“Stop struggling, I’m trying to help you!” Or “How long have you been in there?"-For Chase and Demon Anti
“Sorry, but Jesus, how long have you been in there?”
“Like, I don’t know, three days? Just get me out.”
Chase inspected the heavy lock on the cell door, weighing it in his hand and turning it around. There were weird glowing runes on the back that felt unnaturally hot when his fingers got too close to them. The key opening on the front was a little distorted and oddly shaped, looking more like a place to fit a brand than a place to slide in a key. Anti continued to pace behind the door, tail lashing as he watched Chase with slitted angry green eyes, blood and magma dribble out of the cut on his throat. He looked...well, terrible, or worse than normal, since demons typically didn’t look all that great to begin with. Pretty nasty, all things considered, but Chase was used to nasty - he had to be since he was used to Anti.
“Yeah, no shit, dumbass.”
“For the love of Lucifer, Chase, I don’t fuckin know! Just go look for it!”
“Alright, alright, Christ, calm down.”
Turning on his heel and tugging the brim of his hat down, Chase threw his hand up to flip Anti off as he stalked away, back towards the front of the dingy rundown prison. The warden’s desk was an absolute mess of papers and random dirty dishes, sticky notes stacked on every surface in an increasingly illegible scrawl. The drawers were literally bulging with trash and junk, from wrappers and old soda bottles to crumpled important looking documents and odd weapon pieces crammed into the empty gaps. With a great heaved sigh of exhaustion and a nervous glance at the door, Chase rolled his sleeves up and prepared for his search.
“God I fuckin’ hate you, Anti.”