Chapter Text
It had been years since his body was crushed by a giant mecha, bones shattered and flesh smushed into the ground in an instant. He was fortunate enough to not suffer through it, meeting a quick, painless death. His pathetic remains remained in the town road for weeks—nobody really batted an eye to it, similar to how the young blonde was treated when he was still alive. Poor soul indeed, he was only trying to prevent his beloved town from being completely destroyed.
Pip was a young boy of patience and tenderness—the embodiment of angelic—and so he was quite surprised to be met with the hot, fiery gates of hell as he awoke from his torpor. Though, he did not give much thought into it, as he believed that—as with everything—he must’ve done something wrong while he was alive.
Did I kill someone?, he thought.
Oh yes, the grotesque-looking mother of his dear love, Estella. To his defense, he only did that to save her love, and he wasn’t the only one involved in the situation. No amount of good defense will be able to get him out of this landscape though, his fate has already been decided. So he had no choice but to accept it, taking slow, nervous steps toward the gate, the souls of the damned letting out their agonising screams with every step Pip took.
The ancient, metal gates creaked, signaling the blonde’s official entry to hell. He was greeted by two demons—whom Pip assumed were knights or guards of some sort—and began to escort him, their long and sharp pitchforks directed towards the Brit. Pip’s heartbeat only grew faster as they marched deeper into the realm, but he also couldn’t help the curiosity that took over him—he wanted to know where they were going.
“E-excuse me, sirs,” he swallowed thickly, cold sweat beading on his forehead and soaking his palms. “Where..exactly are we going..?” The guards paid him no attention, which only heightened his anxiousness. One of them poked his sides, the thin fabric of his old, worn out clothes doing nothing to shield his skin. Pip gave out a wince, and inched slightly away from the guard who poked him. He could feel a sticky warmth slowly dripping through the side of his body and seeping through his clothes—the red color of his garment making the fluid almost hidden. Terrified by the guards, Pip immediately cowered—head down—silencing himself as he let them guide him.
As he walked, the rough, dry grounds of hell created muffled thuds from his footsteps. A myriad of thoughts coursed through his mind, recounting all his sins and blaming himself for every circumstance. ”Where are they taking me?,” “I deserved this, I wasn’t doing good enough,” “If I hadn’t killed Estella’s mother, would I still be here?” However, these thoughts were immediately halted as he noticed the guards stilling on his side.
He looked up, and once again, he was faced by a gate. This time, it was different—a huge lattice grille, made out of metals which appeared to have already collected rust from centuries of usage. Sharp spikes donned its bottom, enough to impale any unfortunate being that happened to be crushed by it—a portcullis. Pip could barely make out what was going inside the structure, as it was surrounded by long, fortified walls that left nothing for vision. The only way he could see through it was the latticed design on the gate--watching as one of the guards began signaling to the other guard on the inside. Of course, he couldn’t understand their tongues, but it must’ve been a request to open the gate as the chilling edges of the portcullis began to ascend.
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Damien waited in the plush cushions of his throne, having been given the details of the next pathetic soul he had to judge. As the heir of hell, Satan assigned his son to take on important duties that the former used to partake on, and Damien—viewing his father as a role model and therefore not wanting to disappoint him—followed through the order, rather begrudgingly. Damien was told that this was to “prepare him for other bigger duties,” which he only scoffed at. He wanted bigger roles than just deciding the fate of the damned souls, such as attending diplomatic meetings along with his father, making important decisions, and quelling small rebellions from various circles. Instead, he was here, stuck in the demon courtroom this tedious process, and has been for decades.
He had just condemned a soul to the eighth circle of hell, for committing various forms of fraud during their life. Damien had already made this judgement way before the soul even stepped into the grounds of the courtroom, just like the previous ones before it, so he could simply tell them their sentence and snap them into their permanent residences.
As he flicked through the thick stack of papers beside him, he grabbed the thin sheet at the top , expecting the same routine of prearranging their sentence and then just getting over with it. However, as he turned the sheet and began the reading the soul’s profile, he discovered a familiar name.
Philip Pirrup. Died at age 16.
Philip..as in that Philip? That Brit?
It caused Damien to still, eyes hovering over the paper to read further into Pip’s biography. There, it listed that he died a couple of days ago from a huge mecha that crushed him, which made the antichrist’s brows to furrow. His eyes traveled lower, discovering that the blonde’s only sin was murder, although with questionable premises. Damien could simply brush this off and sentence him to the seventh circle, but he couldn’t help but be intrigued by the thought of seeing Pip once again. He was the only kid in South Park who immediately warmed up to the prince, and saw him none other than as a friend. Eventually, their connection developed, and they considered each other as their beloved. But Damien had to leave for his duties, and they never spoke again since.
This was his chance.