Chapter Text
Mammon was incandescent with rage. Not only had he lost a pit of the dead to a ‘mysterious’ fire—a catastrophe he knew exactly who to blame for—but now, Marbas stood in his office, confessing that half the scouts sent on a classified mission were dead. That was a quarter of his entire manpower gone in a single stroke.
Mammon lunged, seizing the lion hybrid and hurling him across the room. He didn’t care that Marbas was already battered and broken; he doubled the punishment with a savage roar. “You are lucky we have another sin in our grasp!” His eyes glowed with a sickly, verdant light as he zapped Marbas again and again, the electricity arcing through the air. “We lost men because of your incompetence!”
Marbas coughed up a spray of blood. He could feel the current coursing through his nerves, searing his muscles and rattling his very bones. It was inescapable. “Mammon, I—”
“I know it was you!” Mammon interrupted, his voice a jagged blade. He was beyond listening, grabbing whatever heavy object lay within reach to strike the hybrid. “I knew you were the one who set that pit ablaze!”
The terror that flickered in Marbas’s eyes only fueled Mammon’s fury and confirmed his suspicions. So, it was true. “I’ll kill you!”
“What would Lucifer think of this?!” Marbas shrieked, knowing full well this defiance was a death sentence. He had to try to force some sense into the madman. “Look at how you’re treating your people!”
“You are no longer mine!” Mammon declared, delivering a crushing blow to Marbas’s stomach that forced a guttural cry of agony from the Goetia. “And neither is Jason.”
The way Mammon spat Jason’s name made Marbas’s skin crawl. It was as if Mammon knew more than the lies he’d been feeding him—as if he knew exactly where the boy was, rather than playing the part of the ignorant master. The Goetia gritted his teeth, his voice a strained whisper. “Where is he?”
Mammon’s face tightened, his malice palpable. “You want to know where Jason is?” He let out a cruel, jagged sneer. “Fine. I’ll take you to him.”
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Marbas was dragged into the torture chamber, his eyes widening in horror. Jason was there, bound and gagged, strapped to a rusted dentist’s chair. He was bloodied, his body a map of recent trauma.
“What did you do to him?” Marbas demanded, watching as Mammon paced the room like a predator stalking wounded prey.
Mammon ignored the question, entirely consumed by a bloodlust that demanded a sacrifice. “I am attacking the prison fuck their two days. I want them all dead.” He dismissed Jason’s muffled struggles and desperate glares as if they were nothing more than the buzzing of a fly. He turned to Marbas, his gaze cold. “Bring me my tools. I’m going to finish this rodent.”
Marbas gulped, his soul recoiling, yet his body moved with a sickening, automatic obedience. He reached for the tray of instruments. As he did, he caught Jason’s eye; the boy slowly shook his head, a silent plea. A sudden, desperate resolve hardened in Marbas’s heart.
He tripped. It wasn’t a loss of footing or a clumsy mistake.
He did it to scatter the tools.
As the metal clattered across the floor, he managed to slide a pair of pliers into the shadows of the chair, close enough for Jason to reach. If anyone was to survive this nightmare, it had to be the boy.
“Here,” Marbas said, handing the tray to the Sin.
Mammon examined the collection, his fingers lingering on an angelic dagger. He held it out to Marbas, a test of loyalty. “Take it. You kill him, since you two were so close. Aim for the head—I don’t want him coming back.”
Marbas took the blade, his hand trembling. Was he really about to do this? No. He couldn’t. In a flash of movement, he turned, his intent set on ending Mammon. It would have been so easy—a single, decisive strike—but he was too slow. Mammon caught his wrist, twisted, and drove the dagger into Marbas’s heart.
In the background, Jason thrashed against his restraints, his eyes wide with despair.
The Goetia collapsed, coughing up a dark, viscous fluid. A burning, white-hot agony consumed him, as if he were being incinerated from the inside out. His knees buckled, and as he hit the floor, Mammon leaned down, whispering into his ear.
“Now you’re going to die, and you’re going to turn, and you’re going to tear the flesh from his bones,” Mammon hissed, stabbing him again for good measure before letting the body go limp.
As Mammon turned to leave the room, he cast one final, chilling look over his shoulder. “In this life, you kill or you die… or you die, and you kill.”
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The air at the prison was thick with the metallic tang of impending slaughter. War was no longer a distant threat; it was a living, breathing beast clawing at their gates. Stolas moved through the yard, his hands steady as he loaded supplies into the convoy. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a figure—Vassago. He blinked, and the image vanished. *Hallucinations,* he told himself, shaking his head. He couldn’t afford to fracture now; he had to be the anchor for his people.
He retreated to his cell to secure his grimoire, but Dean blocked his path. The half-vampire cleared his throat, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. “Can we talk? Heart to heart?”
Stolas stopped, his regal posture softening. He gave the man his full attention. “Go ahead.”
Dean took a jagged breath, clearly uncomfortable with the sentiment. “Listen… I’m thankful you didn’t turn me and my gang in. You don’t even know us, yet you’re giving us a chance. You’re giving my brother a safety net. Thank you.”
Stolas was taken aback. Dean was a man of few words, usually keeping his thoughts locked behind a wall of stoicism. “You’re welcome,” the owl replied softly. “We will continue to protect you three. I don’t know why you are so vital to Mammon, but you can trust us with your safety.”
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Back in Ransom, the atmosphere was equally volatile. Mammon and Beelzebub were arming their legions when Vortex and Verosika stepped into the war room.
“We need to speak with you,” Vortex said, his voice steady as he met the gaze of both Sins. “We will not be participating in this war.”
“What? Why not?!” Mammon roared, his fists balling into white-knuckled knots. He lunged forward, but a sharp, warning glare from Beelzebub stopped him cold.
“Because this isn’t our fight,” Verosika stepped forward, her eyes locked on Beelzebub. “Tex and I have discussed it. We’ve decided to stay behind to protect the women and children. This slaughter isn’t ours to commit.”
Mammon opened his mouth to protest, but Beelzebub silenced him with a swift, stinging slap. “Enough. They stay. They protect the civilians. That is an order.”
Vortex and Verosika nodded, a grim determination settling over them. They would shield the innocent, regardless of the cost.
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In the depths of the torture chamber, Jason watched in silent agony as Marbas bled out. He wanted to scream, to offer comfort, but the gag bit deep into his skin, rendering him mute. He locked eyes with the Goetia—eyes that were rapidly losing their luster, the light of life flickering out like a dying candle.
“There’s a pair of pliers… hidden on the chair,” Marbas wheezed, sliding down the wall, leaving a crimson smear in his wake. “So you can get free.”
Jason scanned the floor frantically until he spotted the tool. He strained, reaching with his tail, but it was inches beyond his grasp.
“The only thing I wanted was to help,” Marbas coughed, blood bubbling at his lips. “My power was meant to heal… to reveal the truth.” He let out a ragged sigh. “I need you to end me, Jason. I don’t want to turn into one of them.”
Jason paused, his heart hammering against his ribs. *Why me?* he thought, his muffled voice barely audible through the gag. “Why… me?”
“Because I see a future for you,” Marbas gasped, his energy fading into the void. “Your character… your growth… it will be the greatest thing this world has ever seen.” He let out a hollow, mournful chuckle. “I’m just sad I won’t be there to witness it.”
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Mammon’s forces descended upon the prison like a plague. Grenade launchers shattered the guard towers, and the few undead wandering the yard were shredded by the rhythmic, thunderous roar of .50 caliber machine guns. With the perimeter cleared, the Sins and their soldiers stormed the cell block, expecting a massacre.
They found only silence. The prison was a tomb.
Mammon ordered his troops to split up, their shadows stretching long and jagged against the dark corridors. But before they could advance, the world erupted. Flashbangs detonated in a blinding white roar, followed by the thick, choking shroud of smoke grenades. The prison alarm wailed, a siren song of chaos.
The soldiers panicked, blinded and disoriented. Mammon bellowed, “Stand your ground!” but his command was drowned out by the sound of shuffling feet. The undead, drawn by the noise, swarmed from the shadows, closing in like a tightening noose.
The army broke. As they scrambled for the exit, they were met with a final, brutal ambush—Moxxie and Millie, waiting in the treeline with cold, calculated precision. The surviving remnants of Mammon’s army fled, leaving the prison to the dead and the shadows.
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Octavia, Keith, and Pentious watched the chaos from the treeline of the adjacent forest. Suddenly, a teenage shark—a deserter from Ransom—stumbled into their path, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps. His hands trembled violently as he leveled his weapon at Octavia.
“Listen, no one has to get hurt,” Pentious urged, his hands raised in a gesture of peace, his voice a desperate attempt to reason with the boy. “Just give us the gun.”
The boy’s eyes darted wildly. Instead of surrendering, he lurched toward Keith, thrusting the weapon forward yet before the boy could finish his movement, Keith’s expression hardened into a mask of cold indifference. A single, deafening gunshot rang out. The boy crumpled to the forest floor, lifeless.
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In the torture chamber, Jason fought with the frantic desperation of a trapped animal. With a final, agonizing heave, he tore the gag from his mouth. He turned his gaze toward Marbas, who lay still—or so he thought. He had only seconds to escape and fulfill the Goetia’s final request, but as he moved, he caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. Marbas’s hand was twitching.
*Fuck,* Jason cursed internally. *He’s turning.*
He had to move. Now.
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Back near the prison, the tide of the battle had shifted into a nightmare of Mammon’s own making. The Sin of Greed stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving with rage as he glared at his retreating soldiers.
“Why the hell are you out here?!” he bellowed, his voice cracking with fury. “You’re supposed to be at the prison! Taking what is ours!”
The sharks huddled together, their fear finally eclipsing their loyalty. “The prison isn’t worth our lives!” one cried out. The sentiment rippled through the ranks like wildfire. They were done. They demanded peace; they demanded to go home.
But Mammon was beyond reason. The world around him seemed to mute, the cries of his own people fading into a dull, underwater drone. His greed had consumed his humanity. Without a word, he drew his angelic firearm and began to fire indiscriminately into the crowd. He didn’t stop until the hammer clicked on an empty chamber and the ground was littered with the bodies of his own kin.
He stood amidst the silence, panting, his eyes burning with a manic, hollow light. He was too far gone to turn back now.
“We’re moving!” he snarled to the few survivors. “We’ll regroup and strike back harder than today!”
As he turned to leave, his boot brushed against a body. He glanced down to see his sister, Beelzebub, lying motionless in the dirt. He shrugged, a callous smirk touching his lips. Accidental casualty. No matter. Her people were his now. He’d think of a eulogy by the time he reached Ransom
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But as Mammon’s shadow faded into the distance, Beelzebub’s fingers twitched. She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t even injured. She lay in the dirt, the cold realization washing over her: she had hitched her wagon to a monster. She had been on the wrong side of history, and her people needed her to set it right.
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Inside the prison cafeteria, Stolas gathered his group. The immediate danger had subsided, but the war was far from over.
“I’m going after them,” Stolas declared, his voice ringing with a newfound, lethal resolve. He had watched the enemy fight; they were disorganized, rusty, and desperate. “This ends today.”
Before anyone could object, Keith stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. “I’m coming. I can handle myself. I took down a soldier today, didn’t I?”
Stolas blinked, surprised by the boy’s sudden bravado. Before he could respond, Pentious interjected, his voice dripping with disdain. “That ‘soldier’ was a terrified child, Keith. He was trying to surrender.”
Keith rolled his eyes, unfazed. “He was pointing a weapon at us. I had no choice.”
Stolas rubbed his temples, his head throbbing with the weight of command. He took a steadying breath, looking at his makeshift family. “Only myself, Blitz, Striker, Dean, and Castiel are going.” He turned his gaze to Pentious and Lin. “Take care of everyone here.”
The imp and the overlord nodded, their expressions grim and resolute. “Sure thing,” they said in unison.
They watched in silence as Stolas and his strike team departed, disappearing into the gloom to hunt down the man who had dared to threaten their sanctuary.
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Stolas and his group had made it to where Mammon had killed his man. The scene was a nightmare of bodies, blood, and chaos. The group quickly scanned the area for any weapons to stockpile, but Castiel raised his hand, his voice calm and commanding. “Hold on.”
The survivors exchanged glances, uncertain. Blitz spoke up, his tone laced with teasing. “What’s up, buttercup?”
Castiel tilted his head, his expression one of confusion, as if he had just woken up. “My name is Castiel. Not buttercup.”
Blitz was about to explain when Dean suddenly pulled out his gun, pointing it right behind Blitz. The vampire’s finger hovered over the trigger, his movement steady. Blitz, sensing the danger, darted out of the way.
What they saw was Beelzebub, her hands raised in surrender, her face a mix of fear and desperation. “Wait! Hold on!”
“Why should I?” Dean demanded, his finger still on the trigger. “You attacked us!”
“I was wrong!” Beelzebub whispered, her voice trembling. She knew who was pointing the gun at her. She knew she had to beg for her life, carefully, with every word. “Let me explain… Please.”
Dean looked at Castiel, then at Stolas, waiting for the next move. The owl made a signal, and Dean lowered his gun. “Explain yourself.”
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Meanwhile, Marbas slowly rose from the dead, his form shuddering as he pushed himself up from the ground. He shuffled toward Jason, who managed to cut through his bonds with the pliers just as Marbas reached him.
He was determined.
He wasn’t dying today.
Deep down, he knew he had a whole apology tour to go.
Especially with his brother.
As he was able to get out of the chair, he rushed toward the door—yet before he could open it, Marbas was able to catch him. He was taken down. The only thing that was heard was a scream echoing through the hall, a struggle behind the door, before everything went silent.
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At Ransom’s gate, Vortex and Verosika were standing guard when Stolas and his small group arrived with Beelzebub. No one hesitated. They got into a gunfight until Beelzebub got in the middle, causing everyone to hold back fire. She needed to make her group understand they were on the wrong side. “Stand down!” she commanded.
Verosika and Vortex looked at one another in shock. Why would they stop? Their enemies were right there, behind Beelzebub. “Why should we?” Verosika asked, loading her gun. The imp next to the owl did the same.
Yet as Verosika saw the imp… something familiar struck her. Suddenly, it all made sense. Because he too had a sense of reorganization. “Blitzo!” she shrieked.
“Verosika!” both the imp shrieked back.
“Uh… you two know each other?” Beelzebub asked, her voice laced with confusion.
Verosika rolled her eyes in annoyance and hatred. “An ex.”
She wanted to say more, but Beelzebub cut in. “Doesn’t matter. We have to go. Mammon isn’t as good as we thought.”
“How come?” Vortex asked, but he could tell his girlfriend’s gaze had hardened at that question.
“Mammon isn’t who we thought.” Beelzebub said, her fists balled up. “He killed people. His people. We have to save the rest from his madness.”
Stolas nodded in agreement. Yet there was still one thing missing. One thing they couldn’t leave without. “Jason hasn’t made it to the prison. He’s gone—”
“He’s in Ransom.” Castiel quickly cut Stolas off, his voice calm but urgent. “I know where he is. Follow me.”
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Castiel led the way through the sea of panicking residents. Everyone seemed calm as Stolas, Beelzebub, and Castiel took turns creating shields to protect their own group. Finally, they reached the torture chamber and noticed a pool of blood under the door.
Stolas felt his blood run cold. There was no way they were too late. Striker would kill him. He shakily reached for the door. He didn’t want to open it. He didn’t want to find Jason’s dead body. He didn’t want… he didn’t want to see the cowboy undead.
“Ziry’s iēdrosa alive,” Castiel’s voice cut through the static of Stolas’s panic.
The owl prince spun toward the angel, his eyes wide with confusion. If Jason was alive, then whose blood stained the floor? As if reading the dark spiral of his thoughts, Castiel spoke again, his tone flat and chilling: “It is not his. It is Marbas.”
Stolas stiffened. Marbas? As in Marbas Goetia? A member of his own bloodline? He swallowed hard, a bitter lump forming in his throat. Their history was a jagged, broken thing, but this… this was different. He pushed the thought away. He was already mourning his best friend; he couldn’t afford to let the death of a kinsman weigh him down.
He was certain now. Jason lived.
Stolas shoved the doors open. They were met not with a warm welcome, but with the cold, hollow stare of a gun barrel. Jason stood before them, trembling, his clothes soaked in gore, his eyes wide and vacant—a man who had stared into the abyss and barely clawed his way back.
“Jason…” Stolas began, stepping forward with his hands raised, his voice a soft, desperate plea. “It’s us. Please, put the gun down.” He took a steadying breath, trying to bridge the distance. “Listen, I am sorry for—”
Before the apology could leave his lips, Castiel snapped his fingers. Jason’s eyes rolled back, and he collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut.
Stolas whirled on the angel, his feathers bristling with fury. “What the fuck—”
“We do not have the luxury of time,” Castiel countered, his voice devoid of apology. As Dean and Vortex moved in to hoist the unconscious cowboy, the angel added, “We must move. Now.”
“So, he wasn’t crazy?” Vortex asked, shifting Jason’s weight onto his shoulders. He knew they needed the Winchester at full strength if they were to survive this war. “Mammon lied to us?”
Stolas arched a brow, his expression darkening. “What do you mean by that?”
Verosika waved a hand dismissively, her face twisted in disgust. “Mammon told us you guys had him cuffed to the top of a building, letting him rot until he went insane with revenge. That whole ‘crazed killer’ act? It was a setup.”
Stolas let out a hollow, guilty chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. If he hadn’t done that… would Jason still be on their side? He doubted it.
Beelzebub began to scold him, her voice sharp with indignation, but Stolas tuned her out. His gaze drifted to the floor, where Marbas lay—a broken, lifeless husk. Beside him lay the pliers. It was undeniably Jason’s handiwork. Stolas felt a sickening chill. Had Marbas attacked him? Or had Jason finally snapped? He didn’t want to judge, not yet.
Beelzebub sighed, realizing she had lost him. Stolas shook off the gloom and turned to his group, his resolve hardening. “We are taking the people of Ransom home. They are innocents caught in the crossfire. But if we are to save them,” he turned his gaze to Beelzebub, “they need to hear your testimony.”
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The journey back was a somber procession. Thanks to Beelzebub’s influence, they managed to gather the survivors of Ransom, loading them onto a battered school bus. In the back of a truck, Jason remained in his forced slumber, accompanied by the cold, silent body of Marbas.
As they reached the prison gates, Vortex led the weary survivors inside, where Millie and Moxxie stood waiting at the entrance. Amidst the chaos, Octavia pushed through the crowd, her face etched with a deep, sharp disapproval. She stopped before her father, her eyes scanning the carnage.
“What is this?” she demanded.
“They are going to join us,” Stolas declared, his voice carrying a weight that brooked no argument.
Octavia’s expression soured instantly. How could she accept this? These were the very people who had brought ruin to their doorstep, the ones who had orchestrated their family’s suffering. With a sharp, indignant huff, she turned on her heel and stormed away, her silhouette cutting a lonely figure against the backdrop of the prison yard.
Stolas watched her go, his heart heavy, before turning his attention to the chaos below. He saw Striker rushing toward Vortex, his movements frantic as he relieved the hellhound of the unconscious cowboy. As Jason began to stir, his eyes fluttering open to the harsh reality of his survival, Striker hovered over him, checking for wounds with a desperate, protective intensity. Nearby, Moxxie and Angel Dust were busy tending to the new arrivals—the survivors of Ransom—who clung to one another, their faces etched with the raw, trembling relief of those who had stared into the abyss and returned.
Stolas let out a long, shuddering sigh. He looked up toward the high, shadowed catwalks, his eyes scanning the darkness.
Vassago was gone. Belphegor was nowhere to be found. Valentino had vanished into the ether.
A grim sense of satisfaction washed over him. He had done it. He had cleared the board. Even the ghosts of his past seemed to fall silent, a spectral validation of the gamble he had taken.
In that moment, amidst the wreckage and the uncertainty, Stolas finally understood. He hadn’t just made a choice; he had made the *right* one. The path forward was treacherous, but for the first time in a long time, he was walking it with purpose.