Chapter Text
Blitzo pulls up outside the building and stares up at all the floors. It's a lot of floors. There's no way they could get enough Sinners to come to this place to justify all these floors. Stolas said they have two guests, and a handful of staff, live-in. Having so many floors is just ridiculous.
This is the sort of meeting that a little guy like him doesn't get a say in.
Of course, Stolas said it's not like that, that the Princess isn't like that. And Blitzo's sure he believes that. He's sure they both believe that. But be fucking for real.
He's been summoned to meet the fucking Princess of Hell. He doesn't get to say no. Stolas said himself that she doesn't like to hear it. But it's fine, she and Lucifer— fucking Lucifer— just want to meet him. No reason why that attention wouldn't be good for Blitzo.
Stolas insisted it's nothing to worry about— they just want to meet Blitzo, they have nothing against him, they're just a bit protective— but that bird really wouldn't know. He's never had very much to worry about. Blitzo has people that depend on him to eat and a business barely scraping this side of legal. The stakes are a little higher than Daddy's disapproval.
He's so fucking useless over the phone, too. His response to Blitzo asking if that thing where they can always tell if someone is lying is real or just some bullshit, “Well, you shouldn't try to lie to them.” Useless, infuriating, fucking gorgeous, princely motherfucker.
The air rushes in and out of Blitzo's chest like a spooked horse, and he feels it, hooves and all. He opens the door, looks around.
He doesn't know what he expected from the silly little rehab hotel. He knew it was empty, but this lobby is just sad. There isn't anyone in here. Save for the pissed off silver girl glaring at him from the mouth of the hallway.
He waves to her. She doesn't wave back or say anything, so he calls out, “I'm here to see the Princess.”
She nods. “I know. She's upstairs. Follow me.”
Incredibly awkward, standing in the elevator with this woman that looks about ready to bite Blitzo's head off. Maybe she doesn't like him, but maybe that's just her face, twisted into that scowl. It makes sense, it matches her eyepatch. Looks pretty cool.
She doesn't say a word in response when he compliments it. And they continue down the empty hallway.
Building's empty. Save for a handful of Sinners. Fucking Lucifer. Stolas. The Princess. Blitzo might be the only normal person on the premises.
He doesn't know what he expected from Princess's office. Lots of golds and dark woods. A pile of paperwork on that desk that would have had Moxxie bitching at him last week.
Princess closes a folder, looks up, and gives a perfect little doll smile Blitzo's way.
“Blitz,” she calls out, then adds, “with an ‘o’.” And doesn't Blitzo feel special, Miss Topseat Princess herself knows his name proper.
He nods. “Princess.” She sends Scary-Glarey back off into the hallway, grumbling, with five words. Blitzo watches as she heads out. “What's her problem?”
Princess chuckles. “She gets pouty when she doesn't get her way.” What the fuck?
“She gets pouty?” Blitzo repeats, before he can stop himself. “What is she, seven?”
He can tell he's loud and harsh about it, and he cringes internally. Should've let it go, but he's never been the best at biting his tongue.
Great first impression to make on the folks, Buckzo. Yep, go ahead and insult the Princess's… guard or whatever. She seems like a guard.
But Princess doesn't react much. If anything, she might be smirking. She only says, “She's a handful.”
And Blitzo recognizes that tone. It's as tired as it is loving as it is pissed. He'd like to hear more of that tone.
“Have a seat,” she says, gesturing to the two armchairs in front of her desk.
The leather is nice. Simple, understated. And nothing like some of the seating at Stolas's that's more form than function.
It occurs to Blitzo that he'd be comfortable if he could sit back and relax. Funny, but he shouldn't be letting himself think about that. Or about how nice it'd be to have matching chairs at the office.
To force himself to stop thinking about chairs, he brings his eyes up to the wall behind Princess. At the pictures she's got hanging up there. Herself, Lucifer, Lilith… Herself with the Sins, too, because yeah, if Blitzo had those sorts of connections, he'd flaunt 'em too. A couple diplomas she bought with Daddy's money, all framed prettily. A shelf full of knacks and knicks.
Lots of open shelving, only a couple closed cabinets. And all pristine, of course. It's somebody's job to clean all that, isn't it?
“I hope the drive wasn't too bad,” Princess says suddenly, breaking Blitzo's train of thought. She's trying to make normal conversation.
He nods. “Theres a reason I don't drive through the Pentagram if I can help it.” Worst streets in all of Hell, he's sure of it.
“Don't I know it,” she says, “Sinners love to drive like they're the only ones on the road.”
And her attempt at normal conversation works, for a moment. He acts like she's something he groans along with before he catches himself. His posture tightens back up, his tail wrapping and unwrapping from around the leg of Princess's fancy chair.
“So, getting into things,” she says, but then she trails off.” Instead, she asks, “Do you take whiskey?” She's already turning around and reaching under her desk for the bottle.
And fuck yeah, Blitzo might actually survive this if he has a drink. “Sure do, Princess.”
“Great.” She sets two glasses on her desk, pours the first one and slides it his way, before taking the chipped one for herself. Cute. She must think she's being real slick with her whole egalitarian schtick.
But drink is drink, and Blitzo knows himself. He's rarely the sort to turn it down.
He takes his drink. It's good shit— of course it is, it's from the Princess's supply, it's probably worth more than Blitzo's whole life. Chrissakes, one of her socks is probably more than his rent. It's smooth, dangerously smooth, smoky, almost sweet, and it goes down like honey and it only even feels warm after he swallows it.
She sips her own, from her chipped glass, like everything about this is as normal as fucking pie.
Stupid performative little Princess and her stupid fancy-ass whiskey that doesn't even burn.
“So, Blitz,” she says, and he looks up at her, still not really okay with her using his name like that. “I've seen you before. Where have I seen your face?”
Shit. He takes a deep breath, then more of his drink, slowing down— this is the fancy shit you sip, not shoot, Buckzo. He's okay. He can handle being recognized. Everybody knows Princess is a bleeding heart. He doesn't have to question whether that bleed extends to him.
Blitzo forces a chuckle. He can deflect. “Couldn't tell ya, Princess. This ol' mug's been a lot of places.”
He doesn't like the way she looks at him after he says that. Did that… did that count as lying?
Maybe he should try and name those places… Fuck Blitzo for being an impulsive dumbass, right? He put his face on advertisements everywhere, didn't he? The pamphlets, the flyers, the billboard, and the Satan-damned TV commercial…
Princess laughs. “Oh yeah, I was singing that jingle for days after seeing it. Vaggie was almost ready to throw me out over it.”
Fuck yeah, Moxxie can eat Blitzo's tight little red ass. Princess liked the jingle.
She saw the commercial. She liked the jingle. She saw the commercial.
Blitzo doesn't know what to think about that. Of course she's seen it. She knows, then, and asking where she's seen his face was just a test. That he failed. Typical royal bullshit, right?
He can handle this. Just take it easy. He takes another sip of his drink. Oh, that's nice.
Princess, all rainbows and sparkles and candy, and with all her so-many floors devoted to the idea of redemption. Wants to get as many Sinners out of Hell as possible, right?
And Blitzo's trade is murder-for-hire. “Doesn't that bother you?” As usual, his lips move faster than his head does.
She blinks at him, like she's actually confused. “Does what bother me, Blitz?” she asks.
Where has Blitzo seen this kind of playing dumb before? He rolls his eyes with a huff. “You know. That we're basically in the opposite lines of work.”
“And what do you mean by that?”
Well, if this bitch insists on making Blitzo dig his own grave, fuck it, he'll grab the shovel.
“I kill people, Princess.” He empties his glass and sets it back on the desk, gesturing to the diplomas on her wall. “And this whole redemption thing you've got going on here? You're trying to get these fuc-” he stops and corrects himself, “Sinners Upstairs and I'm dragging more of 'em down here.”
Princess gets real quiet for a long moment. He looks back to see she's dropped the cute little doll smile. “Do you want me to tell you the truth?”
“No Princess, I want you to lie to me.” He spits the words out without thinking again. “Of course I want you to-” He sighs, “Yeah, tell me the truth.”
Her smile's back for that. “You're funny.” She looks down at her own glass, then at Blitzo's, then asks, “More drink?”
He shouldn't. “Sure, Princess.” It is good whiskey.
She tops off her own glass, takes a sip, then she asks, sighing, “How many humans have you killed, since you opened your doors?”
Wow. Way to put Blitzo on the spot. Is he really supposed to know the answer to that question?
“To be honest with you Princess, I'm not great with numbers.” But he pauses to think anyway. They're had their highs and lows and with clients, but overall? I.M.P. maybe gets a couple contracts a week? And a couple of times they got to take out a pile at once… “A couple hundred I'm sure. Maybe four?”
She nods. “Do you know how many Souls we get normally down here in a day?” He shakes his head. She continues, quietly, “It's something like a hundred-twenty-thousand.”
Shit. Blitzo doesn't know much, but he knows he wasn't expecting that scale. That's a lot of souls. “Oh.”
“So, the thing is, your business is not making much of a difference if you think about it.”
Yeah, it really wouldn't, would it? Four hundred in a year versus a hundred-twenty-thousand every day. IMP hasn't affected the count at all.
“Humans die all the time, they're kind of fragile like that,” Princess continues, soft. “And most of them are headed Here anyway.”
It's most of them that wind up in Hell?? Sure the Sinner population is crazy, but didn't know the count, the actual numbers.
No wonder Pride's such a shithole.
And Princess is trying to get bring that number down in the most idealistic way possible. She says the Sinners they bring down don't really add to the count, but surely buying a murder isn't very redemption-friendly.
“Well, the ones that hire you definitely aren't ready to hear anything I have to say,” Princess says. She's still quiet and sad-sounding when she adds, “So I really don't see a lot of places where your business conflicts with mine.”
Okay. The numbers may have made Blitzo feel small— and Satan knows he's no stranger to that feeling. The little ethical dilemma he apparently put Princess through makes him feel a little better. But now he's wondering what means for him.
Staring down at his glass, he asks, “So… Does that mean I'm good?”
“I'm not really in the habit of shutting down Imp-owned businesses.” She sighs. “I admire your initiative, even though I can't say I love your business model. And your commercial made me laugh.” She takes another sip. “You're good.”
Blitzo picks his glass up again. “Is that really all it takes, Princess? Making you laugh?”