Chapter Text
Lucifer, for the record, is not a fan of surprises.
Here are the facts of the matter. It is three days before the final selection of candidates for the Inter-realm Exchange Program. There is a human on the student council table. Its hair is bright pink (which, if Lucifer recalls correctly, isn't a natural color for that species) and its clothes are tattered. Blood covers the front of its ripped-open shirt and the wound the cloth makes a poor attempt to cover is grisly. Most notably, it's a shade. It's a very lost and very dead human, which usually would cause no issues at this time of day.
Lucifer knows shades. He knows how sinners feel when their soul finally collapses in on itself, shattering to pieces. He knows how their minuscule levels of magic feel powering his circle. This shade was no different to every one that he had tortured personally or had delegated to another under his rule.
Its features are already beginning to fade away. Its clothes aren't much better, and eventually its entire soul will scatter to the Infernal Realm's winds. It doesn't even seem to be a significant sinner, as its soul is hardly blemished.
The contract, he realizes, is the thing that brought it here. It was dying. Agreements don't stick around for long when a human dies. Where its soul had been promised to the Exchange Program according to its contract, it had been brought to the student council room by default. The contract had been reduced to bits of magical ash. It had no place for its soul to go.
Diavolo is looking at it like it will solve all of the Devildom's problems.
Lucifer is getting a headache.
If he had known a flaming piece of paper would have changed his day so significantly, he would have started drinking much, much earlier than this.
Calliope's eyes snap open. They don't recall ever being one to wake up so suddenly before, but as they try to thrash, try to breathe, nothing happens. They kick their feet, try to roll to their back, but no sound is made. They feel nothing.
"That is quite enough," A voice asserts from somewhere in front of them.
They try to sit up, to brace their weight against the table (how did they get on a table?) but it feels like they're reduced to being a camera in a movie. They can see and hear just fine, but there's no feeling, no taste, no texture. They don't feel their neck pick their head up. Calliope stops breathing. Their lungs don't burn.
There is a pair of men at the end of the table. Both are dressed sharply in what looks to be military regalia, though not for anywhere that Calliope can recognize. The one at the side of the table, seemingly the one who spoke, felt dark. Dark hair and dark eyes offset by unblemished pale skin. His uniform is charcoal gray and highly decorated, most notably with dark red pins and ribbons that glint in the light.
At the head of the table is potentially one of the biggest people Calliope's ever seen. Even sitting down he has a presence that makes Calliope want to cower or bow. His face seems like it's built for a solemn expression, making the softness of his eyes and the excitement of his smile stand out. He runs a hand through dark red hair and laughs, deep and low in his chest. "Well, that wasn't exactly how my morning was intended to go."
The dark-haired man sighs. He glares at Calliope like they kicked his dog. "I think that doesn't need to be said, my lord. Shall I find a place for it?"
"No, no, Lucifer!" The lord admonishes jovially. "If they were brought here it must be by design!"
"Design of whom, exactly?"
Calliope blinks. "Where am I?" they whisper. They don't feel the need to scream. They feel too calm.
The man, now titled Lucifer (as in the devil? From the Bible? Calliope's less familiar with the classics than they should be), shoots his gaze back to them pointedly. He looks at them like they're scum. No, that didn't feel right. Lucifer looked at them like a smudge on an otherwise unblemished art piece. A mistake that would be easy to fix, but inconvenient and time-consuming.
The lord is the one who speaks, though, and Calliope is glad to listen. "You are in the first circle of the Devildom, inside the Royal Academy. It seems that your application for our exchange program was what ended up bringing you here!"
They tilt their head at that. "Exchange… program. Devildom? I'm sorry, but I'm unfamiliar." Their voice holds no inflection. They feel no need to perform.
"I'll start from the beginning, then!" the man's voice is loud as he stands, hands spreading wide. A picture-perfect presenter with the charisma to match it. "My name is Diavolo. I am the ruler of all demons, and all here know of me. Someday soon, I will be crowned King of the Devildom. I created this exchange program to usher in an era of peace between the Infernal, Celestial and human realms."
It makes sense for him to be a ruler, Calliope supposes. He has the bearing of somebody important. He's the type of person (demon?) who makes somebody feel special simply by conversing with him.
"Lord Diavolo," Lucifer interrupts, "a shade will not be a suitable candidate for the exchange program. It has no paperwork, no body and no magic. It would be wise to select another candidate and send this one on its way."
A… shade? Calliope doesn't recognize the term for a few beats. Some part of their mind, the part that memorized every fun fact that would never be useful, responds with the Greeks had the idea that once a person died, they left their body behind and walked as shades, an echo of what they were when they had form. But… that would mean…
Calliope thinks, somewhere in the back of their mind, they're in shock.
"Am I… dead?" Their voice has a supernatural echo. When they look down, there's nothing where it feels like they should have legs. Diavolo folds his hands and looks at them with something three steps to the left of pity.
"It does seem like it, yes. And while Lucifer is right that this form isn't suitable for an exchange student, I would be remiss to ignore the Fates when they have delivered such a special human to our program."
Calliope doesn't know why their thoughts are so clear.
Diavolo steps around the table, closer to the middle where their form rests. "Human forms are not wholly complicated. There is a way that we can restore your form and send you back to where you were before you passed on. However, nothing comes for free."
Calliope doesn't know why they're so slow in connecting whatever dots this demon prince is laying out.
"You… want something from me?" they venture, moving whatever spectral body so that they can sit up in some approximation of proper posture. It feels like trying to force-move mist.
"If you made a deal with me, that you would complete one year of the Inter-realm Exchange Program, I could provide you with a body to do so with." He's lost his kind smile, but the softness of his eyes remains. He looks like a lawyer to Calliope.
Calliope has little experience with actual lawyers, but plenty with lawyers-to-be. They're not nearly wily enough to talk their way around a demon, if what they've heard of demons is true, but they know they can't go into this blind. "What are the exact terms that you're laying out for me? What happens to me if I refuse?" They hear a scoff from behind them, Lucifer assumedly, but they're not sure of why.
"Your contract will be similar to what you agreed to for the Exchange Program. Lucifer, if you would?" Diavolo gestures to Lucifer. Calliope notices that they don't have to turn their 'head' to see him, only imagine shifting perspective. It's an interesting feeling.
"Two students from each realm will come to the Royal Academy of The Devildom, with two students of our own being sent to the other realms. An exchange student's period of stay is one year. They will be required to work on tasks that they will receive from their governing institution. After one year, they will write a paper on their exchange. These are the terms outlined for the exchange students coming to the Devildom." It sounds like Lucifer's reciting a poem or a monologue, not outlining Calliope's only apparent method of survival.
"Unfortunately," Diavolo cuts in, "it seems that you were compromised before you could join. Your contract began to burn up on the table, and when it was touched you were pulled through without your body. Returning a shade to its body is complicated magic, and even so there is no guarantee that it would work. If you were to refuse this offer, you would be left without a body and your shade would be put to rest permanently."
Like they always seem to, they thought with their head first but chose with their heart. They had to know what had happened to them. They didn't want to disappear deep down.
"If I do accept, what happens to me after the program is over?"
"You will be returned to the human world unharmed. It's uncertain of whether you will be able to return to the life you led before, but you have my word that you would return home. These are the terms of my deal to you." Diavolo vows. His hand reaches out towards them, open and welcoming. His eyes shine.
Calliope doesn't recall what happened to them. Whatever outfit they had on is shredded beyond logical use, and had they been concerned for their modesty they would have felt the need to cover up. Whatever substance makes up their body is both smoky and oozy, spreading their form out wider than they felt it should be.
But they remember their cats. Their mom. Their dad. The friends they had made at college, an ex-partner or two. Their mind isn't altogether lost, just… distant. Foggy. But death is scary when you stare it in its eyes, and despite what Calliope once thought, it wasn't the end.
They took a moment to breathe. There was only one correct option.
"I accept your deal, Your Highness."
"Wonderful!"
When the pair's hands make contact, golden light bursts from where they meet. Calliope feels heat race up their arm, down their shoulder and right behind their heart. It feels like they're sitting too close to a campfire, heart burning and leaping. Scenes flicker behind their eyes but they can't make any sense of them.
Laughter follows them into the back of their mind, jovial conversation and a feeling of belonging that they hadn't felt since they were seven in their mother's arms. It felt homely. It felt like hours of simply resting in this emotional limbo, though it could not have been more than half a second. They feel more solid than before, but when the light fades and they look down they don't seem to have more substance.
Diavolo smiles, soft and secretive and hopeful. He seems less like a ruler now and more like an old friend. He seems to note their confusion. "Over the next sixty-six hours," he whispers, "a body will form to fit your soul. Suitably, it will be in three days that we summon the other members of the exchange program to the Devildom and send our representatives away."
Calliope nods, or at least they think they do. They're charmed by this demon, they note, with his hard features and soft expressions.
"I invite you to the Royal Castle during this time, so that you can properly assimilate to the Devildom and stay close enough to my magic that I can facilitate the process."
Lucifer (who Calliope had thoroughly forgotten about until this point) steps around to stand carefully behind Diavolo, and though his stance is deferential his eyes blaze. Calliope isn't certain of what they did wrong.
Diavolo's not sure what held his interest so strongly about the shade that had appeared on the council room table. If one was to ask, he truly could not tell you why he made the deal in the first place. However, seeing the shade peer curiously at the sprites employed at the castle made his heart a little lighter.
Calliope, as he now knew the shade to be called, seemed to care little for formalities. They had left the student council room at his side rather than at his back, which seemed to ruffle some of Lucifer's feathers. Maybe it was that, or maybe it was how Diavolo had immediately adjourned their meeting to escort Calliope to the castle.
Now, though, they both sit in one of the many drawing rooms the castle holds. The smaller demons look this way and that at this newcomer. Usually lower demons prey on shades, an easy source of mana to grow stronger, but Diavolo's magic made the air around them thick and heavy. A warning. A small demon of greed looked at them sharply from underneath a table while one of Belphegor's cohort floated around the ceiling.
"Do… do they have names, if I may ask?" The shade ventures, glancing up at the Sloth demon, seeming entranced by its levitation.
Diavolo laughs. "Not in the way you're likely used to, no. They have specific terms in Infernal that are used to summon them, but nothing that could translate into any human tongue."
Their eyes light up at that. "Infernal? Is that the Devildom's official language?"
"Closer to national language. Most demons speak it comfortably, but over the past two or three millennium most have learned multiple human tongues. In some areas Infernal is simply used less than, for example, Hellēnikḗ."
There's only a flash of confusion on Calliope's face before it settles into understanding. "What modern people would call Greek, yes?"
"Yes,"
"What does Infernal sound like, if I may ask?"
Diavolo leans forward a little. "Would you prefer a description or a demonstration?"
Even more delight paints their mismatched eyes. "A demonstration?" They lean forward in match to him.
It sounds like more snarls and growls than any tongue Calliope's heard. Their hands fly to their mouth, sparsely holding in a delighted laugh. When he stops speaking, they're only just barely able to keep themself from flying into a million questions. "That. Is so cool." is what they settle on instead.
"Am I right to assume you enjoy language?"
The prince reclines back into his chair, satisfied with their delight. It felt like introducing a young child to his world in a way. They were clueless about his world, his life, how he was raised. Calliope is entirely separate from him, no matter what the contract binding them says.
"I'd say that I dabble, your Highness."
"No need for formalities. 'Diavolo' is quite alright."
"I have a feeling that Lord Lucifer wouldn't be pleased to hear that from my mouth, judging by the way he looked at me earlier."
"Hah! No need to fret over Lucifer. He's my right hand man and one of my closest friends. If I say that it is alright, it is alright."
Calliope nods, but doesn't seem convinced. "If you say so… Diavolo." The use of his name made the prince smile.
"Now, you'd mentioned you were curious about the sprites, correct?" One of them, one with dark blue horns and wickedly sharp teeth, waddles up to the short table with a tray. The teapot it held was dark black with gold engraving, seemingly glass but too dark to be seen through. As the small creature pours it, he says "Apologies, I'd offer a cup but I don't think it would be of much use."
They take a deep breath, trying to get all of their thoughts in one place. "You said they had no names. How should I refer to them? I'd imagine 'hey you' will get tiring after a while." The shade waves at the pride demon, but it looks over them after mere moments of studying their face.
The greed sprite under the table dashes out from under the table, finally seeing its opportunity, knocking over the new arrival. They both devolve into hissing and spitting, claws wickedly sharp, trying to take out an eye or steal a horn. Calliope's hands fly to their mouth, flinching back into the couch, but Diavolo's unbothered, continuing to sip his tea.
"Are we going to do something about that?!" The shade yelps, trying to speak over the din.
"They'll work it out on their own." Diavolo replies simply, unbothered.
It's hardly a fight to write home about; the pride demon prevails in the end, covered in amber-black ichor and holding one of its companion's arms in its jaw. The greed demon bolts under Calliope's couch to lick its wounds, and it's only then that Diavolo notes the tears budding on the shade's waterline.
"Is everything alright, Calliope?" He ventures, though he knows what the reaction is likely about. Violence isn't something that most humans are comfortable with, he recalls in some vague corner of his mind.
"W… will it be okay?" They ask timidly, trying to lean over the couch to peer at the greed demon. They shriek when it strikes out at their ankle with its one remaining arm, cutting clean through the anima that made their own body up. More startled than injured, but the swipe sent their form billowing like campfire smoke.
Diavolo sighs, though it's not bad-natured. "Demons heal much faster than humans do and don't feel pain as acutely. Lil' Demons in particular are special because they are mostly made of mana with only small amounts of anima, so they can reform their body at will." At their confused look he elaborates "Mana is another word for magic and anima is what humans would call a soul. The Infernal Realm is rich with mana, so they can heal particularly fast."
It seems like the explanation placated the shade, poking at their ankle where it would have been severed from their body mere seconds ago. "What am I made of these days?"
"Primarily anima."
They hum their understanding, going quiet. Diavolo watches as they close their eyes and mime taking deep breaths. It seems as though they had gained their emotional capacity back in the time between the deal and now. It's fascinating watching the shade's process work backwards from everybody else. No body, but full emotion.
The pair sit in silence for a while, Diavolo drinking his tea and Calliope just… breathing.
Lucifer's in a poor mood when he returns to the house, Belphegor notes. He keeps his eyes closed and his ears open, opaque purple clouds floating around the couch he lays on. His magic is spread about the house, keeping a vague eye on the shades and their work. Better them than him, he supposes, but Lucifer's more interesting than they are anyway.
Instead of marching up to his office, Lucifer surprises Belphegor by coming to the planetarium instead. Well, technically it was the music room, but if the curtain wasn't down there wasn't much difference. The sloth demon dozes as Lucifer approaches the piano.
The melody's a familiar one, a hymn that one of Lucifer's cults had made for him. It's quick-tempo and harsh on the ears in some areas. A song he played when he needed to remind himself that he was powerful, Belphegor muses. Something wrong with the meeting with Diavolo.
Belphegor had had a bad feeling about this exchange program since it was announced. He knows that they can't go against Diavolo, but bringing humans to the Devildom is a death sentence…
… but not for demons.
He stretches his awareness further, past the grounds of the HoL and into the demon lord's castle, settling into the space right behind one of his own sprites' eyes. He sees a shade (didn't know human hair came in pink, a traitorous, human-loving part of his brain whispered before he tugged it out at the root) sitting in one of Diavolo's drawing rooms with Diavolo himself not far away, sipping his tea like he had no care in the world.
Belphegor stands slowly, muscles complaining, consciousness coming back to his body. He ambles to the piano, giving an Infernal rumble to Lucifer as greeting before walking up to his and Beel's room. No response. He's shocked he doesn't see any of his brothers on the way up; Satan's likely out with his band, Asmo at some orgy or another, Mammon spending money he didn't have. Levi… it wasn't hard to guess.
Belphegor doesn't have to ponder for Beel at all. He can feel his other half miles away, likely at the fangol field judging by how sore Belphegor himself was.
His tarot deck calls for him as he enters, his own magic from many millennia of reading familiar. Despite everything, this deck had stayed with him since their first century in the Devildom. Simple drawings on old papyrus, seventy-eight cards and only so many ways to interpret.
Belphegor draws on his well of magic, focusing within himself, shuffling the cards.
Something's off about this exchange program and Belphegor will be damned (again) if he doesn't find out what it is.