4chan Hazbin Hotel story - Flanders field

from /hhg/ - Hazbin Hotel General #380
-----------------------------------
A little something I thought of:

>the limousine stopped, not far from the ungainly building
>stepping out into the dimming light, the TV demon's face twisted into a disdainful snarl
>the futurist construction was the tallest building in the nearby area, and stuck out from the flat landscape like a sore thumb, it's undulating forms and dulled steel panels offering only a dim reflection of the setting sun

>after Vox came Val, fanning himself, despite the cooling air, followed by a more enthusiastic Velvet
>once out of the car, with three resounding bangs of the doors, the trio made it's way towards the entrance, through the stone gateway, and into the earthy field
>they didn't have to venture for too long - he was there, watering the flowers

>but as they approached him, a pallid figure stepped out in front of them, bringing the menage of sorts to a halt

"I know I've came to you with this before..."
>he began
"...And I know you've already declined, but please, I implore you..."
>and he cast a glance at the man tending to the flowers

"Just leave him be."

>Vox frowned
>"He's my top reporter. I have invested greatly in the scrawny little fuck, and I want my money's worth out of him!"

>Stretch turned his head back to him
"You saw what he did, right?"
>he muttered
>though he lacked the features, Vox could somehow TELL that he was staring at him with eyes as wide as saucers
>"It's an ACCEPTABLE risk..."
>but he was saying that more to comfort himself than anyone else

>the blanche, sketch-like man wasn't having any of it
"Vox, he MAIMED people for life. The only mercy we could provide was a swift death. He needs HELP, not more work!"
>"Ya may wanna listen to da guy."
>both looked aside, surprised
>Val remained stoic, if uncomfortable
>"We've both seen some fucked up shit down 'ere, Vox. Vut da kind dat Ol' Tom produced?"
>he shivered, delicately
>"I dun' wanna have nun'o'dat."
>"He made killing UNfun!" Velvet exclaimed "He really needs the help!"
-
>Vox remained adamant, and marched forward...
>...only to halt at the sight of red

>his colleague stood, not far behind him, with a cigarette between her fingers, it's gently tugged by the wind
>Vox smirked
>"Ah, Katie!" he began, faux-jovially "I see you've accompanied Tom here!"
>the anchorwoman didn't reply for a long time
>then...
>"He needed a ride." she said, simply, and took a long drag from the cig
>the TV demon frowned - ah, yes, he still didn't have a car

>Tom was the only one in the studio who didn't have a ride - he usually carpooled, or, more commonly, used public transport (the very thought of which sent shivers down the spine of many'a studio assistant, and so, they kept a "respectful" distance from him)

>"Why is he even out here?" Velvet asked, suddenly
>near and far, there was nothing to see - just the debris on the broken earth
>a bit too orderly, but hey, that's just Hell for ya

"He's..."
>Stretch began, only to be cut off by the blonde
>"He's visiting friends." she said, curtly

>Vox and Val's eyes widened, but Velvet remained puzzled
>"Friends?"
>she blinked, and looked around

>"But this is a cemetery..."


>"Yes."


>they all jumped slightly, startled
>Tom stood beside them, hand still dirty with earth, so he proceeded to wash them with what little water remained in the can
>"I've been having those dreams again..." he explained, seemingly to no-one "Where I meet with my friends, in Amiens..."
>he cut off for a second, and fully turned towards them
>"...and we are old"

>the air froze around them

>any lingering ambiguity they felt was squashed under those four words
>"...We'd walk the fields where we used to stand in wait, look around to see if we could still find our holes, or just sit at a café, telling jokes, and flirting with the young waitresses, like how old men do..."

>with every word, the weight mounted upon their chests, pushing the air out
>their eyes stung

>"I figured it was time I paid them a visit."
-
>he motioned to the row of graves behind him
>some were proper stone, others were just slabs of concrete with a name and two dates written on it (that needed constant re-writing, by the looks of it)
>other still, only got a cross - two rotting planks of wood, sometimes with a rusted, dented, shot-through helmet perched on top
>they all had flowers, fresh and alive, growing from them
>poppies

>"I was the oldest." he went on "Never became an officer. They called me Old Man Tom."
>he chuckled a bit...
>then...

>"They always said, that I would die first. That the only thing that'll keep them together after this Goddamned war was going to be my funeral. I just told them they won't be invited. Little shits..."
>he sighed
>"They never grew up, in the end..."


>"They'll never grow old."


>a feeling crawled it's way up their throats - a sort-of pressure
>they've seen horrible things down there, the very worst that humanity had to offer
>and yet...

>looking out over the figure of the lonely man, they saw before themselves a wast, sprawling field, breaking into an incline of rolling hills in the distance
>all filled with graves
>the harvest of war, the fields of broken earth yielded only rocks and rotten wood as "fruit"
>it was all that remained...

>they balked at the sheer number, as their eyes searched, first idly, then willfully, then desperately, for other end of the field
>no such luck
>there had to be millions of them
-
>"I'm not the only one out here..."

>again, Tom's voice roused them suddenly, but this time, only to a shake
>he pointed into the distance
>there, an old man, wearing ragged uniforms, was doing his own bit of "gardening"
>"Maxim..." Tom explained "From a peasant family. Conscripted to the Russian Army in 1916, followed his commanding officer - a noble, he told me - in '17, when he sided with the reds, so his men wouldn't be massacred. As he rose through the ranks of the Red Army, Maxim remained by his side, all the way into the "Great Patriotic War"... They were surrounded, captured by the Germans, tortured... His superior finally yielded, revealing key information... He was killed, Maxim was beaten, but spared. He was even allowed to take his body with him. Then, the cold got to him..."

>Tom's voice trailed off
>they all knew what was coming

>"Down here, he stuck by his side, even though the officer was a useless tool in Hell. He died, Maxim lived, as he was wise enough to hide when his superior didn't... He's been burying his friends since..."

>they watched as the old man stopped by a more fancier grave - one that he himself seemed to have decorated

>"Strange guy, that Maxim..." the masked man mused "He still revers the officer, even after several failures. I guess, it's because he always said that Maxim didn't deserve Hell... Stilll..."
>and he shifted his weight, turning towards them

>"...He continues to live under his shadow, after all these decades..."


>they could only stare at the old man, praying at the altar of his "better", before their gaze was drawn back to the fields

>they've all been thinking about the same thing
>it was on the tip of everyone's tongue, but they all yielded to the same clawing felling in their throats
>...until one voice, shaky, but measured, broke the silence - it's owner sounding to be on the verge of tears


"What a terrible waste of life..."
-
>and there it was
>the clawing feeling became a bite that threatened to choke them
>still, another one managed to find his voice

>"And this was just the First One..."

>Vox shuddered, recalling a memory
>it was not long after he fell, and was settling into his role as an up-and-coming Overlord, that he met the man who would help organize his rise
>he had a strange accent that he couldn't place, and, at times, talked to himself
>"I've already been here."
>"I've already done this."
>"Why do I deserve this?"
>for the longest time, he just chalked it up to senseless ramblings...
>...until he saw the numbers tattooed onto his arm
>with the war still fresh in his memory, it didn't took him long to make the connection
>and when he did, he nearly did something which he found so insulting that, at the time, he simply couldn't allow himself to do so

>though he had never been religious, he nearly crossed himself
>and from the War prior, he recalled something, that spread by word of mouth
>a sentence, that slipped out of the mouth of a General, upon seeing what became of Passchendaele:
>"My God, did we really send men to fight in that?!"

>they did
>and the notion that they didn't know was what made him come to his profession in the first place

>the War ate up entire generations of Soldiers - fathers and sons
>men and boys
>it chew up the fields, and spat out poison - poison that would allow another war to break once this had died down
>and soon, the men were followed by their wives, their elders...
>their children

>Vox grit his teeth
>if there was anything, ANYTHING that set him aside from that wretched deer, it was this:
>though he was a sadist, he did NOT enjoy misery
>he kept people under his thumb and feet, but didn't relish the agony of thousands or millions
>sure, he was a bastard
>but a HUMAN bastard, God damn it!
-
>his thoughts halted at the sound of a throat being cleared
>Stretch took a deep breath...

"In Flanders fields--"

>but he faltered, his voice cracking
>he choked, and tried to calm his breath
>soon enough, he gave it another shot - and this time, he went on, relentless, regardless of any crack or choke
>and none really came:

"In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields."

>his voice fell as he finished, and he tried his best to suppress a few sniffles
>bot Vox and Val had taken off their hats, and stood, along with the two women, with their heads bowed
>they owed them this much respect

>"Thank you." said Tom softly, and Stretch only nodded, no longer having the voice to reply

>whilst the masked man remained silent and still, the TV demon gathered the others
>"Let's go." he said, quietly "I believe Mr. Trench wishes to be alone."

>as the trio departed (with moth and magnate fencing their smaller friend, who clung to their arms, trying to bury her face in one or the other), the pallid figure glanced towards the blonde woman
>Katie nodded as well, to which Stretch could only turn, slowly looking away from them, as he began to slowly walk out of the graveyard, stopping every once in a while to look back, before disappearing in the distance beyond the gates
>it was now Killjoy's turn to wait, and she did so, patiently - soon enough, Tom walked up to her

>"Let's go." he said, simply.
>with a nod, she began to walk alongside him, pass the gates, and out to her car
-
>once inside, she took notice of how still he sat, staring ahead of himself
>while she wouldn't have cared in the past, the pain right now wouldn't let her start the ignition without asking:
>"Would you like me to stay with you in the Hotel tonight?"
>he gazed towards her, weakly
>"If it's not a bother..."
>she gave him a soft smile
>"Of course..."
>the engine roared to life, and they drove off, leaving the lonely graveyard for the sunset and silence
>there was nary a sound, aside from the rare gusts of wind...
>...and the quiet sobs of an old man, kneeling beside a fancy grave
>the wind picked it up, and carried it to the entrance, it's wafts curling around the sign atop the gate

>while for many gates in Hell, a Latin phrase, pertaining to power and might, held dominance over the structure, here, one would only find a single world, which, through some clever magic, could be understood by all nations on Earth:


REMEMBER