Pain is weakness leaving the body
from velvette to des.
6. Hungover
Of course it had to be this particular morning that two out of the three overlords had to be out.
Perhaps they should've expected as much; they've been in Hell long enough by now to know that its purpose of eternal punishment will always arise when it is least wanted. There is no excuse to be found in the hellborn wine they had gone through last night, either; they know how potent the stuff is (though that wouldn't be an excuse even if it wasn't, given how much they drank). No, the only person they have to thank for that is the Descole of last night and their drug-addled decision to keep downing glass after glass until... Well, they assume they blacked out.
It is a continuation of their fairly abysmal luck that it's only when they're nursing a headache bordering on a migraine and nausea to boot that Valentino and Vox would both be away on business. Finally, the best chance they've had in a month to scope out the stupid tower; they just have to suffer sabotage from their own self while they do it.
It's not the first time Descole has had to conduct some manner of work while dealing with a hangover, and such confidence leads them to move forward with their plans, unwilling to waste the opportunity. If anything, the powers they've acquired upon dying should make it easier than anything they ever attempted while alive. And in some ways it is; never while alive would they have been able to stroll in with the casual confidence of knowing they're completely invisible to both organic and mechanical eyes.
However, the Entertainment district is particularly unkind to Descole's chosen brand of suffering today. The neon lights, flickering screens in every direction, audio a constant garbled mess in the background—and it seems that Vee Tower follows the same pattern. Every cold fluorescent light, every click of shoes on the linoleum tiles is a special kind of hell. Their head keeps threatening to explode, despite their gritted teeth and attempts to ignore it. Too bright, too loud, too many people—yes, they rather hate this place.
Taking stock of each and every floor of this wretched building is quickly starting to feel like a herculean task. They need to retreat and regroup, they decide, before they accidentally run into someone—or before someone escapes their notice and runs into them. The top floors are often quieter; if nothing else, the roof might provide them an opportunity to rest.
It turns out they don't need to go all the way up. The upper floors seem to be dedicated to each of the overlords, with scant other employees running around. Positively trivial to slip into one of the side rooms up there, as it turns out; the doors aren't even badge locked, and they open into an empty penthouse suite, with lofty ceilings and a view out over the city skyline, complete with a full bar and other assorted entertainments that are doubtlessly reserved for the overlords. A sneer crosses their face; they expect nothing less for these three.
Still, they can appreciate the luxury. The headache still pounding behind their mask urges them over to the bar, glancing over the collection of expensive liquors and spirits. The whole lot of the shelves would make a fabulous explosion of glass and glitz with just a few strokes of their blade; a calling card to leave for later, perhaps.
But it would be a shame to do so without sampling a bit first... something to keep occupied while they wait for the headache to go away. A few bottles are pulled down from the shelves; Descole ignores the crystal glasses suspended from the ceiling in favor of unsealing one and putting it directly to their lips, their gaze never straying far from the door lest there's an unexpected intrusion.