not bothering with a seatbelt. A few knobs and buttons turned and pushed, and Henrik flew up, up into the sky, past the clouds. A distant boom told him that his camp had been blown up. He winced. His friends. All gone.
He opened a map and flew for hours, hours before reaching a calm, quiet town. Parking the jet on the road, Henrik leaped out, searching for a house. There, House 13. His mother always said that unlucky numbers were a superstition. Henrik bashed on the door before an old man opened the door.
"Отец!"
("Father!")
"Хенрик? Что ты здесь делаешь? Разве ты не должен быть на войне?"
("Henrik? What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at war?)
"Наш лагерь попал в засаду, отец. Мне пришлось бежать."
("Our camp was ambushed, Father. I had to run.")
"Бегать?"
("Run?")
"да."
("Yes.")
"Всё сам?"
("All by yourself?")
"да."
("Yes.")
Suddenly, Henrik's father's frown morphed into disgust. The tearful eyes were replaced with a glare. Henrik's heart nearly stopped when his father spoke.
"Трус. Эгоистичный. Ты больше никого не спас? Жалкий."
("Coward. Selfish. You didn't save anyone else? Pathetic.")
"Отец!"
("Father!")
"Нет, сынок, ты меня подвел. Уходи и никогда не возвращайся, ты ранил нашу родословную своей вопиющей нечестностью."
("No, son, you let me down. Leave and never return, you have hurt our bloodline with your blatant dishonesty.")
"Отец..."
("Father...")
"Оставлять!"
("Leave!")
"Но-"
("But-")
"ОСТАВЛЯТЬ! Твоя мать будет очень разочарована."
("LEAVE! Your mother will be very disappointed.")
"Отец..."
("Father...")
"Твоя мать умрет от печали, услышав это. Твоя сестра Люсия будет плакать бесконечно. Ее брат - предатель страны!"
("Your mother will die of sadness hearing this. Your sister Lucia will cry forever. Her brother is a traitor to the country!")
Henrik's heart broke. He had run from the camp to see his parents, and this is how they treated him? He had saved hundreds if not thousands of people, and they dare disrespect him like this! He turned, heart shattering slowly. Henrik went to the first safe place he could think of.
The casino lights blinded him for a second when he walked in. His father owned this, his mother was the CEO of Magic Kat. These floors was where Henrik had grown up. He smiled sadly as he passed a person screaming about losing thier mortgage of thier house. The Skylar family, his family, were swindlers, all of them. Henrik had grown up learning the tricks, and he grew up to be a master, only to be taken in for war.
After a night of drinking and gambling the pain away, Henrik felt himself drawn back to his childhood home. He stood outside, swaying slightly from the booze. Fury washed over himself, and he stormed inside. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep while lighting his cigarette. His mother hated them. They were a fire hazard. Henri waited in the kitchen for morning, so he could talk to his parents again. After all, he was rather drunk to be thinking straight. His arm twisted sharply, and the match grew its flame on the wooden floor. With a sharp inhale, he rushed outside.
The house blew up in flames.
Henrik heard his mother and father screaming. He heard the faint cries of a baby. His little sister. He froze. His parents had sent letters about a kid sister- it was blurry and faint... Lucia? Was that her name? What had he done...? By then, there was silence. For him at least. Just around a hundred people had swarmed out of their houses and brought buckets to douze the flames. Henrik stood, motionless, shocked by what had happened. Drunk. He had murdered his family.
~~~~~~~~~~
𝟏𝟗𝟒𝟓- 𝐋𝐚𝐬 𝐕𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐬
(This next bit is heavily based on the Guardian Angel comic, I've linked it in the notes below PLEASE check out the comic first because there are spoilers)
Henrik placed the card down and pulled the chips closer, grinning. His opponents were ballsy people who tried to check out the Gambling Boss. He was sitting in a bar, similar to the one his parents had owned, and he needed some money. With a quick sleight of hand, he snatched the card under the table and shuffled the deck with a poker face.
"Hey, don't you have Russian origins? Are you spying on our country?" One of the whiter men spoke. Henrik smirked, laying down a nine of spades.
"I actually grew up in Las Vegas as well. I have the same rights as you assholes." Henrik lied through his teeth.
"Huh."
Another man spoke up. "Did you know a new lady's performing tonight?"
"What? Where did that come from Pan-frito?"
"I saw a poster, her name's Angelica. And don't call me that."
"Sure Pan-frito. Draw already, it's your turn."
Henrik smirked. In their squabbling, they hadn't heard the second packet from Henrik's pocket open out of it's plastic pocket. He took an Ace of Hearts, a winning card, and tucked it into his pile. His eyes fluttered up to the stage casually, and he froze.
She was beautiful.
Blushing, Henrik fumbled his cards. And he dropped the Ace.
"Hey! That's the card I put down earlier!"
Henrik smiled. "Is it?" And he bagged the chips and ran, glancing briefly at the ravishing woman. She wore a gorgeous gold dress, tons of jewels and hair styled magnificently. Henrik manged to evade the furious men by hiding under a tablecloth. And he stayed there. Until later that night.
'Dammit,' he thought furiously. 'I'm cornered! All these mafia guys have blocked all the exits! All because of that beautiful woman..."
Carefully, Henrik slipped onto the stage, heading backstage. He walked into a random room before locking it and sighing in relief. That was until, he turned and a wig flew into his face. Henrik saw a man. Slightly shorter than himself, covered in adorable freckles. He had nothing but shorts and dark red gloves on as he held a red dress in his arms.
"Y-You're a guy?!?" Henrik exclaimed, confused.
"Oh honey, for you I can be anything you want!" The man quickly got dressed before slipping into a clean shirt and pants. He was rather attractive, even without the faceful of makeup he wore earlier to portray as Angelica.
"Name's Anthony, follow me! My shift is over, and I don't usually offer extra services to club members, but you're quite hot, so I'll make an exception!"
"Hey, I don't fuck kids."
"Dude, ya want me to save your ass from Don Saro and his henchmen, or ya wanna die? We're not going to have sex! I just needed an excuse to get you out of here. The only option you have is to play along and trust me. Also, don't be fooled by my pretty young face. I'm 28 and largely 'experienced.' You're the one who looks old here."
"Uh- fuck you?"
The boy smiled. "Sure."
~~~~~~~~~~
𝟏𝟗𝟒𝟕- 𝐋𝐚𝐬 𝐕𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐬
Henrik ran into their apartment, stumbling over the bodies of Don Saro's men. Blood stained his white shirt, but he didn't care. Anthony was there. On the floor. Drugs surrounded the boy, and Henrik frantically took his unconscious body into his arms.
"Amore, answer me! A-Anthony... please babe- don't leave me!"
It wasn't a murder. It was himself. The drugs... Anthony had commited suicide after thinking Henrik had left him. The worst part was that Anthony was still breathing in his arms in his final moments. He had loved the man. No, He had 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 the man. Vincenzo sobbed quietly nearby. He was one of Don Saro's men, but he turned to help Henrik escape from the wrath of the Boss.
Watching Anthony's brother bury him... the funeral itself... None of it felt real. He felt miserable. He wanted to die with the man he loved. But he couldn't. He'd travel the world, like they had planned. He'd love Anthony, with every inch of himself.
~~~~~~~~~~
𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟐- 𝐈𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐲
Henrik took a swig of his bottle. It had been over twenty years since... him. Anthony, had died. He was old now. Henrik was almost 73. He was slower, he remembered less. He had gotten married, yes. To a woman who was pretty and nice. Henrik showered her with love and affection, but Gabriella had died a few years ago. It made him sick, that he felt remorse, but not as saddened as he was the day Anthony had died. He was disgusted by himself. Henrik craved a man who he had only spent a bare two years. He had been married for fifteen years.
He travelled the world as his lover had talked about. Finally, he was in Italy. Anthony's home-country. His hands shook as Vincenzo asked for another drink. They were in a bar, The Boozey Beach Bar, near the crashing waves of the beach, and the bartender shoved a glass in Vincenzo's direction. It fell short, and Henrik shoved it the rest of the way. He had no interest in the young girls grinding themselves on every surface, but rather indulging in the quiet.
Henrik hated silence. But the hate, the pain took the edge off. Or maybe it was the alcohol. Silence reminded him too much of the still agony he had felt when Anth-
Whoa... shit... Henrik's world tilted sharply and started spinning rapidly. The words above the bar now seemed to read "HTE OZBYOE AHBEC RBA!" That wasn't right... wasn't he at the- the... he couldn't remember.
"V-Vin...?"
"Yeah Henny? Hen? Henrik?"
"'M don't f-feel s-so-"
A crash made the club go silent. Henrik had fallen off his stool. His vision blurred, and the last thing he saw was Vincenzo's horrified expression and a shadow on the wall of a tall, lean man. He looked a lot like... Don Saro's son...
But Henrik had no time to dwell on this. He fell limp. Obviously, he was taken to the hospital. But when Vincenzo dragged Henrik and got there, the doctors turned them away. It was too late. Poisoning, they said. Someone had slipped some drugs into Henrik's drink. It was a miracle that he had survived even five minutes.
Henrik was dead.
And yet Husk was born.
In Hell, that is.
~~~~~~~~~~
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥- 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟔
It wasn't long until strong, dark-skinned Henrik adapted to his new body. It was cat-like. Fucking cats, Henri- Husk hated them. His wings were cool though. Not many reasons to fly, but a neat addition nonetheless. The suit he arrived in was also very interesting. It took an even shorter time for Husk to realise he was in Hell.
𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭.
He had died. Not that it bothered him much. He quickly went to a casino, hoping to work away the adrenaline that came after dying. He won the game. And the next. And the one after that. He used cheating skill after cheating skill, and soon enough, Husk won himself a mini fortune. With his signature poker face, he pocketed the money and began his journey. Game after game, he worked to get her income.
Soon enough, Husk bought a small corner building with his fortunes. He fixed it up, working with his hands and his head. It took two months for him to arrive into Hell and set up a sign that paid homage to two of his biggest regrets. His parents. Their deaths. He had been woken up several times from nightmares, and everyday after that, silence was never truly quiet. He always heard the faint cries of a burning baby, and it's agonised parent's calls.
・❥・・❥・・❥・THE MAGIC KAT・❥・・❥・・❥・
The sign glowed in Hell's dour atmosphere. Soon enough, the sign was removed. Removed, to be put upon a bigger complex. Husk's power grew. He began getting souls. He became a master of cards. Not just cards, any gambling. His power extented across the Pride ring, and he finally felt good about himself. Almost. He knew his parents would be happy that he had found success. Not so happy that he had killed them, but they had good honors and morals. All three, his mother, father and the sister he never saw. They'd all be in Heaven, safe.
Husk took good care of his workers. He guessed that the entanglment of the Mafia and Don Saro would have led him here. Husk felt selfish for thinking so, but he hoped Anthony would be down here, being a part of those things long before he was. Every year, he worried that he was already gone in the Exterminations. There was no way of finding him, after all, he might've changed his name. Husk was surprised how many Anthonys' there were in Hell.
Husk shuffled the deck of cards with practiced ease. The cards fluttered over his claw-fingers, and he smirked at his opponent. Another overlord who had gotten quite famous in the past few years. Alastor. The Radio Demon. Like Husk was intimiadated with this fancy overlord and his shitty taste in haircuts. Seriously, who cut that hair? They should be behind bars. Dealing out the cards, Husk carefully manipulated the odds in his favour. Small slips and tricks, and he was winning.
For about... maybe 3 minutes?
Alastor was almost just as skilled. He quickly identified the smallest changes in Husk's demeanour and voice. With his ever-present smile, Alastor dropped his cards on the table.
"Royal Flush my fine man. I win."
Husk stared at the cards in horror. Husk himself was one card away from a flush himself. He was so sure that he'd win...
"So, as regards to our deal... I'll take your soul. Or I can take all of your power. It's your choice Husker."
"The name's Husk."
"Sure."
Husk hesitated. Shit. Shit! He was trapped. If his soul was gone, he'd be able to do whatever he wanted, or Alastor could chain him to a bed and feed him scraps. It was a risky situation. But having all of his power stripped away was a much worse fate. He'd be ripped apart, a powerless soul. Sure, he had started that way. But that was when he was a nobody. No one had the energy to bother a new lost soul. Now, he was an Overlord. Ex-Overlord that is, since selling his soul OR power would strip him of his title.
"I-I'll sell my soul..."
~~~~~~~~~~
𝐀 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨
"Now Husker, this isn't such a terrible agreement!"
"You dragged me out of my- I mean your casino. You put me in heavy armour. And I still don't know what you want me to do."
"You have been listed as a very important role. See, the Princess of Pride, Angel Dust needs a new bodyguard."
"The fuck am I supposed ta do about that?"
"You will be his bodyguard Husk."