Tales of Six- Episode Three: Party all the Time

Tales of Six

Episode Three

Party All the Time

The celebration had been going on for hours, the air thick with smoke, alcohol, and the scent of revelry. Every Demon, Devil, and Child of Satan in Hell had gathered for the grand party before The Reaping, a night of unchecked indulgence before the unsuspecting town ran red with sacrifice. Music thumped within the grounds of The Church of Satan, laughter mixing with the occasional sounds of fights breaking out among the rowdier guests.

Six, standing with her arms crossed, leaned against one of the stone pillars near the center of the colossal cathedral, watching, idly, as Otis and Lilly Kubrick made their overdramatic speeches. Mazzy, Sixes’ best friend, along with her main squeeze, Boris, made a grand entrance accompanied with The Torturer, Maxwell Kubrick, and his loyal gang of six. What mostly stood out for Six was Mazzy’s usual unreadable expression that slightly seemed alighted with what could possibly construe as mischief. Six knew the moment she locked eyes with Mazzy that this party, for all its chaos, would bore them both to death within the hour.

Annabella Kubrick, Hell’s possibly infamous usurper, sat on her dark throne at the head of the arena, lazily swirling a goblet of crimson liquid. Six felt her gaze land on her and raised her chin slightly, waiting for her Master’s permission to move. Annabella smirked, tilting her glass toward her in a silent dismissal. “You can go hang out with Mazzy if you want. Say hi to her for me.”

With a wide grin, Six bowed respectfully before weaving her way through the crowd, making a beeline for Mazzy and Boris. “Having fun yet?” Six asked, stepping between the pathetic lovers, her presence immediately shifted their romantic mood and also encouraging Maxwell and his clique to disperse within the large crowd.

Mazzy scoffed internally. Hardly. This party’s a fucking joke! Same faces, same bullshit, same pathetic fights. Everyone’s trying to impress some Demon for a promotion before The Reaping.

“Boring,” Six agreed, nudging Boris in his ribs with her elbow. “What about you? Enjoying yourself?”

Boris shrugged. “I’ve been here less than five minutes. Ask me again in another five.”

Six grinned. “How about I save us the trouble and we go somewhere actually fun?”

Mazzy’s usually lifeless eyes gleamed with interest. What did you have in mind?

“There’s an ancient, abandoned farmhouse near the boundaries of Hell,” Six said, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “I like to hang out there sometimes. It’s quiet, isolated. Way more relaxing than being surrounded by idiots trying to out-sin each other.”

Mazzy tuned into Boris’s brain, specifically, unexpectantly. Well? You in?

Boris sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, alright. But let’s try to get back here soon, before everyone notices we ditched them.”

***

The farmhouse stood like a forgotten relic; its skeletal frame silhouetted against the dim glow of Hell’s horizon. The land surrounding it was dead and barren, a strange kind of void where even the fires of Hell barely seemed to reach. It was Six’s favorite spot when she needed to get away from it all. Inside, the air smelled of dust and decay. Broken furniture and old tools were scattered about, remnants of whatever had existed before Hell swallowed it whole. Mazzy followed suit, so to speak, hovering around certain interesting ancient artifacts with genuine curiosity, while Boris paced near the doorway, glancing outside every few moments. “This place is a fucking dump.”

“That’s what makes it so great,” Six replied. “No one ever comes out here. So, no rules. No watchful eyes.”

The old farmhouse stood like an enormous skeleton against the dim glow of Hell’s horizon, its splintered wood and sunken roof making it appear more like a rotting corpse than a structure. Six led the way further, her usual confident stride unbothered by the unsettling creaks and groans coming from the warped floorboards beneath her boots. The air was thick with an unsettling presence—not Demonic, not ghostly, but something primal.

Something watching.

Mazzy Campbell wrinkled her nose as a cacophony of caws erupted from the farmhouse’s rafters. She flinched as a black-feathered storm took flight, dozens of crows spilling from the open eaves and crisscrossing above them like a chaotic cloud.

“Fucking Hell!” Boris grumbled, waving a hand in front of his face as if to ward off the birds. “This place was bad enough without this damn infestation!”

Mazzy watched the swirling mass of birds settle across the nearby fence posts and the half-collapsed barn, their beady black eyes reflecting the dim firelight of the Underworld’s sky. That shit ain’t right, she murmured internally, hugging her arms defensively.

Six, on the other hand, was utterly unbothered. She stepped toward an open window, holding out an open palm toward the nearest group of birds. One of them tilted its head, considering her, before hopping forward and dropping a small, glinting object into her hand.

Mazzy recoiled. What the fuck was that?

Six turned her hand to show them the offer: a small, rusty key. “They bring me things,” she said simply, rolling it between her fingers. “Shiny stuff, usually. Trinkets.”

Boris and Mazzy exchanged wary glances. “That’s weird as shit,” accused Boris.

Six shrugged indifferently. “I feed them sometimes. Raw meat, mostly. That’s probably why they stick around here and bring me things in return. It’s a mutual respect I guess?” She gestured around the farmhouse.

Now that Boris and Mazzy looked closer, the eerie truth became clear. Scattered throughout the broken home, arranged in small, intricate patterns, were bones, rings, shattered bits of mirror, and rusted trinkets. The birds had been placing them there deliberately, as if constructing tiny shrines throughout the wreckage.

Mazzy shuddered involuntarily.

Six smirked. “I don’t see the problem. They’re good company.” She turned toward the birds, clicking her tongue. A few of them cawed in response, fluttering closer but keeping a respectful distance. “I mean, think about it. A murder of crows? Sounds like my kind of people.”

Boris shook his head, muttering something under his breath again about ‘crazy Demonic girls,’ but Mazzy was still staring at the collected offerings with a wary expression. And you don’t think it’s creepy that they’re, like, worshipping you or some shit?

Six traced her fingers over a broken locket one of the crows had delivered days ago, her grin widening. “Nah, I think they know a fellow predator when they see one.” The defensive Child finally gave up on her explanations, plopped down on a creaky wooden chair, kicking her feet up on a rotting table.

Mazzy sighed. So, what now? We just sit around in this haunted house all night?

Haunted? Six wondered to herself. But she could never really keep her own thoughts to herself around Mazzy.

Oh, fuck yeah. This place has a shitload of history, going all the way back to the colonization of the Second Leg of Hell, answered Mazzy introspectively, without invitation, as usual.

Six just let it go. She really didn’t want a history lesson about this place in case it might ruin it for her. A slow smile spread across Six’s face. “I don’t really give a shit what happened here hundreds of years ago. Let’s just make this a place of our own with some new memories.” She allowed herself an innocent shrug. “And maybe add a few ghosts here of our own?”

Mazzy arched a brow. You have something in mind?

Six leaned forward. “Think about it. Everyone’s too busy celebrating the upcoming Reaping to care about anything else. If a Lost Soul just… disappeared, who’s gonna notice?”

Boris stiffened. “You mean just grab one off the streets of Hell? Kidnap a Lost Soul? Like nobody would ever notice?”

Six shrugged. “More like just borrowing one for the night.”

Mazzy grinned a more skeletal smile on her already skeletal simile. Now that’s an idea. But how could we pull that off?

“There’s always a few Lost Souls wandering near the outer districts, running errands for their heartless Masters,” Six said. “Easy pickings.”

Boris exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You two are insane.”

You knew that before you decided to hook up with a Demon, thought Mazzy, almost cracking her frail Demonic face with her death smile now. So? You in, or are we doing this without you?

Boris groaned, running a hand down his face. “Fine. But if this goes sideways, it’s on you two. This would be a death sentence for me if we got caught.”

Six ran her index finger somewhat seductively up and down Boris’s recently scarred back. “Don’t you worry about a thing big boy.” The gesture made Mazzy a bit jealous and also made Boris seem even more uneasy. “We just need a big strong man to help us,” concluded Six, a bit more friendly instead of seductive now, always knowing how to play her games.

***

Six’s heels scraped against the cracked sidewalk as she walked towards the liquor store. The late-night air was cold, sharp, biting at her skin like the unspoken tension hanging over them. Boris, with his heavy-set shoulders hunched against the wind, shuffled behind her. Mazzy floated a few rotations behind with her six human skulls always trailing and orbiting, her sharp eyes scanning the area, a permanent edge to her movements that reminded Six of one of her pet crows. Silent but alert, the three of them moved like shadows, the city’s neon lights flickering in the distance. The long traverse had soon worn out their previous intoxication, so they needed more supplies. Boris had especially insisted on getting something strong for this mission, his nerves obviously shot because of what they were planning. Mazzy mostly kept her complaints to herself, as usual.

The bell above the door jingled as they entered the small liquor store. The air was thick with the scent of stale alcohol and poorly mopped puke. A lone, tired clerk manned the counter, his unshaven face half-lit by the fluorescent lights overhead. His eyes flicked up, revealing the barest hint of curiosity, before he returned to staring at the counter, uninterested in their presence.

Mazzy didn’t waste time. She floated among the shelves, levitating selected bottles, the strongest ones with a practiced eye. Boris, on the other hand, was already at the back, eyes darting between the aisles like he was expecting someone to jump out at them. “You got a lighter?” he asked gruffly, his voice low, barely audible over the soft hum of the store.

Six reached into her jacket pocket and tossed him a worn-out Zippo. He caught it with ease, sparing her a glance of gratitude before he lit a cigarette. The smell of tobacco mixed with the stale air.

“Just try not to burn the place down,” Mazzy muttered as she grabbed a few bottles and made her way to the counter.

“Yeah, yeah,” Boris muttered back, after chugging from a recent opened bottle impatiently, his voice already slurring slightly. He eyed the clerk, who still hadn’t looked up, and smirked. “You’d think they’d at least pretend to care about the customers.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Six said, her voice cold and distant, her gaze fixed on the dark streets outside. “We’re not here for him.”

Mazzy mentally uncrumpled a few bills in midair and then let them fall onto the counter. The clerk accepted them greedily, his eyes finally meeting the Children for a brief second but deliberately avoiding looking at one of his Masters out of fear and respect. There was something in his look—a mix of suspicion and indifference. But he wisely said nothing and then slid the bottles into a paper bag, then turned back to whatever he’d been doing before the fearsome customers had shown up.

As Mazzy made her way back to the door, Six felt a flicker of something—an unease that had nothing to do with the dark night or the strange chill in the air. Maybe it was the fact that she was so close to where everything started.

You got the body of a six-year-old!

That damn haunting voice still continued to taunt her from her tormented past. How many people would she need to kill before she finally had enough respect for herself? Would that even make it go away? With a final hateful glance at the clerk, Six followed Mazzy and Boris out of the store, the bell jingling behind them as the door swung shut. The world outside seemed to close in, and the flickering lights cast long shadows over the street, guiding them on the next leg of their journey.

The evil trio spent close to an hour drinking and lurking near the outskirts, watching as various Lost Souls scurried from place to place. Finally, they spotted one—a lanky, hollow-eyed man carrying a satchel, his head bowed as he trudged through the dimly lit alleyways. Six acted fast. She stepped out in front of him, her most devious death smile possible plastered across her face. “Hey there.”

The Lost Soul flinched, eyes darting up at her. “M-Mistress, I-I’m on an errand, I c-can’t—”

Mazzy hovered above him, her six skulls encircling him. Yeah? We got an errand too. So, you’re coming with us.

The man barely had time to react before Boris grabbed him from behind, clamping a hand over his mouth. Altogether, the dastardly mini gang dragged the damned Soul into the shadows.

***

Back at the farmhouse, the soon-to-be sacrificed Pig was tied to an old chair in the center of the living room, trembling. Six walked circles around him, fingering the blade of her infamous butterfly knife, absentmindedly.

Mazzy cycled in slow rotations before the man, allowing her skulls to take a few sampled bites of the man’s exposed flesh. You know, we don’t get to play like this very often.

The Lost Soul whimpered. “P-please—”

Six clamped a hand over his mouth, grinning. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you? Begging only makes it worse.”

Hours passed in a haze of screams, laughter, and blood. Boris stood back most of the time, watching in uneasy silence. Mazzy was fully into it, slowly flaying and taunting, her sadistic streak flaring. But it was Six who enjoyed it most. Every cut, every broken bone, every drop of blood a pleasured bliss. Finally, when the man was barely holding onto life, Six stretched, sighing. “Well, that was fun.”

“So, now what?” Boris asked nervously, hoping the girls’ sadistic fantasies were finally fulfilled.

Six licked some blood off her finger, her gaze flicking to Boris. “Now we clean up.”

Boris frowned after surveying the sadistic mess. “How the fuck do we clean up this?”

Six twirled her blood-slicken knife between her fingers. “Easy. We make sure there’s nothing left to find.” Before anyone could react, she plunged the blade into the Lost Soul’s throat, twisting until the gurgling stopped.

Boris swore under his breath.

Mazzy laughed.

Six wiped the blade on her victim’s shirt, smiling. “Now that’s how you end a party.” She playfully looped an arm around Boris’s shoulders.

Mazzy grinned unbelievably so for her deathly appearance.

Six, Mazzy, and Boris gathered around the lifeless body, their adrenaline still pumping after the brutal kill. The euphoria of violence was quickly giving way to the grim reality of what they had done. As much as murder was commonplace in Hell, being caught for an unsanctioned kill—especially during the festivities of The Reaping—was something they couldn’t afford. “Alright, fun’s over. We need to get rid of this thing,” Six said, stretching her arms like she had just finished a workout.

Boris tilted his head, kicking the corpse idly with his boot. “Yeah, no shit! We obviously can’t just leave it here. Even with all the bodies piling up for The Reaping, they’ll still notice this one’s missing.” Boris ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, glancing around the decayed interior of the abandoned farmhouse. “We could just burn this shithole down,” he suggested. “Turn it all into ashes, nothing left.”

Six scoffed. “Too obvious. Someone might see the fire. Plus, I kinda like this place ―for some reason.”

Mazzy rolled her eyes. Of course you do.

Six grinned. “Don’t worry, I have a plan. But first we need to chop it up.”

Boris sighed heavily. “Why does it always come to that?”

Six wondered internally, Is this a constant problem for Boris? Sometimes I wonder. . .

Mazzy left that question unanswered in Six’s mind.

Six ignored her internal question and approached the rusted tool rack leaning against the barn wall. She grabbed a rusty hatchet, flipped it a few times in her hand to judge the weight of it. “Well, we can’t exactly carry a full-grown body across Hell without getting noticed. But in pieces? Nobody even looks twice.”

Mazzy telepathically inspected an old buck saw, mentally sizing up its jagged teeth while she made a few practiced strokes midair. I’ll take the arms and legs. Boris, you’re on torso duty. Six, you get the head.

“My favorite part.” Six knelt by the corpse, positioning the hatchet under its chin. With a single swing, she cracked through the neck, then she continued, blood spurting with each hack, until the severed head rolled away on the dusty wooden floorboards.

Mazzy got to work on the extremities. With that job done, Boris groaned before he hauled away the dismembered torso. They wrapped the pieces in some old burlap sacks they luckily found, while the ravenous crows flocked back inside and gorged themselves on the blood and bits of bodily matter the sick kids had sloppily left behind.

“Now, to get rid of the evidence,” Six said, wiping blood off her face. “We need to take a little field trip.”

They loaded the sacks into a rickety cart left outside the farmhouse, draping a filthy tarp over it. Boris pulled it like an ox while Six and Mazzy walked and floated behind the oversized beast of burden, always keeping an eye out for any prying eyes. The outskirts of Hell were filled with deep ravines and pits where things were discarded and forgotten—Lost Souls, failed relationships, and unwanted pregnancies. It was the perfect place. They reached one such ravine, a seemingly bottomless drop into darkness. Six pulled the first sack free and tossed it between her bloodied hands. “Mazzy, you wanna do the first honors?”

Mazzy smirked and levitated the sack before finally tossing it over the edge. It soon disappeared into the abyss below. Boris followed suit, tossing more of the unwanted evidence with a relieved sigh.

Six held the final sack, the one containing the severed head. Instead of throwing it immediately, she crouched down and unwrapped it. The dead eyes stared up at her blankly. She grinned, then leaned in close enough to kiss the dead parted lips, then whispered, “You were a fun one.” With a sudden flick of her wrist, she hurled the head into the void like it was so much rubbish. The three of them stood there for a moment, watching the darkness swallow their crime. When no sound came from below, Six sighed with relief, then turned to her friends. “Well, that was a productive night so far. Who’s up for round two?”

Boris groaned. “Six, I swear―”

Mazzy laughed. Maybe some other time. We better get back to the Pre-Reaping party before anyone starts wondering where we are.

The guilty party returned from the darkened outskirts of Hell, ensuring their return was as discreet as their departure. The Church was presently alive with drunken celebration, the air still thick with the scent of smoke and burning effigies. The Hellish festivity was still in full swing when they reached the grand hall.

Annabella Kubrick sat upon an elevated platform, surrounded by her closest confidants (minus one). Her sharp, discerning eyes surveyed the congregation like a predator watching its prey. Six knew better than to try and slip in unnoticed. Instead, she strutted in as if she had been there the entire time, a knowing smirk on her lips. Mazzy spun around a bit more repeatedly than usual and tried not to giggle in all their minds, swaying slightly to the rhythm of the background music. We just took a little walk; we needed some fresh air, she finally offered as an excuse for their long absence.

Annabella’s gaze flickered over them, lingering on Boris, who stood rigidly behind them. “I hope you three weren’t up to anything… unseemly?”

Six met her Master’s gaze behind her bangs without flinching, her voice as smooth as silk. “Of course not, Master. Just celebrating the upcoming Reaping in our own way.”

Annabella’s lips curled into something resembling a smirk, but there was an unspoken warning in her expression. “Good. It would’ve been a shame if you missed too much fun here.” Her baby blue goat eyes rolled with obvious sarcasm.

Six nodded her head in mock admission, then herself, Mazzy and Boris tried their best to blend into the revelry. The rest of the night passed in a haze of music, blood, and unbridled debauchery. No one questioned where they had been or suspected the horror they had left behind in the abandoned farmhouse. The grand hall of the Church of Satan was alive with extreme acts of chivalry, the air thick with the musk of sweat, blood, and burning incense. Fires crackled in the pits everywhere, casting grotesque shadows that danced with the crowd’s frenzied movement. The infamous Andersons pounded music through the areas in a rhythm that mimicked the pounding of Hell’s own dark heart. Bodies writhed together in ecstatic celebration, fueled by bloodlust and Unholy intoxication.

Six, Mazzy, and Boris were finally starting to feel like they were blending seamlessly back into the madness after their little “excursion” outside, so they eventually found their way back to Six’s preferred perch near the base of Annabella Kubrick’s platform, watching the chaos unfold with mild amusement. Mazzy, never one to “sit still”, hovered about in lazy circles, her skeletal form and her skeletal followers catching the dim torchlight in strange, shifting patterns. Boris, however, stood slightly apart, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of the crowd’s energy. He was a brute by appearance—hulking and broad-shouldered—but the truth was that he had never fit into this world of violence and sadistic pleasure. He preferred to observe silently, always keeping his head down to avoid confrontation at all costs.

But that peace was about to be shattered.

It started with a leer. A Child of Satan—one of Maxwell Kubrick’s failed lackeys—had slithered up to Mazzy like a hungry wolf seeking Demonic flesh, a must-needed diet for every possibly doomed Child’s survival. He was lean and wiry, his inky black eyes glinting with mischief and malice. His name was Draven, and he had a particularly bad reputation for being a cruel bastard who enjoyed pushing people’s limits. “You float like a wisp, little Mazzy,” he purred, stepping too close, his clawed fingers grazing the air just inches from the pale skin of her exposed ankles. “I wonder, can you feel anything at all from the neck down? Or would it take only a real man to make you tremble?”

Mazzy, ever the enigma, simply tilted her head, her deathly grin unwavering. But Boris saw the shift in her posture. The tightening of her fingers. The slight, barely perceptible twitch of her eye. She didn’t like being touched— not by anyone except him.

Draven took her silence as an invitation. He moved closer, lifting a hand as if to run his fingers along the bony calf just below her dress.

Boris acted before he could think.

His massive hand shot out, grabbing Draven’s wrist in an iron grip. The force was enough to stop the Child of Satan in his tracks. For a brief second, the entire world seemed to stand still. The music suddenly stopped; the revelers seized their celebrations to seek out this bizarre confrontation. For Boris, time had narrowed into a singular, suffocating moment.

Draven’s lip curled, more out of inconvenience from being robbed of his intended motive rather than the extreme pain. He forced a look of amusement even though he was in total agony. “Oh? The beast finally bares his fangs?”

Boris swallowed; his throat was dry. His heart pounded, not so much from anger, but from fear. He had never been in a real fight before. The last time his fists had connected with something, it had ended in instant death. One punch. One lost life. One terrifying, unforgivable mistake that had nearly killed him on a whipping post and placed him on parole till this day.

Draven yanked his wrist free and shoved Boris back. “You think you can tell me what to do, lapdog? What, afraid I’ll take your little ghost away?”

Boris took a deep breath. He could feel all eyes on him now. Other Demons and Children of Satan, all waiting to see what he would do. Mazzy barely moved, but her presence was electric beside him. She needed to let him decide how to handle this, though. He was a big boy, after all. A very, very big boy. But that’s what worried her most. Still, she couldn’t step in to protect him. That would do unreputable damage to both their reputations and instantly put an instant end to a possible wedding in their future.

Draven smirked, sensing Boris’s hesitation and the fear it evoked. “Pathetic.”

Boris finally struck first with an open-handed bitch slap hoping that maneuver might not kill the much undersized but bold opponent. Draven’s face reeled from the blow, mostly from shock, but the sheer force was almost enough to spin his head like a top. The usually bashful Child of Satan barely had time to gloat, never mind time to react, when Draven’s fist slammed into his square jaw with a returned swing. There was more insult than injury done to Boris’s jar-shaped head; the impact barely moved him. He was too big, too solid. Draven recoiled instantly, shaking out his busted-up knuckles with a scowl.

“That’s it?” Six called from the sidelines, leaning against her favorite pillar with an unimpressed look. “You’re picking a fight, and that’s all you got?”

Draven snarled and went in again, this time faster. His clawed hands raked across Boris’s face, drawing shallow cuts. It wasn’t the pain that bothered Boris—it was the rage that was building inside him. The pressure. The heat. The memories of that one fatal mistake flashed in his mind. He clenched his fists. Don’t do it. Don’t lose control again, he thought to himself.

Draven sneered, taunting him. “What’s the matter? Scared you’ll break me like you broke that pathetic Lost Soul?

That did it.

Boris’s fist swung before he even realized he had moved. It connected Draven’s gut like a hammer to stone, lifting the wiry bastard clean off the ground. Draven choked, the wind knocked from his lungs, his body crumpling like a ragdoll. He hit the floor hard, gasping, clutching his stomach in agony.

The surrounding crowd let out a collective gasp, then a cheer.

Boris’s breath was ragged, his knuckles throbbing from the impact. He looked down at Draven, who was struggling to get up, but failing. His body wasn’t built to take hits like that. Boris knew he could end this right now. One more punch. One more blow. He could make sure Draven never got up again.

But he didn’t. Instead, he took a step back.

Draven coughed, glaring at him with a mixture of pain and disbelief. “Y-you hit me!”

Boris exhaled, shaking out his hand. “Yeah, but I didn’t kill you. You should be grateful.”

The onlookers erupted in laughter. Even Mazzy let out an approving snicker. Six clapped her hands, her wicked grin wide. “Well, well. The big guy finally knows how to throw a punch. Took you long enough.”

Annabella Kubrick’s voice cut through the noise like a blade. “That’s enough!”

Silence fell instantly. All eyes turned to the Mistress of Hell. She stood; her expression was unreadable. For a long moment, she simply looked at Boris. He could feel the weight of her gaze, the silent calculation behind those blue goat eyes. Then, she smirked. “I must say, I’m impressed. I didn’t think you had it in you, Boris. Your dumb ass finally learned how to stick up for himself.” She looked over at Mazzy with acceptance. “I officially bless your marriage.”

Boris swallowed hard, bowing his head overdramatically in deep respect. “Thank you Master.”

Annabella flicked her gaze towards Draven, who was still coughing and trying to regain his breath. “Maybe you should go home before you embarrass yourself further.”

The abashed Child’s face burned with humiliation. He shot Boris with a look of pure venom before storming off into the crowds.

Mazzy finally floated over to Boris and dropped her frail frame into his massive arms. My hero! she thought while he cradled her like a baby. You look kind of hot right now, she mused. Maybe I should get you in fights more often.

Boris sighed. “God, I hope not.”

Six grinned, slinging an arm around Boris’s side. “Well, that was hilarious. Who’s up for another round of drinks?”

Boris groaned. “You two are gonna be the death of me.”

Mazzy and Six exchanged wicked grins

***

As the festivities wound down and the first hints of the next cycle loomed on the horizon, Six leaned back against (that respectful?) pillar again, satisfied, watching the dwindling crowd. She felt like she had fed her hunger for the night, though that hardly meant an end to the chaos. The drunkenness had reached its peak, and now it was settling into that ugly stage where tempers flared and the true depravity of Hell’s inhabitants came into full view. The Church of Satan’s grand hall was littered with half-conscious debauchers, some still laughing, others slurring half-baked philosophies to whoever would listen. Smoke hung thick in the air, with the stench of spilled alcohol mixed with blood and sweat.

Six continued to lean against her supportive stone pillar, arms crossed, taking in the scene with mild amusement. The night had been entertaining, especially the bit with Boris and his so-called fight—but now, she was looking for something to punctuate the evening properly. A final little thrill before the Reaping began.

That’s when she noticed him.

A Child of Satan she didn’t recognize was weaving toward her through the dissipating crowd. He was tall and broad-shouldered but sloppily dressed, his tunic half-buttoned, his belt and butcher knife missing. His dirty-blond hair gleamed with sweat, and his bloodshot eyes were fixed on her like a predator that had long since lost its grace. A cruel smile was plastered across his face as he staggered closer.

“Hey― Six, right?” His voice was thick with alcohol, his words overly slurred. “You’re in Annabella’s gang of six now, right? I’ve been trying to build up the nerve to talk to you after you got out of jail.”

Six let her gaze drift lazily over him, already unimpressed. “Well, you’re talking to me now. Congratulations.”

He let out a chuckle that was more of a snort. “Funny. You’re funny― and pretty! And… dangerous?” He leaned in, his breath reeking of a particularly foul liquor. “I like that.”

Six arched an eyebrow but remained still, allowing him to come closer. “Yeah? And what exactly do you think you’re gonna do about that?”

The drunken Child of Satan grinned like he thought she was playing along. “I dunno. How about we go for a little― a little walk. Maybe find somewhere quieter? Just you and me. Ain’t every day― (loud burp) Not every day I get to meet a girl like you.”

Six tilted her head slightly, playing the game just long enough to see where he thought he was going with it. His confidence, despite his inebriation, was almost impressive.

Almost.

She reached out suddenly, her fingers tracing lightly along his wrist, feeling the pulse beneath the skin. He grinned wider.

That’s when she struck.

Quick as a whisper, she flicked open her butterfly knife and buried it deep between his ribs. The blade slid in cleanly, angled just right to puncture something vital. The drunken bastard let out a sharp inhale, his eyes going wide, but before he could react, Six leaned in closer, her lips just a breath away from his ear. “Just keep walking,” she whispered, twisting the blade ever so slightly before yanking it back out in one smooth motion.

His body shuddered as a wave of pain overtook him, but the alcohol dulled his senses so much that he didn’t even process what had happened. He took a stumbling step back, blinking rapidly. “What?”

“Go,” Six said smoothly, tucking the bloodied blade away just as fast as it had appeared. “Before you fucking embarrass yourself.” Then she added like she just remembered the fact, “I already have a boyfriend”

The fool nodded. Then he turned and shuffled away, leaving behind a thick trail of blood.

Six watched him leave, her expression utterly serene. She figured he probably didn’t even realize he was dying yet. She took a slow breath, enjoying the satisfaction of another perfect kill. No one had seen the fatal jab. No one would question why he wandered off. And by the time anyone noticed his body, he’d be just another casualty of the night’s excess.

Only minutes passed until a drunken call rang out. “Hey—hey, what the fuck is wrong with him?”

There was a brief commotion. A few more voices, some muttering, some laughing.

“Did he pass out?”

“Shit, he looks fucked up. Did he just piss himself―”

“Wait― is that? Is that blood?”

The atmosphere shifted slightly, just for a moment, before it melted back into the usual Hellish indifference. Someone let out a laugh. “Ha! Guess the idiot finally got himself into a fight he couldn’t handle, eh?”

“Typical,” another voice scoffed. “He always ran his mouth too much.”

Six allowed herself a small smile as she turned away, blending back into the crowd. No one would question it. No one would care. He would rot there for the rest of the night, and in the morning, someone would drag his corpse to the pyres with the rest of the trash. Just another casualty in Hell’s unforgiving design. The remorseless Hellcat wove her way through the drunken masses, stepping over unconscious bodies, dodging grasping hands, and sidestepping the occasional puddle of piss or vomit. The night had stretched on for what felt like an eternity, and while she had enjoyed herself immensely, she was beginning to grow weary of the noise, the stench, and the predictable debauchery. It was always the same— drink, fight, fuck, repeat. It all blended together after a while. She was just considering making an early exit when she caught sight of someone unexpectedly lingering at the edge of the revelry.

Adam Pearson?

Six froze for a moment, blinking as if her mind was playing tricks on her. Adam was the last person she expected to see at a gathering like this. He was many things— powerful, intelligent, even dangerous when necessary— but he was usually not one for crowds. Nor was he fond of music, for obvious reasons. His deaf world made places like this overwhelming and tedious at best. And yet, here he was, standing near one of the towering stone pillars of the cathedral, his arms crossed, much like her proud pose for most of the night, his sharp features always unreadable. When he finally turned his head in her direction, as if sensing her eyes on him, Six broke into a grin and sauntered over, her bloodstained fingers tapping against her hip. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite antisocial Demon,” she teased, stopping just before him. “Are you lost or something?”

Adam arched a brow, his oversized, penetrating eyes locking onto her bangs like he could See right through them. He smirked, though it was subtle. “You sound surprised to see me here,” he said smoothly, brushing a gloved hand across her cheek while his other hand rested casually on the handle of his sword.

“That’s because I am surprised,” Six admitted. “I know how much you hate parties.”

Adam tilted his head, the barest hint of amusement flickering over his otherwise composed face. “And I’m sure you’d rather be somewhere else too. And yet, here we are.”

Six scoffed, crossing her arms in a gesture of confession. “Yup, here we are.”

Adam made a slight motion with his hand as if gesturing to the world at large. “We both have our obligation to make appearances out of duty. Oh, and my parents thought it would be best for me to come here to show my respects. Apparently, lurking in my tower all night makes me seem ‘unapproachable.’” His lips twitched as if the word itself was ridiculous.

“You? Unapproachable? No way.” Six smirked. “Next thing you’ll tell me is that Annabella’s still a sweetheart, and Boris loves confrontation.”

Adam’s smirk faded slightly as he sighed. ” Speaking of Boris, I’ve been hearing rumors that you disappeared for quite a while with him and Mazzy. Should I be afraid to ask what the three of you might have been up to while most of Hell was distracted by these― ” he let out a disgusted huff before he scanned the depraved area. “These… festivities.”

Six paused for a fraction of a second, her mind rifling through her options. She had been up to plenty of mischief this evening but nothing that she particularly felt like sharing. Not because she felt guilty for not including Adam―oh no! She never felt guilty about anything. Probably just because she felt like some things were simply better left unsaid. Adam was many things, but naive wasn’t one of them. If she gave him too many details, she knew he’d put all the pieces together quickly. So, she took the safest route: the half-truth. “I was just babysitting Boris and Mazzy,” she said with an exaggerated sigh. “You know how they get. Mazzy gets bored and wants to start trouble, and Boris just wants to stay out of it, and then somehow, I always end up in the middle. I swear, I should start charging them for my services.”

Adam regarded her in silence, his penetrating eyes almost unreadable, though Six had learned to pick up on his subtle shifts in posture and micro-expressions. He was considering her words, weighing them, picking apart what she wasn’t saying. He wasn’t the kind of person you could lie to, not outright. But the truth— especially when woven with just enough humor and exasperation, was often enough to satisfy him.

Finally, he gave a slow nod. “Yes, I also heard about the so-called fight after. Your commitment to your friends is outstanding― and most likely exhausting.”

Six relaxed slightly. “Tell me about it. I should be the one drinking myself stupid right now― but oh no! Instead, I had to make sure Mazzy didn’t set anyone on fire and that Boris didn’t get himself killed for looking at someone the wrong way.”

Adam hummed in acknowledgment, then reached out, brushing a gloved finger over the dried blood on her cheek. “And this?”

Six grinned, catching his hand in hers. “Oh, you know. Just a little party favor.”

Adam held her gaze for a long moment before shaking his head slightly, his version of a chuckle. “One of these nights, you’re going to bite off more than you can chew.”

She leaned in closer, making sure he could read her lips when she said, “Well then, lucky for you I don’t bite everything I put in my mouth.”

Adam sighed with pleasure from that thought. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough pretending to care about these celebrations.”

Six didn’t argue. She looped her arm through his, leading him away from the chaos, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. She may not have told Adam the whole truth, but she had told him enough. And, at least for tonight, that was all that mattered. A fitting end to what she decided was a perfect end to one of her last nights in Hell.

For soon, she would be storming The Gate in New Hope.

The End

of episode three. To be continued in episode four

Invaders

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