Work Text:
The thing he awoke to first was the smell: sharp, sterile, sour. Disinfectants, phosphate, ammonia. His lips drew back into a gruesome snarl—the leather curtains to a mouth of yellow-teeth and lingering odor. He could taste the chemicals on his tongue as soon as he stole a breath, and savoured the moment’s silence before erupting into a fit of coughs.
His eyes opened to a pitch-black room. Somewhere nearby he could hear the incessant, toneless song of a heart monitor.
Pump pump.
Dazed, he fought to recollect his thoughts. Amidst the chaos, his heart drummed relentlessly in his ears.
Pump pump.
He recalled a familiar face: once small, pale and insignificant, etched with the look of a soldier teetering closer and closer towards his breaking point. Eyes that once looked to him with devotion and admiration, now staring through him as if he were made of smoke.
He recalled the insignificant, revolting creature tearing into him while he lay face-down in the dirt. A mere boy. A dumb, fat little boy with a head of impossible ideas.
Could you imagine? A clown wishing to be taken seriously. That clown may have wounded him, but he didn’t fear him. He hardly even respected him.
Reminiscing about it now still made him scoff. But as he lay there, his thoughts began to drift. The adrenaline had kept him fighting, he recalled, but he couldn’t help but to feel that something was amiss. His head pounded, and his body pulsed under the sheets.
His green eyes faced the heavens defiantly, fingers twitching as his palms lay open at his sides. Sucking in a breath, he strained to pull himself upright, vision swimming with dark blotches and flashes of colour.
Pump pump.
He released a painful gasp, hand sprawling across his ribs and clenching his chest. The colour drained from his face, and as the familiar roar of blood drowned out his senses, he was tossed wildly from his bubble of ignorance. He remembered the boy shrinking back and abandoning him after his violent outburst. He remembered a long shadow drawing over him and the gruelling presence of one of hell’s many soldiers: Spawn.
Those eyes. Those abilities. That uniform. His own inventions, bastardized and used against him by a stranger. Whether or not he had chosen this spawn, it still belonged to him—so wasn’t he entitled to a dash of respect? His blood boiled, trembling as one hand gripped the sheets and another his heart.
Both of them had betrayed him. Embarrassed him in front of the other Lords of Hell. They’d been looking for an excuse to strip him of his rank, and being tossed around by two of his own was all the ammunition they needed.
Somewhere in the next life, he could hear Levithan laughing at him.
He brought a slender hand to his brow, wiping the sweat away. Sprawling against the crumpled sheets, he rolled from the mattress, hissing as his feet hit the concrete floor. When he attempted to rise, his knees gave out and he felt a painful tug against his arm. The IV line!
He ripped it out and the heart monitor let out an obnoxious, endless scream. He slunk from the bed like a snail without its shell, palm pressed to the wall and vision a collage of arcane colours. He’d almost made it out of the room when he heard the harsh click of heels down the hallway. The murmur of voices. The turning of a handle.
“Sir!” a woman’s shrill voice exclaimed, swinging the door open and reaching out to him. “What are you doing out of bed?”
He launched himself off of the wall to swing at her and stumbled forwards. She jolted back immediately, letting out a faint noise as his nails nearly caught her across the mouth. “In what world would I need to explain myself to you?” he sneered.
The fear vanished from the woman’s eyes, and her mouth became a thin line.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to lie down. You’re very malnourished and you’ve lost a lot of blood.”
He thrashed again and lurched forwards. As the nurse moved closer, his vision grew slanted and fuzzy around the edges.
“Get away from me!”
A group of shadows materialized behind her, their plate-round spectacles glinting in the half-light.
“Lie back down, Malebolgia,” they crooned. “You’ve served our people for a long time. It’s time to rest.”
“No!”
The shadows drew nearer, the doorway becoming a winding, distorted void. Reaching out with long limbs and gaping mouths, they seized his wrists. He could feel their cold, sterile touch right down to his bones. His legs gave out again, the floor vanishing beneath him. Still he fought: biting, swinging, swearing. This was not his time. He still had much to do.
“Sir!”
Through the mass of hands and gleaming spectacles, he could still hear the nurse’s voice.
“Sir, just lay down!”
He caught the corner of her face and the pale glint of a needle. Then sky, hell and earth collided and became one.
His eyes opened to a bright light. The curtains to the left were drawn, and the sun’s soft, morning glow spilt like ambrosia across his bedsheets. To his right he could once again hear the steady beep of that infernal heart monitor. There was a quiet swish of paper, and with great effort he turned his head back towards the window.
An old man lay comfortably in the bed next to his, head propped up against his pillows as he flipped through a cheap paperback novel. The gleam of the window illuminated his figure as his eyes drifted hazily from page to page, a lock of silver hair becoming disheveled and dangling in his face. In his state of delirium from the night before, he must have missed him. Or perhaps, he thought, he hadn’t been there until now. Either way it was a bother. He grunted irritably and lay flat on his back.
“That sure was a scene last night,” the old man remarked, eyes never leaving his page.
He craned his neck to look at him, mouth hanging open. One beep of the heart monitor passed, then another, before he finally lifted his chin and squinted at him.
“Pardon?”
The old man flipped the page without looking up. “I said, that sure was a scene last night. Doctors had to come in and everything.” He licked his finger and began to turn another. “It scared the whole lot of us, the racket you were making. The nurse said they nearly had to strap you down.”
His eyes became slits as they lingered on the ancient bag, a smile creeping across his gristly lips. “That’s not out of the question, the way I’m feeling right now.”
The old man began to quiver, which took him aback. Humans must have grown soft since he’d seen them last if they scared that easily. But then a terrible sound escaped his alleged roommate.
“Oh-ho, don’t say that!” the man chuckled merrily. “I’m already in the hospital!”
This made him roll his eyes, and he forced himself to look away from the sad old thing across the room.
“Say,” the old man began, “what’s your name?”
He was starting to wish that he had a book. “Malebolgia.”
“That’s a funny name.”
“I’m a funny guy.”
The old man nodded, fixing his glasses and brushing the rogue lock of hair from his face.
“Well, I can vouch for that,” he replied, “and I can certainly see where your son gets it from now.”
Malebolgia froze. Shooting up in his bed, he stared hard at the old man, jaw set as a chill rolled over him.
“My… son. Tell me I didn’t just hear those words.”
The old man’s smile faded, his gaze finally breaking away from the page. A silence fell between them, until—
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean t—oh dear. I’m really, really sorry,” the old man stammered, watching Malebolgia’s eyes grow murky and glaze over. “I didn’t mean to overstep any boundaries, I just meant the man that came in earlier to see you. Was that not your son?”
Malebolgia didn’t say anything. His head pounded and his throat tightened. His mind travelled centuries backward as he thought of that face, then forward to last night. The boy who betrayed him. Beat him. Left him in the dirt. Freeze-frame.
He shook his head, lips peeling back to reveal stained teeth. “No. No, I don’t believe it was.”
The old man furrowed his brow, putting down his book. “Oh,” was all he said.
Morning faded into afternoon, and Malebolgia was alone. The old man had taken his cane and travelled down the hall. Even from where he sat, Malebolgia could hear the distant whoops of laughter from other patients and the chipper sound of his roommate’s voice. Other than the incessant beeping, that was the noise he’d come to despise the most. He found there was a lot to hate in this institution. The way people would drift by him, oblivious to who he was. The way the nurses would poke and prod him without his permission. He was faceless. Nameless. Trivial. Was this how humans felt? No, he decided, banishing the thought from his mind. No.
He ran his hands along his barren arms, feeling the gritty flesh. He was not yet carrion, but could feel the impending rot. He crawled in this human jacket, a prisoner in his own skin. He looked towards the closed window, studying his reflection. It was withered and aged. His eyes were shadowed by dark bruises, which brought him a stinging pain to look at. In his wide bed and baggy hospital gown, he seemed small. Overwhelmed with shame, he tore his gaze away from the window and turned the other cheek. When he looked back, the face that had taken shape was not his own.
"Hey there boss-man,” it cooed. “Bet’cha weren’t expecting company, huh?”
Malebolgia whipped around, his mop of grey hair slick with sweat. His eyes settled on the short, round figure lingering in his doorway like death to the ill, his silhouette highlighted by a glow of natural daylight.
A sucker hung from pouting lips, plump, rosy cheeks ordained in colours of black and blue. Upon that tattooed face he flaunted an insignia: ‘M’, for yours truly. If Malebolgia had the strength to stand, he would have gladly clawed it away.
“Oh, don’t look so excited to see me,” the clown chirped. “I wouldn’t have come here unless I brought a gesture of goodwill, you know that.” He lumbered through the doorway, drawing the sucker from his mouth with a sickening pop. Saliva oozed from his lips as he spoke. “I take it nobody’s come to see ya yet, have they?”
For once, Malebolgia said nothing. To fill the silence, the bumbling fool stole another lick, giggling to himself quietly.
“Have they, Malebolgia?”
He glared at the clown, repulsed by his impudence. “How did you know I was here?”
“Do you even know who you’re talkin’ to? It wasn’t that hard. All I had to do was follow the stench of rot, and it led me right to your door.” He seemed to snarl those last few words, as if to revel in the misery of his former employer’s situation. “You know, I was a little worried after our last conversation that you’d run off to cause trouble again. But you didn’t seem to get very far, did ya? Spawn caught up to ya pretty quick, and oh boy! When he did—!” He squealed with laughter, “I’ve seen him take longer to squish a cockroach underneath his heel. If the big boys downstairs weren’t havin’ ya before, they sure as hell ain’t gonna let you back in now—embarrassing yourself like that in front of a measly hellspawn.”
Malebolgia bared his teeth. “A ‘measly hellspawn?’” he hissed. “These ‘measly hellspawns’ have given you trouble more times than I can count, lest I recall… If anything, I made them too powerful for their own good. But what can I say? It’s hard to hold back when you’re crafting someone in your own image.”
The clown rolled his eyes, grinding the sucker against his teeth. “Don’t go patting yourself on the back just yet, tough guy. Made in your image or not, one of you is out on the street and the other is stuck in the hospital. You’ve got two tries to guess who’s who, and the first one don’t count.” He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking in protest under his weight. His round nose twitched when he drew nearer and a wicked grin spread across his face, as if smelling the sickness on him.
“Face it. This is the end of the line, and you’re out of the job. Ain’t no take-backs, ain’t no second chances. You made a gambit when you fought the hellspawn, and you lost. You can sit here and brood—sit here like an old dog on his last legs for however long they’ll keep you—but there ain’t no one waiting for you back at home.”
Malebolgia’s eyes bored into his, something flickering within their depths. It was not conflict, but something colder. Emptier. Lonelier. The faint shape of a man who had stood on top of the world but lost his balance, and now had nothing left to work for. In all but a moment he lost his composure: his shell breaking open and the void spilling out.
“No powers,” the clown went on, “no allies, no goals. Hell, I could say you might as well be a human, but even they got friends. And you? Oh… you’ve always just been a sad, empty old man, haven’t ya?” He bit down on the sucker, crushing it between his molars and smacking his lips. He drew the slimy stick from his mouth, and with the flick of his hand, dropped it into the glass of water at Malebolgia’s nightstand.
“Everybody’s got somebody—I mean, the new hellspawn’s got me . But what have you got, bossman?”
The clown giggled to himself again, hopping off the bed and stalking to the door, letting his words hang in the air.
“Whadda’ you got?”
The day came to an end, painting the room with the colours of dusk. A food tray sat in Malebolgia’s lap—macaroni and cheese, potatoes and what he hoped were peas—but he’d hardly touched a thing. When he got out of here, where would he go? Who would he be? Staying on Earth in this body was a death sentence, the archdemons of the nine circles knew that. Perhaps they were betting on it. Somewhere in hell they were sliding chips across the table, setting a price on his life. How much was he worth, he wondered? And who would win? Not long ago he was the dealer, but times had changed—damn them all, now he was a token.
Across from him lay the same old man on the same old bed, reading the same old book. Malebolgia could feel his burning gaze, but refused to return the look.
“You seem more quiet than usual.”
Malebolgia sneered. “What a stunning observation. I'm sure you'd make quite the psychologist.”
“I don’t need a degree to tell there’s something wrong.”
“Is that so?”
“Well, sure. When the nurse came in to give you your food, you didn’t give her a dirty look. Which either means your personality did a one-eighty, or there’s something bothering you.”
“And I don’t need a roommate who scrutinizes me. If you want to play the role of a therapist, I’m sure all of your friends down the hall would be delighted to help.”
The old-timer knit his brow, the dying sunlight reflecting in his eyes. “That man came in to see you again, didn’t he?”
Malebolgia said nothing. His face was hot with anger.
“I don’t mean to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong,” the old man said slowly. “I just thought I’d try to help. The last time he came in here he sounded pretty light-hearted… but I take it that’s not exactly how your conversation went.”
“He just came here to mock me,” seethed Malebolgia. “The only reason I’m stuck in this pit is because of him. He probably just wanted to rub it in. That’s how he’s always been. I took him under my wing, I practically raised him! But did the little sea-urchin ever give me any thanks? Why, of course not. He only ever went off on his own and did what he wanted. If he made any effort to do what I asked at all, he would do it his way.”
The old man remained silent until Malebolgia finished his rant. “Maybe that was the problem,” he offered.
“What?” Malebolgia asked sharply.
“Maybe that was your issue. You tried to make him into another version of yourself, but he couldn’t be you. He was him. Maybe it wasn’t a lack of respect, or a lack of effort, but a lack of attainability.”
Malebolgia choked out a laugh, the liquid in his lungs sloshing.
“‘A lack of attainability,’” he repeated. “Yes, maybe that’s it. Perhaps I had too much faith in him. Perhaps the divine right to greatness is something you’re born with, not so much something you achieve.”
“No,” the old man said, startling Malebolgia with the harshness in his voice. “That’s not what I’m saying. You set unrealistic expectations for the boy, then grew cold when he couldn’t meet them. If he’s grown to resent you now, it’s because you were unjustly resentful towards him first. If he’s abandoned you now, it’s because you already abandoned him. Respect is not something we’re entitled to, it’s something we earn. What did you do to earn yours?”
Malebolgia’s eyes widened. “How dare you!” he snarled, twisting his sheets in clenched fists. “How dare you speak that way to me? I teach the boy everything I know, and I’m not entitled to an ounce of gratitude? Maybe I wasn’t entirely affectionate, but that’s never been our way. I was making him strong—”
The old man shook his head, “A child doesn’t need to be strong, they need to be protected.”
Malebolgia laughed. “So you expect me to roll over and turn him into some loveable poodle? What fool could survive in H—” He stopped himself short. “What fool could survive in the real world with that kind of attitude?”
There was a gentle sigh. “One with a proper mentor guiding them.”
Malebolgia’s eyes burned into his, hoping the man could feel his smouldering hate. All he received in turn was a look of understanding.
“You expect me to nurture him?” Malebolgia asked.
“Yes.”
“To protect him?”
“Yes.”
“To understand the little beast?”
“I don’t,” the old man said softly, a hint of sadness in his voice. “But I expect you to try.”
Malebolgia was at a loss of words. The audacity of this human—this determination—it was bizarre. Nonsensical.
“Why are you telling me all of this?” he asked slowly.
The old man marked his page and shut his book. With little effort, he slid out of bed and took his cane. “Someone had to,” was all he said.
He marched past Malebolgia’s bed, heading towards the door. It was late, but Malebolgia supposed he might be going for another walk. The man was nearly out the door when he hesitantly spoke up again, almost ashamed to do so.
“Wait,” he called out.” The old man paused without turning around. “When all’s said and done… where am I supposed to go? You don’t expect me to crawl back to him, do you? I still have my dignity.”
The old man tilted his head, then tapped on the handle of his cane. “Not sure,” he murmured. “Wherever life takes you. There’s a place for just about anyone if you’re willing to look. Salvation was made for the sinners, afterall.”
Malebolgia tugged on his sheets, thoughtful. An irritable grin tugged at his lips as he peered at the human. “You know,” he began, “I was told when someone gives you their name, it’s polite to offer yours in exchange. You’re talking to Malebolgia, but who exactly am I speaking to?”
The old man looked over his shoulder at him, joyful wrinkles setting across his face when he saw that bastard smile.
“Michael,” he said, as if it were the most simple thing in the world.
The click of his cane travelled through the busy halls as he walked away, and somewhere far away, long ago—the laughter of Leviathan ceased.