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zaebeecee · 4 months

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Blitzø’s 13 ••

Written by @fletchingbrilliant and ZaeBeeCee

Chapter 1: The Mastermind & the Con Man

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•••

Ocean’s Eleven-inspired Hellaverse fic.

When Blitzø receives a credible and threatening letter from an unknown source, he has no choice but to put together a team of hellborn and sinners for a little heist. The target? Lucifer Morningstar. The reason? That’s for him to worry about.

[ major ships: Stolitz, RadioDust, Fizzarozzie, Moxillie, Chaggie ]

•••

“Alright, Buckzo, here’s yer personal affects. Got a list fer ya to check’n make sure it’s all there.” The bleary-eyed demon on the other side of the desk pushed a grey plastic bin through the hole in the bullet-proof glass that separated him from the rabble he dealt with day in and day out.

The top layer was his jacket. Blitzø raised an eyebrow as he removed that, then his pants; the only other things in the bin, besides his boots and gloves, were a couple of tokens for the arcade down his block, a postage stamp he’d stolen from a kid on the day he was arrested (and, weirdly enough, what he’d thought he was getting picked up for at first), and a small ball of pocket lint.

His eyes went from the bin to the list. There were a lot of slots to list possessions, but his were just CLOTHES, TOKENS, STAMP???, and LINT. Blitzø felt his eyelids lowering. “Can’t say they don’t keep thorough records,” he muttered, taking his clothes and moving to leave.

“Don’t forget to sign,” the demon said. Blitzø sighed and grabbed the pen, scrawling his signature on the list. He started to leave again, but, “Hey, don’t forget your things.”

“It’s trash,” Blitzø said, gesturing at the bin with his free hand.

“It’s your trash,” the demon answered.

Blitzø glared up at the officer as he slowly reached out, grabbed the items in one hand, and dragged his claws along the bottom of the bin as he gathered them up. “Can I go now, or would you like me to wash the bin out before I return it?” The guard actually considered it. Before he could speak, Blitzø curled his lip, flicked the bin back through the hole, and got the fuck out of there.

Fifteen minutes later, Blitzø walked out of the large metal gate that stood around the Pride Ring’s only prison (thank fuck he hadn’t been stuck in Wrath, where he would have died, or Greed, where the for-profit prisons never would have let him out), resisting the urge to flip off the guard that rolled the gate’s door shut. What a fucking day, and it was only about three in the afternoon. He had no money, he had no phone, he had no ride… so, basically, the same position he’d been in four months ago when he’d been arrested. He headed off in the direction of Imp City, wondering if his apartment was even going to still be his when he got there. Loona was, after all, an adult. There was nothing saying she wouldn’t have taken the opportunity to get her own place. There was enough in his savings to cover rent, of course—especially with Barbie refusing to go back into rehab—but if the hellhound was no longer there to pay it…

Blitzø bummed a cigarette off a gimp who was tied to a road sign, waiting obediently for his… whatever to come out of a bakery, and he took a quarter from a change bowl in a convenience store (the cashier told him he wasn’t a customer and Blitzø reminded her that it was a convenience store and the quarter was convenient). He was halfway through the cigarette when he managed to find a pay phone that wasn’t completely mangled and out of commission, and he slipped the quarter into the slot, holding the receiver between his head and shoulder as he dialed the heavy metal buttons with one claw, his other hand holding onto the side of the box.

Hey, Loona, it’s me. I got released today. …no, shit, that’s distant. Hey, Loonie! Didja miss me? Fuck, she’ll just say no. Uh… …fuck’s sake. This shouldn’t be so hard.

The phone clicked, and a tinny recording of Loona’s voice filled his ear, and suddenly it didn’t matter that he didn’t know what to say. Her voicemail message hadn’t changed since he’d first gotten her that phone. He listened to her talk until it beeped, and then he hung up, retrieved his quarter, and went back to walking.

The apartment building was the same as he remembered, and the spare key was hidden in the same place, which was a huge relief, because he didn’t really want to get caught picking a lock into his own damn house on his first day out of the clink. Of course, it wasn’t like Hell really had laws, per se; really, it seemed to be if you pissed off the wrong rich person, they could get you put away for a while, and prisons in Hell sucked. On the one hand, they didn’t have their Ring Prince to worry about, because Lucifer never went anywhere. On the other, this ring was full of sinners, and sinners meant overlords, and fuck overlords.

The apartment was lit by nothing but the red light of the late afternoon sky filtering in through the windows. Blitzø flicked a light on and took the place in, everything from the arrangement of the furniture to the smell of the living room feeling nostalgic after so long an absence. It didn’t look like Loona had left, judging by the breakfast dishes in the sink and the new poster for a band he’d never heard of pinned to the wall, but she’d clearly left this part of the apartment alone for the most part. He almost smiled when he saw that his pillow was still on the couch.

She sure does hate change.

Blitzø found his phone lying face down on the desk, and it was off; dead, he assumed, until he tried turning it on and watched the screen light up before informing him it was fully charged. That finally brought a smile to his face, imagining Loona charging his phone for him, then unplugging it and turning it off.

He had one missed call from Loona with no voicemail from the day he got arrested. Other than that, nothing but four month’s worth of solicitor calls and spam emails. But that was fine. He hadn’t expected anything different. Who was going to call him? Loona knew he was locked up, and had probably told Fizz (and their relationship was iffy when either of them were feeling volatile), and… of course… St—

Blitzø crammed his phone in his pocket and went into the kitchen, scrounging for anything he could eat that didn’t need any kind of preparation. He grabbed a package of raw red meat, apologized mentally to Loona with a promise to replace it later, and went to the couch to shove the whole thing in his face.

He was moments away from calling Loona again—he really, really didn’t want to get attacked if she came home and freaked because there was someone in the apartment—before a knock at the door jarred him out of his thoughts. He cursed his bad luck, because of course someone would come by to sell something the fucking moment he got home. Determined to ignore it, Blitzø got to his feet and threw the package away when they knocked again. And then again. He crossed to the door, wondering if he could get away with just opening it, shooting whoever it was, and then get back to his very busy schedule of jack shit.

“I know you’re in there, Blitzo,” a strange voice called through the door in the annoying sing-song of a service worker who liked their job too much.

Blitzø cringed and put his hand on the jamb. “Then you’d know that’s not my name,” he called back in the same tone. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying, pal. Fuck off.”

“I’m not selling anything,” the stranger said. “I just have a delivery. I was instructed to give it to you personally.”

With a thud, Blitzø let his forehead hit the door. “How long do I have to ignore you before you go away?”

“I’ll stand here all night. And I’ll keep knocking.”

“Fuuuuck,” Blitzø whined, unlocking the door and opening it to find himself face-to-face with a courier imp. “What?” The courier looked entirely unbothered. He offered a letter to him. Blitzø stared at it, then looked back at the courier. “Whomst the fuck?”

“Someone who paid a great deal of money to get this delivered to you in a timely manner,” the courier said. “That’s all I know.”

Blitzø narrowed his eyes, snatched the letter, and slammed the door before the courier could nag him for a tip. He carried it to the couch and threw himself over the back, landing in a laying position and holding the letter over his head. Too thin to be a bomb, and nobody paid for a hand delivery of anthrax or some shit. There was no identification on it, but the envelope was made of some nice fucking material, so whoever sent it was at least attempting to put on the pretense of wealth. He grabbed a corner with his teeth and ripped the side open as a private and somewhat petty display of disdain, then spit the strip of envelope onto the coffee table and withdrew the letter.

It was nice paper too, a single sheet that had been typed on what looked like a typewriter. There was no signature, but it was addressed to “Blitzø”, and whoever wrote this had taken the time to cross the ‘o’ out with a pen. He couldn’t tell if that was because they were trying to endear themselves to him, if it was sarcastic, or something else. Honestly, he didn’t care all that much, and his eyes just skated over the contents of the letter until he hit a word that made him sit up straight.

Stolas?

Blitzø stared at the word. It didn’t change. He went back to the beginning of the letter and actually read it this time. Then he read it again, and again, feeling colder and angrier through each mental repetition. By the time he was through the sixth read, he was hunched over with his elbows on his knees, his claws piercing through the paper. “Who the fuck do you think you are, you son of a bitch?” he whispered, but of course, no one answered him.

He looked at the short final paragraph again.

You may choose to ignore this promise, whether his fate is of no importance to you or you simply do not believe it to be true. But keep in mind that his blood will be on your hands as much as it will be on ours.

Blitzø picked up the envelope again and noticed that it wasn’t empty. He hesitated for a long moment, because he really didn’t want to know, before he tipped the envelope to the side and felt something sliding out. After a few seconds, the envelope spit out a polaroid photograph and two feathers, all three of which fell into his lap.

The photograph was of Stolas, asleep in his bedroom, and had been taken from inside the room. The feathers… he would have known those anywhere. They were Stolas’s, and judging by the ends of the quill, they hadn’t fallen out naturally. They had been plucked from him.

“Fuck,” Blitzø muttered, putting his head in one hand and resisting the urge to crumple the letter up in his hand. It was fucking ridiculous, that was what it was. He and Stolas hadn’t spoken in five years, not since he’d tried to rob the Goetian Prince and that had turned into… a… thing that had lasted a short period of time and that Blitzø himself had put a rather abrupt end to. Even if it was true—and he didn’t know that it was!—why would this douchebag contact him? Of all people?

And the demand… it was worse than insane. It was fucking impossible. It wasn’t something a royal could pull off, and this asshole was expecting it from an imp?

…no. They weren’t. At least, not alone. And that was why they wanted him, wasn’t it?

Blitzø’s mind reeled with possibilities. Thoughts. With planning, it wouldn’t be completely unworkable, but where in Hell would he find anyone at all who was willing to go on such a foolhardy mission? And for no fucking pay?

No, asshole, we leave the ‘no pay’ part out and figure out how to break that to them when we get out. If we get out. If I can talk anyone else into it. Or we’ll just take more shit and that’ll be their pay. Finding a fence can be their problem, not mine.

A plan. He needed a plan. Blitzø went to the desk and grabbed a notebook and a pen, mentally berating himself for the fact that he wasn’t just ignoring the letter and getting back to his miserable fucking day. He had the photo and he had the feathers, but neither of those things were proof that the threat was true. Then again… if it was true, and he ignored it… He sat again and began writing the incomprehensible scrawls and diagrams that meant nothing to anyone except him, trying his damndest to formulate anything close to a workable solution to this stupid fucking problem.

The sun had set when he finally sat back and stared at the paper. It was… a lot of pieces with a lot of preparation. And there was so much that could go wrong. So, so much. But it was a good plan. If it worked.

It will work.

My plans always work.

It fucking has to work.

So that was one step down. Blitzø took a deep breath and got to his feet, starting to pace as he went through the contacts on his phone and tapped Fizz’s icon. Blitzø kept pacing as he waited for him to pick up, and the moment he heard the click, he spoke before Fizz had a chance to say anything. “Please don’t hang up on me yet.”

•

Fizz waited a number of rings before giving in. He knew, he knew, if Blitzø was actually calling, he legitimately needed something. It could have been anything from life-or-death drama to an emotional breakdown, but it would be a need all the same.

He sank into the seat in his dressing room, chewing his gum louder on principle. “Okay, Blitzø, you got like a minute.”

“You are a peach okay so I got out of prison today, surprise, hi, and I have a fucking fantastic job idea that I am really going to need your help with. But it’ll be so worth it! Like, so fucking worth it!”

Fizz scraped a bit of lint from under his claw, holding his hand out to make sure he didn’t scuff any polish. “You just got out. Today.”

“Sure did!”

“And you’re already planning a big job. Today.”

“Sure am!” Blitzø had that tone that he got when he was either intentionally being suicidal or was honestly just that confident in a great plan, and it was never clear which it was. “Come on, you’re always down to stick it to the ruling classes, right? It’s just a little lift! A single, solitary, itty bitty little treasure.”

Fizz snorted. “Are you kidding me? There’s no such thing as a little lift with you… unless it’s a new fling.” Unseen by his friend he stuck out his own unreasonably long tongue. He knew Blitzø knew.

“Don’t stick that out at me unless you plan to use it,” Blitzø said with a chuckle that sounded genuine. “But I’ve got you curious now, don’t I? You want in. I know you do.”

He threw himself over the side of his chair, kicking his feet back and forth. The whir of mechanics was like a sad yet comforting song. His tailed hat tinkled as the bells brushed the floor.

“...fuuuuuuuuck you know I doooooooo. Fine. I’m in, bitch.”

“Fuck yeah! Lucifer’s not gonna know what hit him!” Blitzø exclaimed.

Fizz fell over with a shriek, taking the chair with him. He scrabbled for his thrown phone, stomach on the floor and feet tangled in the chair. “Lucifer??! What the everloving fuck are you thinking, Blitzø???”

“Ah, fuck,” Blitzø groaned. He clearly hadn’t meant to say that. “Fizz. Fizzle. Fizzy-Bizzy. Calm down. I told you, I have a plan, just… just let me come and explain it to you, and I promise, it’ll make sense. Are you…” He hesitated, just for an instant, and then continued in that forced casual tone he used when he knew he was navigating potentially sensitive territory and didn’t want to seem either conscious of that or emotional. “Are you still shacking up with that guy from the Lust Ring?”

Fizz’s stomach flipped. His false hand shook in its grip on his phone.

Don't cry. Don't. You knew it wasn't gonna last. You knew it wasn't anything more than a fling.

He's the King of Lust, for fuck’s sake.

“...nah. We split. Had to get back to Greed and all anyway, y’know?” He tried to fake a casual laugh.

If Blitzø noticed, he didn’t say anything, but his tone was a little too bright to be truly oblivious. “Ah, yeah, right. Guess that makes sense. So… you’re back in that apartment?” Blitzø’s distaste was audible—he’d never made a secret of how much he hated Mammon, as well as the Greed Ring in general—but he didn’t harp on it this time. “What time are you off? I’ll come by then, unless you think Mammajamma’s gonna flip his shit if he finds out I’m there.”

“Uhhh…” Fizz had pulled himself up until he was sitting on the floor with his knees to his chest. Rehearsals had wrapped up for the day. And how likely was it that he'd pull an impromptu press release? The new show was only in test mode so far… “I'm wrapping up now. But let’s… let's meet at the Faust’s Bargain Café. I'll get us a private room in the back.”

“Beautiful. I’ll head out.” Blitzø was oddly silent for a few seconds, like he was debating what to say. “…see you soon, Fizz.”

Fizzarolli hung up the phone and stared at it, knees splayed out on the floor and his feet on either side of his hips. He ignored the pressure behind his eyes and the way his throat was clenching. The photo on his mirror was staring down at him. Mammon with his arm over Fizz’s shoulder, both of them grinning brightly. Fizz would look at it constantly, trying to remind himself that this was his dream. It didn't matter that Mammon’s ‘nickname’ for Fizz was scrawled over it.

It was cute when he called him a cunt.

He sighed, staring at it again. When he glanced back down at his phone, he saw he had opened his photo album without meaning to. He scrolled up… and there it was. The one photo he'd allowed himself to keep. Their cheeks pressed together, their smiles so warm.

That’s what happy looks like on other people. Not me.

Maybe if this plan of Blitzø’s went well, he'd be able to bargain for a better contract.

And if it didn't… he'd probably be dead, so it didn't really matter.

•••

Fizzarolli made a point to leave work through the second back way instead of the main exit. It was his time to leave, but he couldn't count on Mammon to not stop him and surprise him with another Late Night Bonus Rehearsal™.

He used the back entrance for the café, too. It was bad enough being out in the world without someone he knew around when not many demons knew who he was, but after becoming the Famous Fizzarolli, it developed into a whole new nightmare. With a special tap on the door, he was allowed in and given his private room, along with instructions to lead Blitzø to him once he arrived. To pass the time he started making a castle out of glasses and silverware on the table in the cozy curtained nook.

Blitzø arrived after about thirty minutes, which meant he must have booked it from Pride considering the time of night. “Yeah, thanks, don’t touch me,” he was saying as he entered the room, waving his hands at whoever it was that escorted him back. It was always the same when they met up, and it clearly hadn’t changed; even with direct instructions from Fizzarolli, no one ever seemed to believe that Blitzø could actually belong in the same room with him.

Once the escort had left, Blitzø flipped off their back before he turned to Fizzarolli. He looked pretty much the same as he had the last time they’d spoken, clearly still taking better care of his coat than he was of his health, but he seemed oddly stressed. Of course, he’d just gotten out of prison, so that was probably to be expected, but…

“You look fit,” Blitzø observed with only the mildest flirtatious overtone as he pulled a chair out with his foot and slipped into the seat, keeping his eyes on his friend the whole time.

Fizz raised an eyebrow, stretching out to lounge on the cushy bench he'd claimed. Something is really wrong. “Fit and flexible, baby. Did some pre-drinking on the way here or what?”

Blitzø shrugged. “I drive better buzzed,” he said with a sharp smirk, hooking one elbow over the back of his chair. “And it wasn’t my car, anyway. I’m surprised you agreed to meet with me after what I said.”

“After which thing you said?” Fizz snorted. “The overly personal stuff, or the thing about pulling a job against the fucking king of everything?”

“Oh, the second part, I don’t give a shit if I was overly personal,” Blitzø said dismissively, waving his hand a little. Since he wasn’t bringing the topic up again, Fizz knew it was Blitzø’s way of apologizing, as inadequate as it might be. “And, besides, I don’t mean… like… robbing him, robbing him. We aren’t going to his actual residence or something. Just, y’know, lifting some shit from Lucifer’s Palace.”

Fizz pushed himself up to lean over the table, stretching his arms across its length with a teasing smirk. “And just what in the hell could be worth the incredibly stupid risk, huh? You were right, I just have to know.”

“Alright, catch this,” Blitzø said, leaning in as well and lowering his voice for dramatic effect. “Lucifer’s Palace, the Pride Ring’s only resort and ritziest vacay spot, is opening its doors officially for the first time in seven years. There’s some high-profile soirée shit going down there in a few months. They’re keeping the details for it on the DL, so I don’t know what it’s for. What I do know is that the place is gonna be packed. It’s also gonna be playing host to all kinds of sinners and hellborn, which we know always gets messy as fuck.” He smiled. “When you invite children into your house, you childproof it. And when you childproof your house, you take your most important shit and you put it somewhere safe.”

Blitzø pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped the screen a few times, then placed it on the table to show Fizz. He had pulled up a VoxNet image gallery of the artifacts kept in Lucifer’s Palace, scrolling through them slowly.

“Every single one of these objects is usually on display in the Palace at all times. And, of course, very carefully guarded. But—and here’s the fun part—whenever the place has a large gathering of mixed company, there’s always the threat of them getting damaged or going missing as collateral damage from an inevitable blowup. So, protocol is that each and every artifact is removed from the floor and placed in a safe beneath the palace. The safe is, of course, Lucifer’s safe, which is both good and bad. It’s bad because, well, obviously. But it’s good because it means there will be minimal security devoted to watching it.”

Blitzø scrolled back up the list and tapped an item to bring up its page. It was a simple, gnarled staff, made of two different types of wood twisted together. The groove where the wood met was a deep red, like an open wound torn between the two of them. The description called it the Bastinade of Life and Knowledge.

“This staff is made of the wood from those two trees from that story of Lucifer and Lilith’s excision from Eden. You know, the Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.” Blitzø caught Fizz’s eye and held contact. “I have a buyer for it. We just need to get our hands on it.”

Fizz felt the air leave his scarred lungs. He turned wide and disbelieving eyes to his longtime friend. So many different things flew through his head. Different problems, different dreads, too many things that could go wrong. Even success could mean some very bad things. “You can't be serious. Who– why– who is hiring you for this? Why did you say yes??”

“Whoa whoa whoa calm your fuckin’ tits,” Blitzø hissed, leaning in further. “As far as who, proprietary. You can’t be held accountable for shit I didn’t tell you. As far as why, because I have an incredible fucking plan, just like always. I’ve got a line on a backer, I’ve got a connection in security at the Palace, and I can get both the blueprints and the event schedule on both the guest side and the employee side.”

Reality was settling over Fizz with a detached sort of horror. His extreme expression flattened into one no one else ever saw. “You're really serious about this. You really intend to pull this off… and you're not gonna tell me why it's worth it to do something this stupid. So I've gotta ask… what do you got to convince me it's worth risking my very expensive ass?”

For once, Blitzø’s expression remained completely serious, matching Fizz’s for intensity. “I can’t do it without you,” he said in a rare and very open display of sincerity. “Both of us know that. If I go into this alone, I’m not getting out of it.”

Fizz froze. He stared at his oldest friend-slash-frenemy, scanning his face, searching for something aside from that harrowing sincerity. But that was it.

“Okay, Blitzø. I'm with you. Now who in all of Hell would actually back this insanity?” He was glad Blitzø wasn't asking him. The idea of hiding that kind of expense from Mammon was…

Blitzø actually winced, just a little. “Well… a sinner,” he said, holding up his hand immediately, like he could sense the oncoming protest. “I know. I know, but you have to admit, sinners would be the only ones who’d actually commit resources to shit like this. And there’s one sinner in particular, an overlord, who’s apparently something of an actual enemy to Lucifer.” He smiled a little tensely. “You listen to the radio much out in Greed these days?”

Fizz cringed. “You mean the All Day Torture Fest? It's not worth all of the nightmare fuel to get to the good… stuff… wait… you're not saying…”

“There are people who say the Radio Demon will do anything if it brings chaos to the House of the Morningstar.”

“You're on something new, my guy. There's no fucking way you should be messing with the Radio Demon. That guy is… I mean…” Fizz hugged himself, feeling suddenly cold. “...have you listened to his show? A bunch of freaks are practically addicted to it, so sometimes I can't avoid it.”

Like my boss.

“Hey, I have wide and varied tastes,” Blitzø said evasively, which was enough to tell Fizz that he had listened to it, but how he felt about it was anyone’s guess. “It’s kind of irrelevant, anyway. I already looked into other options, and the Palace has contracted VoxTek for security for the event, so all of the Vees are out of the question. And I don’t know of any other overlords who would be willing to back this besides one of them or the Radio Demon. But look, you let me take care of that part, okay? You don’t have to come.”

“Hey. You're the one who's actually interacted with sinners before. I want nothing to do with that. Have fun, don't die.”

Blitzø laughed. “Oh, bitch, I’ll be fine. Before I talk to him, though, I’ve got a couple of people I wanna get in touch with. I know someone who’s working at the Palace that I’m pretty sure will get in on this, and I met a guy in prison the time before this last one that I think I can bully into helping. He’s a pushover but he has quick hands.” He hesitated, then sighed, resting his elbow on the table and putting his head in his hand. “I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m gonna do about Loona, though. She wasn’t home so I haven’t even seen her yet.”

Fizz found his expression softening. There was not a nice way to ask this question. “Is she… She's still staying there, right?”

Blitzø nodded. “…well, I think so, anyway,” he amended, rolling his eyes slightly. “She’s at least using it for food and she made sure the rent got paid, but there’s no telling if she’s actually sleeping there or not. And if she is… she’ll be pissed if I don’t tell her about this, but I can’t just bring her.”

“Oh, she's not gonna like that,” Fizz chuckled.

“I know,” Blitzø groaned, slumping until his face met the table. He then sighed and sat up, schooling his expression in a way that Fizz could only see after years of experience. “I’ll figure it out. Are you hungry, or do you have to head straight back?”

He thought about it. “...Fuck it. I'm not technically scheduled and, oh, the reception in here gets so bad sometimes. Let's feast, bitch.” He didn't just silence his phone, he shut the damned thing off.

Who could say? Maybe the payoff would be big enough that he could consider some… adjustments to his career path.

•••

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