In Hell We Trust

Large Numbers and the Sound of Trumpets

The guards escorted Crowley, Raguel, and Belial into the maximum security wing of Caina Prison in Zilevo at the break of dawn. From the minute that Crowley stepped into the institution, he felt uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because the corridors were long and dark and the ceilings were low, giving a constant feeling of claustrophobia. Maybe it was the fact that passing the doors of the prisoner's cells and knowing that they were about to be condemned into damnation turned his stomach. Or maybe it was because the entire building itself hung like a tick made of black stone, sucking like a limpet onto the rocky flank of the Seventh Circle and dangling just beside the Eighth Circle: Yperifaneia, the pillar of eternal flame that spewed blazing heat into the infinite void above.

The guards could see this and tried to make chit-chat with the President and his aides.

"It's a pleasure to have you come out this far, Mr. President, sir," the young demogorgon who escorted them on the left said as they made their way to the interrogation room in the back of the prison. He opened the heavy lead door with a creak of ancient hinges and held open the door for Crowley to enter. "We don't get many visitors out here, especially not the President himself."

"I appreciate you accommodating us on such short notice," Crowley said as he entered the viewing side of the interrogation room. It was small and dark, with a few computer monitors chirping away to themselves in the blackness of the corner. On one wall was a large rectangular window, through which they could view a padded room with a table and two chairs, lit only by a single white lamp in the middle. "And especially for honoring my request without any fuss. I'd thought I was going to have to cut through mountains of red tape to have an audience with the man I'm about to meet."

"It was certainly an unusual request," the demogorgon said as they settled into the room. Belial made himself comfortable in a wheeled chair by the window, while the ever-vigilant Raguel stood by the doorway, stony arms folded across his chest. "This is usually a place for people going into the eternal flame. We don't have many prisoners who come back out of it."

"For the death of me, I still can't understand why you would deign to speak to a mass murderer," Belial chimed in from his chair. He tilted his abnormally large head to the side and blinked his massive eye. "What could you possibly hope to gain from such an encounter, sir?"

"For once, I agree with the bobblehead," Raguel stated. "It seems risky."

"You both worry too much," Crowley said offhandedly. "And Raguel, don't call Bell a bobblehead, it's rude."

"I can't make any promises."

The demogorgon cleared his throat anxiously. "Mr. President, sir, the elite guards should be bringing in Mr. Smith anytime soon. You'll be able to speak with him then."

"Speak of the devil-" Belial breathed. Crowley looked into the interrogation room beyond the window and saw two enormously bulky demon guards in heavy black armor carry someone into the room and deposit him roughly on the chair before going back to whence they had come. The man was pale and emaciated, his skin red and blistering in several places. A thick white straitjacket encapsulated his body, and thick heavy chains wrapped around his chest and ankles above that. The man's face was all razor's edges and gleaming sharp teeth. His eyes, sunken into his sockets, were bloodshot red. His greasy hair fell down to his waist. When Crowley saw him, his heart skipped a beat.

"I'm going in," he said under his breath to no one in particular and grasped the handle to the door.

"Wait!" the guard protested. He pulled out a small earpiece and handed it to Crowley. Crowley took it gingerly and fitted it into his ear. "This will help us communicate with you in there."