There were no seasons of the day nor time of night in Hell. There was no sun to mark the typical course of the day in human matters, and he, despite the passage of years, he was still not used to it. Where he came from, the hour was determined by the angle at which the light fell.

But this place where he had grown up and where he had ruled, hasn't been there for eons.

Now, after all the wars, he sat in a shabby, forgotten room by Lucifer's administration and smoked another cigarette, considering what he should do next. For now, he was safe here, and for people like him - if others like him ever existed - that meant a lot.

Tiramis swept a strand of mellow wheat-coloured hair behind his ear and inhaled doggedly, then presented the powerfully built man with a bag of gold.

You're doing it wrong. You won't look after your money that way.

He could hear him clearly, perfectly even, better than when they had last seen each other face to face. If the others heard him too, the situation would be much simpler, and if not, at least they would not take him for a lunatic. Not that he was not, but the Almighty really spoke to him.

He had been doing this for almost as long as Tiramis had been breathing, with a brief pause for the time he decided to come between them clad in material and introduce himself to all those interested, to bring real war, despair and chaos. He couldn't say he didn't help him with that, in the end he was his son, the very god of the memories, though that didn't make things too much better - the old man only cared about his own business, not for him. With reciprocity, in fact.

„I will survive the loss of these few million. All I need is information." he declared icily.

I don't want to say it's stupid, but you have me. I can tell you everything.

„I need facts and their confirmation. Not your ascendancy.” he replied and immediately adjusted the heavy leather jacket on his skinny shoulders, hearing the door opening again.