Cillian breathed in the wonderful air of the place he called home. Smoke-filled and grating containing wisps of burnt trees, in and out, in and out in a repetitive motion as he looked over the gorge at his un-repetitive life. The gorge stretched downwards into an unknown abyss that held nothing of the known, and didn’t lead anywhere that anyone knew about. A single rackety bridge, held together by rope and courage breached the gap between both sides. Taking another whiff, Cillian stepped onto the planks, black leather tightening around lanky figure, heels splintering the old wood. Step by step he meandered to the other side. With one swift movement, he popped the collar of his furred red jacket to straighten it, then set off, staring towards a sunset that did not exist. The horizon was red, specks of ash crumbling on the skyline and resting on tin roofs that were barely visible through the smog. He smiled.

Walking through the streets was always somewhat pleasant, save it be for a mishap or two - maybe a mugger, a fistfight, someone’s kid crying on the brick. It was normal for Hell, and normal for most Demons to see. He surely was not surprised by things he saw. After all, Cillian was a thief, a strange hobby, or occupation, some called it, that he held with pride. Branded with an ace of spades as soon as he died, he was gifted with a talent that most Demons grew envious of - the art of deception and putting everything on the line. He got what he wanted most of the time with this trick. Spades were cunning and tricky, but down in Hell, no one bothered to bat a dusty lash at your kingdom. A heart or a diamond or even a club, all were the same, and everyone was alike in each other. 

Cillian paused in front of his favorite pub. A splintered wooden sign hang over the entrance by chains that rattled in the dusty wind. In the distance, a train sounded, sending another breath of ash into the air like a dying smoker. He opened the door, and the bell chimed, signaling his arrival. Kicking up dust on his way to the counter, he sat and motioned at a just-as-dusty bottle resting on the shelf. 

The main counter at the pub, even through years of sliding glass cups and shuffling of gruff arms, had still managed to contain splinters; one Cillian had managed to catch under his thumb. As he worked away at it, another hand slid its way onto the counter and tapped its sharpened claws on the droplet-glazed cup of a bottle whiskey. The demon looked up lazily, green nails still plucking at the calloused skin on his hand. Usually he had something to fidget with, like a ring or bejeweled bracelet, but Cillian's bare arms sat on the wood with nothing to adorn them. 

“Going to drink that and pay me later, Cillian?” The voice of the hand leaned in. It was of moderate volume, but still sounded loud because of the husky and usual demanding tone. She knew his name because he was a regular visitor, even a friend, but Hethel did not change her voice for anyone except for the few handsome, rugged individuals who tended to be attracted to her.

“Ey?” Her hand tapped again on the young man's glass before sliding down to help the other clean a dusty bottle. 

Cillian shrugged. The splinter was now gone, but he could not help but still pick at where it was. Hethel seemed to notice this. Her eyes had become attuned to his habits, and every small deviance alerted her that something was...off. 

She sighed and plunked the bottle on the table. The pub was nearly empty, so she didn’t bother to whisper as she said, “What’s his name?”

“Oh, Lord, no.” He brushed aside a soft curl of green hair that landed near his cheek, then waved the hand lazily, spinning the hair around a pointed red horn. “I know how many times I’ve come to you with problems like that, but today my mind has wandered in other directions.” 

Hethel rolled her eyes and stared at him with a smirk playing on her toothy mouth. “You’re not wearing your gold today, Cal.” Her gaze focused to one of confusion rather than playfulness.  

“I’m aware.” Perhaps he was, but it still was uncomfortable for Cillian to not have the feeling of cold-forged metal on his arm. “I left them at home because I didn’t want to get mugged again.” 

She grunted, turning her head so her freckles that covered her cheeks like spattered red dirt were visible. “Ironic.” 

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“I’m serious!” Cillian said. “The streets around here are almost as greedy as I am!” 

As he finished, the door opened, and the rusted bell chimed. Glancing over, he realized it was Quinn, goggles and all. In the dim light of the pub, he looked almost like molten chocolate, with the warmth of the setting sun seeping through the windows to outline his thin, twiggy frame. Quinn bumbled over to where they were sitting with a usual aloofness that still managed to carry the aura of someone who knew their craft, like a mad scientist. He sat and removed his tin backpack from his shoulders.

“I’ve got some interesting news for you today.” Pulling out a crumpled pile of papers, he looked down toward Hethel. Even though she was short, Quinn was so tall that she looked even smaller than she normally did. 

“You probably have another piece of fresh news I have yet to find out about, like always.” 

“Like always.” Quinn smiled and opened the pile to reveal a clean-pressed page of black and white ink inscripted with the hand of a journalists’ quill. “I suppose you’ve seen the angels roaming about?” 

Hethel grunted and rolled her eyes. “Who hasn’t?” Her shoulder slumped lazily, red braids falling onto her back like twine. 

Cillian clasped his hands together. “It’s hard not to notice attractive figures roaming around dressed in bright white in the middle of our streets.” In this part of town the smoke from nearby trains and generators clogged them like morning fog. 

“Okay, anyways, yeah you’ve seen them, but I bet you didn’t know why.” Quinn leaned forwards. “It’s not that big of a scoop, but it’s something. I’ve heard they’ve been having...minor difficulties concerning their finances upstairs.” 

To the grimy demons of hell, this was news. Down there, it was chaotic, unruly, and no one dared to care about the forces that used to, or may still, govern it. But upstairs? In the plane of white and gold and misty clouds? This was bigger than Quinn said it to be.  

Now, Hethel had heard a lot of gossip and secret dealings in her days as a bartender, but Cillian could tell she thought this was important too. She turned her full attention to the article with a spark in her eyes. He too, gazed at it, tipping his glasses so he could read the fine print. Quinn ran a hand through his head of tight curls with the look of a man who had just stumbled upon raw gold. 

“Apparently, too, this is even bigger...” They all listened intently. A man shouted from the corner of the pub, but Hethel simply waved, sliding a glass clumsily in his direction. “It’s the diamonds.” 

Cillian nearly fell off the chair. 

Hethel bounced back with a jitter like a freshly oiled spring. 

Diamonds held their position as the highest of the ruling kingdoms - they were unbreakable, or they seemed to be. Somehow, news had gotten out. What possible reason would they have to declare financial instability? Sure, this was a tabloid, but there was some truth buried in between those crinkled lies.

“Oh my lord.” Cillian gasped. This was exciting, this was news. More than news, something that could rattle the course upstairs for eternity. “If angels are coming down here to escape heaven, it has to be...” 

Hethel breathed. “This could crumble their reputation.” 

“I think it's something different." Quinn stated with a pointed gaze. "Angels aren't coming down here on their own whim, or I wouldn't suppose so. You know how much they despise this place." He shrugged. "But our government, or at least what's left of it, has tried to advertise that already." 

Cillian glanced at the paper. In big, pointed letters it read lines like Best scenic canyon views! Comfortable villas for vacationing! Escape reality with our ‘heavenly’ hot springs!

He didn't read it all. Glancing up with a spark in his eyes, he slammed his hand onto the table and got up, rubbing his rough hands together. "I know what I'm gonna do." 

"Oh my Lord....what now." Hethel sighed with a frown on her face. 

Quinn twisted his head. "Yeah, I...uh..." 

Putting his hands up in the air, Cillian exclaimed, "I gotta find out whats happening up there!" 

Hethel put her hands over her frizzed red hair. "Of course you do ..." 

Quinn shrugged. "If anyone can snoop, Cill can. I mean, aren't you wondering what's going on? Something powerful enough to force them out of their gold-framed homes?" 

Cillian grunted and smiled, pointed teeth glaring in the ominous red light. "I know I'm good at sneaking around. I'll be fine. If an angel can come down here, who says I can't go up to them? I've always wanted to steal a real platinum bracelet or two anyways." 

Hethel looked down and shook her head with her hands palming her forehead. "That's a death wish."

He laughed. "They're just puffed up angels, what can they do to me?"

"Don't die, please." Quinn said to me. "I have some books I can lend you from the archives, don't just say--"

"That my street smarts can keep my alive?"

Quinn nodded nervously and gulped. 

He shrugged. "What's a demon like me to do down here in hell anyways? It'll be a fun trip." 

"Whatever you say, Cal." Hethel sighed, almost in resignation. It seemed Quinn had given up on persuading him as well. When Cillian was excited about a mission, they knew he was un-convincable. 

"I'll try not to steal part of those golden gates for my collection." Cillian winked, before clinking his boots and heading out the door.