March 5th, 2077
7:00 AM CST

Deep in the underworld, an old hellhound goes about her day.

She's led a long life. A long, long, storied life. Watched her family bloom slowly but surely, watched as her daughter and her husband nurtured a place for their children. Watched as those children grew up and had their own.

Now, after a long life, she is a proud, old grandmother, fixing her dress and keeping an eye on her kettle.

With practiced ease, the old hound pours herself a cup of jasmine tea, using an old, chipped set of ceramics. After a moment of hesitation, and a small flick of one ear, she pours a second cup, taking both to her small living room in hands marked by graying fur. Numerous shelves line the walls, dotted by little trinkets gifted to her by generation after generation of her family.

She glances out the window of her home, enjoying the strange daylight of the underworld, and how its yellows and purples cascade through the snow-capped conifers.

The hound's ears flick again as the sound of feathery wingbeats becomes too loud to ignore. With a tired sigh, she sips at her tea, soothing her nerves and letting the warmth fill her from horns to claws.

Then the wingbeats stop, replaced by the sound of crunching gravel and a harsh knock upon the door.

Another sigh escapes her silvered muzzle. "The door is open," she calls simply.

The old wood is opened with a rough shove, sending it clattering into the inside wall.

It misses a photo of the hound's great granddaughter by centimeters, and everything on that wall rattles dangerously.

Wings tucked to his back, an angel steps through the door.

A sword in its scabbard rests at his hip, sitting over a blue tunic. His face is stormy and contorted, fury written in every crease as he marches up to the table.

The hound pays him no mind, merely pushing the extra teacup towards the angel. "It's been a while since I last saw you," she comments, allowing herself a small grin. "About as long as the last time I heard you referred to by name. Has life been treating you well, Michael?"

"Where is she?" the angel demands, grinding out the words. A quiet fury rages in his eyes as he stares down the old wolf.

"Please, dear, have a seat," the hound offers, gesturing to an empty chair. She offers the angel a more gentle smile as she sets her teacup down. "I'm sure you've been run ragged looking for a ghost–"

The angel shoves the table out of the way, sending it clattering against the floor. The hound's teacups shatter into a hundred pieces each.

All at once, her friendly composure fades into something neutral.

"I know Lucifer is with your mutts," Michael snarls. A fire lights in the hound's eyes as he continues, "That thing belongs to us and you will hand her over."

For a long moment, the hound simply stares, fury boiling in her veins.

Then she pushes herself up, standing tall and proud as she looks the angel in the eye. "She took her turn to speak out and you beat her within an inch of her life," she starts, her voice low, almost rumbling into a growl. "She cared for you, created for you, and you almost snuffed her out."

"It's what comes to those who defy the creator's–"

"The creator?" the hound thunders. Orange, angry eyes burn into the angel's gaze as she takes a step closer. "He is nothing more than an inflated ego we've all put up with for too damn long," the hound growls out.

The angel scoffs, taking a step back with a disgusted grimace. "He deserves some praise, at least. He carved a haven out of these hells!"

"'Hells'?" the hound says quietly. She marches towards the angel, aiming to close the short distance in a few strides. "'Hells'. You wouldn't know the first thing about hell–"

Her tirade is cut short by the flash of metal.

Cut short by a rapid swing of the angel's sword, cutting a line from her hip to her shoulder in one slash.

The hound pauses in shock and the angel takes his moment, plunging the sword deep into her chest. "Who are you to judge him? A monster in all but name," the angel declares with a smug grin. Still wearing his triumph, he heaves, tugging at his sword.

It sticks fast.

The angel looks down at the sword and freezes.

Where there should have been blood, there's a white ooze staining the metal. On a second look, the patterns of the ooze are not dripping.

They're tendrils, holding the sword in place.

The angel's surprise meets smoldering anger as he looks back up. "You want to talk about creators and monsters?" the hound hisses. She grips the sword in her chest, letting the tendrils keep their grip as she pulls it out.

Each one tears a line into the metal, carving effortlessly through the blade. The hound lets the pieces fall, clattering noisily onto the floor and leaving only the hilt in the angel's hand.

The angel backs up, unsteady on his feet as the hound simply watches. "Who am I to defy your god? I am Anadron. I am Hope. And I built this world." A sound like snapping bark fills the air as her hands crack and unravel into nothing, leaving white glows in the same shape where they were. "I helped build it with my bare hands. Like I did for thousands of worlds, Michael."

Michael gapes, watching in horror as the tendrils of Hope's wounds curl up close to her body—and start tearing away at the shell, revealing more of the glow in oozing, cracking wounds.

He turns to flee, and the door slams shut in his face.

And then, the whole front of the house breaks away with a sound like torn paper, leaving Michael standing on the edge of a dark void.

A glance back finds Hope in a slow march towards him, more glow than hound. The old tendrils are hard to discern against the glow, now nearly impossible to discern how many there are. Like static on a TV, her glow flickers, and soon Michael realizes—the flickering is the tendrils, briefly blocking out her form.

"You want to talk about hell?" Hope demands, her voice echoing in the space. The rest of the house falls away as she stops at arm's length from Michael, staring down at him with two black, glassy orbs for eyes. "Then I will create for you—what you have done for so many innocents."

Hope raises her arms in front of her, slowly uncurling her hands from clenched fists.

Images flash in Michaels mind. Walls, concrete, chains, weights. Disappointment, anger, betrayal, blades cutting into his flesh, irons burning his wings, feathers plucked from raw skin. His halo, shattered and used to mark his flesh in blood.

"I will make a hell for you," comes Hope's seething tones. She stares down at the whimpering angel—reduced to the supposed floor from the visions—glassy orbs full of contempt as he gains enough clarity to match her gaze. "And like everyone you've maimed, from Lucy to the smallest child, you will suffer."

White bindings lock Michael's arms and legs together, and force his wings against his back. And then he begins to fade, being pushed into Hope's newest creation.

"And then you will understand," Hope goes on, venom on every letter. "And when you find your way out of that hell? Tell YHWH—I can see him."

And then Michael is gone.

Hope squeezes her eyes shut, cutting off her vision as she grinds teeth against teeth against teeth–

She lowers her arms, fighting her hands (and arms and limbs) out of their curled fists once more.

Tendrils tuck close against her body, soothed as she breathes, bringing herself back down.

Then Hope opens her eyes, and she's back in her little home. Her focus turns to re-forming her body, watching carefully as her canid look returns, piece by piece. Skin and fur granting her warmth. Ears, pointed and alert atop her head. Pads on her hands and feet to keep her skin safe on any long treks.

Hope breathes in the air of her home, squeezing her eyes shut. She opens them as she lets it out, brilliant orange eyes returning.

And then, the old, silvered grandmother takes in the mess that was made.

Very carefully, she rights her table, made for her by one of her granddaughters. The wood was gifted from the dryad herself, formed into something so simple, broken off from someone so complex.

A wave of Hope's hand and a bit of intent brings forth a wave of orange magic, collecting the shards of her teacups, slowly piecing them back together. They, along with their matching teapot, were some of a great-grandchild's first creations with porcelain.

A small smile comes to Hope's muzzle as she runs a thumb over a glittering blue stripe of one—the rocky wolf had insisted on crushing the lapis by hand.

Hope sets the two fixed teacups back on her table before grabbing a broom and dustpan, eyeing the remains of Michael's sword. It had crumbled into dust when it hit the floor, utterly weakened by Hope's effects. Shaking her head to clear a fresh round of angry thoughts, she sweeps up the mess, brushing a hand across the pile of dust and leaving an intact ingot in its wake.

She sets the ingot on a free space in one of her shelves. Perhaps she could fashion a few gifts for her family from it. Make some use out of the weapon.

With a tired sigh, Hope sets her broom and dustpan aside again, striding into her kitchen to make a fresh pot of tea.

She returns minutes later, teapot in one hand, and a small basket of sugarcubes in the other. And if she sneaks a couple of cubes just to snack on, nobody's there to tell her off.

Hope pours herself a new cup of tea, carefully mixing in a sugarcube with a small spoon. Her ears flick once more as she hears a new sound of an approaching visitor.

Excited, but small footsteps crunching across snow and gravel in their owner's excitement, accompanied by a faint "Grandma!" A moment later, the front door is pushed open just enough for a deep blue wolf pup to squeeze his way through, clad in a tank and shorts completely unbefitting of the outside weather.

Sky blue eyes shine with pride and excitement as the pup keeps running, climbing into an empty chair beside his grandmother, who watches on with a bemused smile. "What has you excited, Ion?" she asks gently. "You've even got a spark between your horns."

Ion blinks, waving a hand between the two small horns on top of his head. When it collides with the small, blue arc, the electricity snaps, arcing across his fur, instead. "Huh. Anyway, look! Look what I can do!"

He forms a small loop of electricity in his hands, behaving not unlike a loop of string. With a few rapid movements—already earning an impressed look—Ion pulls the 'string' taut, showing off a jacob's ladder of electricity, beaming a smile with a simple "Ta da!"

Hope politely claps, returning the smile. "That's amazing dear," she compliments easily, ruffling the fur on Ion's head, earning a quiet grumble. "Have you figured out any other shapes?"

"...No," Ion admits slowly. "But I'm learning! It's really fun, and–" He stops, eyes completely focused on the sugarcubes on the table, the electric string fading away.

Hope chuckles, shaking her head as she sips her tea. "Tell you what: you can have a sugarcube if you show me what else you're learning," the silvered wolf offers.

The pup's brow furrows in thought, and he goes silent for a long moment. "Just one?" he finally asks.

The grandmother barks a laugh. "Okay, you can have two–"

"Deal!" Ion leans over the table, snatching up a pair of sugarcubes to the sound of Hope's laughter. His tail wags happily as Hope keeps laughing, gently thumping against the chair.

Talking around a sugarcube, Ion shows his grandmother what he can create.

Hope is as proud as always.

_{Written June 24, 2022}