An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Timmy's mom and Bitzer think about the past. Shaun gets curious about it
New Chapter of ‘A Game of Dog and Sheep’ is UP!
You can also read it on fanfiction
Sorry for the long wait, health problems and uni got in the way. There’s no illustration for this chapter but here’s an spoiler(done in magma) for the next one :)
*Summary: Call was never a good person - she never tried to be a good person. She always knew that her work was illegal, but taking bribes to falsely report on illicit organizations and their leaders, making them look better to the public and authorities, turned a massive profit for her. Allowing her to pursue her love of journalism.
She knew that people believed her lies, she knew that she was constantly driving innocents into the hands of criminals. But none of that ever mattered to Cali, that is, until she was hired by Vincent Whittman to promote himself and his cult. She found herself in over her head, entangled with the cult and its charismatic leader until her suicide shortly after Vincent's death.
In Hell, she continued her work, eventually becoming an Overlord by slowly and quietly making deals, building souls over the centuries. After Adam is killed, Vincent, known in Hell as Vox, has the idea to use the Hazbin Hotel to his benefit in order to wage war against Heaven and to take the role of God. He calls on Cali once again, knowing that only she can spin his words the way he needs in order to gain power and the support of Hell's people.
*Warnings: Cults, manipulation, religious stuff
*Tags: [CHECK AO3]
(A/N: Me personally, I'd read this on AO3. There's so many italics that I couldn't get here without putting in way too much effort, so if you want the full experience of me having too much fun and Vincent being crazy, go read this on AO3)
☆☆
September 4, 1952
It felt like Vincent had been waiting for this moment his entire life. It was that feeling, that need, that craving instilled within him for as long he could remember, and he finally had it. It was that special kind of accomplishment, it felt a certain way to build up to such a notion all your life, and then to finally be able to say that you completed it; that you finally grasped that feeling which had been alluding you for so long. To hold it in your hands, to show it off to all of the naysayers who’d doubted you.
Nature versus nurture was a compelling debate in his mind, as he never could tell which of the two had been the cause of his fervent desire for power. Was he simply born with the notion that he deserved to be seen? Noticed by all and worshipped by the people as they would a god?
Or had the impulse been planted there sometime in his childhood? A consequence of losing the adoration of his parents, making him desperate to experience that feeling again?
He supposed whichever it was didn’t really matter either way. The only thing that did matter was, of course, the power. And how it felt to finally have that power back after so long of being without it, so long of it being held in front of him; so close he would swear that he could hardly fail to grasp it. And yet, he hadn’t, until now.
There were days when Vincent Whittman wondered if he had ever actually possessed that power before, or if it had only felt like he had. Because this felt different than the adoration of his parents or the attention of his peers he’d always received in childhood before all of that was ripped away, and he supposed that this felt different because this was different.
Back then, the people in his life had doted on him, rooted for him, loved him; yet, looking back on it with the rare gift of hindsight, Vincent could see that everything he’d had back then was painfully small in scale compared to what he had now. That was why this felt so fundamentally different.
Now, Vincent was a leader of many. Not just a leader of a small group of children on the playground as he had been in his youth; now, he was the leader of a great following, a movement. A man with influence over a group with influence. He could do whatever he wanted, he could get away with anything, even though, in many ways, he already had.
His first murder had been experimental in many ways. To see if he was capable of killing, to see if he was skilled enough to do away with the body, to see if he could continue living his normal life knowing he’d ended another’s, and, most importantly, to see if this could be the way in which he’d climb up to the top again. If this was the way he’d regain power.
And it was.
At some point, Vincent had lost count of the number of people he’d killed. The intern at the studio had been his first. Someone unmemorable, someone whom no one would miss. Someone whose body had been simply thrown away, someone who didn’t matter in the slightest. And someone who had opened up a slot for a new employee in the studio. A position which Vincent had filled so well that he was eventually invited to receive his first on-camera job as a weatherman.
With that first kill, he’d climbed. It had been small, but over time, the rungs on that ladder became higher, and with each murder done by his hands, he’d gain more power.
At first, he would only kill people whose jobs he wanted to usurp. The channel’s lead news reporter, the studio’s most popular late-night show host, people who fell easily at his hands and people whose titles landed before him. His name became known, and finally, people were starting to pay attention to him again.
But as his career continued, as viewership on his shows stagnated, he began to kill others not even in his way. A nature presenter, a cooking show star, a game show host, people whom he didn’t know and people whose jobs didn’t interest him, even when those spots were left vacant. Anyone who ate into his airtime, anyone who took his viewership, they would meet their end.
Vincent had even killed his producers, two men who had only helped him on his journey to the top. He’d rationalized it, of course: he didn’t need anyone else to help him, or they were getting too close to finding out what he was doing. He would have never admitted it, but it was the deranged paranoia creeping in, his mind was beginning to slip.
With each person he killed, something was taken from him. What it was - his empathy, sanity, or humanity itself, perhaps it was all three. But it almost didn’t matter. The only thing that ever mattered to Vincent was being at the top.
It took almost fifteen years to finally get rid of everything and everyone standing in his way. In that time, his paranoia grew stronger, his hair grayed, and his lust for power only intensified until there was only one man between Vincent and everything he’d ever wanted. Someone who couldn’t so easily fall at his hand, someone who wouldn’t be replaced by him if his life were to come to an abrupt end, at least not without a signature.
The owner of the entire network, Robert Sinclaire, was always skeptical of Vincent’s suspicious rise to the top, always slightly taken aback by his strange desire for airtime and the way his viewers buzzed around him like members of a cult. Under Vincent’s influence, Sinclaire’s own network had become almost unrecognizable to him. He knew that if he gave into Vincent’s desire to take his place, that it would only get worse, especially with the man’s strange ideas.
It had taken Vincent holding him over the edge of a skyscraper to force his hand. Yet, even after Sinclaire had signed the form bequeathing the channel to him, Vincent had still killed him. The knife shone when it struck the man’s chest. The lightning flashed all around once Vincent dropped him, ultimately striking the metal hilt of the blade and electrocuting his victim. Sindaire was dead before his body hit the sidewalk far below.
Just like that, the network was Vincent’s. Since the network was made up of many vastly popular channels, together bringing in thousands of viewers across the mid-atlantic region of the East Coast, he slowly cancelled each and every one of the other shows on the network. Until finally, only one face, his face, was broadcasted on every channel the network encompassed.
Viewers who already knew of Vincent Whittman now saw him practically every moment they turned on their televisions, and people who had never before heard his name began to learn it.
His first followers had been other employees working in the studio. They, like him, had been tired of the direction in which the network was rapidly moving in, that is, at least, until Vincent had taken control of it. He had gotten the trust of them first - promising that their lives would be brighter, that the entertainment would be newer and bigger. He had redefined what it meant to rule the airwaves, started a new era of entertainment, and he had people behind him.
Vincent’s following only grew as the viewership spiked higher and higher. As his influence reached record peaks, people began to flock to him, desperate to hear his rousing speeches about the future of the entertainment industry and the positive trajectories of their new lives under him. His programs only continued to top the airwaves, bringing in more new followers than he knew what to do with, until eventually, it proved to be too much.
He ended up having to move his entire movement elsewhere, sequestering everyone and himself onto a massive plot of land in the scarcely populated area of rural northern New York state. And Vincent’s disciples, so desperate for the attention of their leader and for the prosperous life he’d promised them, had followed him there and, per his instructions, had forfeited all of their possessions over to him. Their fortunes, homes, assets, entire lives themselves became nothing more than trinkets which Vincent owned. And it made him rich.
The compound in the northern reaches of New York state continued to grow, buildings cropped up alongside paths, farms, and everything a small society would need to support itself. Vincent’s regular broadcasts still aired on every channel of his network, pulling in viewers not physically living with the rest of the movement.
His speeches slowly morphed into sermons, still preaching about the better lives his followers were living now that they had joined him, but now putting himself at the center of everything. He spoke about himself as a vessel through which God would speak, a mythical figure put on Earth to guide only those faithful to his movement.
Finally, Vincent’s desire was fulfilled, and it was this. He was worshipped by his followers, he was a god amongst men, he was absolutely everything he ever wanted to be. In that time, he had never felt closer to being a god, simply because, for all intents and purposes, he was God.
The broadcasts became more religious, branding him as less of a TV personality or host, but rather as a greatly influential televangelist, always surrounded by his flock of loyal followers. It was exactly what he wanted the world to see, but it was getting him a lot of bad press. Rumors of his movement being a cult began to circulate in the media in a way that he couldn’t stop.
And that was when he became interested in Vera Calisto.
A female journalist with a pension for falsely reporting on illicit organizations, allowing them to appeal positively to the general public and authorities, for a fee, that is. Her reporting also known to inadvertently bring in new victims for the people she wrote for, only increasing the influence and value of these groups.
She was known for being cold and calculated; extremely good at her job and nothing else, besides being ruthless on top of it all. Vera did nothing without payment in return, holding no loyalties to any organization which she reported on. She was so good at her job, in fact, that no one seemed to know just how many newspapers she ran, just how many stories she’d written, just how many groups she’d helped, and just how many people she’d hurt because of it all.
When Vincent had first called Vera after weeks of digging into all of the information he could find on her, he was all business, throwing on the charm that could make anyone melt before him.
Her voice over the phone had been deliberate, expertly dodging any uncomfortable reactions to his words away in favor of professionalism. But Vincent could practically hear the shock in her silence after he’d emphasized her first name, knowing that she was known under the moniker of ‘Cali’ when conducting business.
He’d done it on purpose, wanting to stand out in a likely sea of other potential clients waiting for her generous assistance in their own illicit endeavors. And it had worked, the clip of interest was evident in her tone from then on, especially when it seemed that his unsavory reputation as a cult leader had preceded him.
Each could benefit from the other’s influence and Vera, knowing this, had accepted his offer. They had been aware of each other before either had even spoken, their equally unfavorable reputations were known to both, and almost respected by the other. Respect like that was gained through recognition, and each had certainly made a name for themselves in different ways.
Vera Calisto: the journalist who took bribes and falsely reported on illegal organizations.
Vincent Whittman: the former TV host turned televangelist cult leader who saw himself as God.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The Farmer's dog-training books didn't mention anything about the topic, and the sheep knew his hooves would make the task of searching for answer in the man's phone a lost cause, so when those two words he had been looking for so much appeared underlined in the once more stolen newspaper a couple months later, Shaun had been relieved of finally having an answer.
Dogs were scared of fireworks.
(Also on fanfiction)
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Some platonic Shaun/Bitzer that ended being longer than planned
You can feel the bruises already forming on your knees, the cold marble tiles of the bathroom floor providing no support. Somewhere in the corner of the bathroom your velvet red boots are thrown haphazardly, the giant wet stain where you had to clean off vomit was still prominent.
Your arm was starting to ache, your muscles fighting against the awkward angle you were forcing them to stretch at, so you could support Calum’s head from drowning in the toilet bowl water.
“You always do this.” You nagged, even though you knew he couldn’t understand you. Even if he wanted to, your voice was drowned out by the sound of his retching. You couldn’t even bring yourself to feel sorry for him.
As the bathroom door creaked open, the sound of the party downstairs grew louder before returning back to muffled. You looked up from your sick boyfriend to find his best friend.
“How’s he holding up?” Michael asked, handing you two water bottles.
“As good as someone who drank half of a fucking bottle of Vodka can.” You answered bitterly. Calum lifted his head out of the toilet bowl and looked up at Michael slurring something about “doing more fuckin’ shots” as his entire body swayed involuntarily.
“No more drinks for you buddy.” Michael laughed, shooting you a sorry smile. “You’re so good at playing Mom.” he credited you.
“Tonight was supposed to be a good night.” You groaned. “Now I have a heavily intoxicated boyfriend and my new shoes are ruined.”
Suddenly Calum ducked his head back into the toilet seat, his neck completely giving up all support. You quickly reached your hand for under his chin, much like you would while support a new born baby while burping. He continued to vomit up just clear Vodka now, occasionally his body going limp and counting on you for full support. Michael watched in horror, trying to provide help where he could.
“One day, you’re gonna go way over your limit Cal,” You scolded to the drunk man baby under you. “and if you die. I’m gonna kill you.” He of course just continued to heave and puke. “I’ll kill you fucking dead Calum Hood. D’ya hear me?”
Michael chuckled as you both tried to get the boy to stand up, each supporting one arm to get out the bathroom. Calum let his head fall on your shoulder, slurred something about being sorry and loving you and never doing it again, which only caused you to roll your eyes. “Mhm, sure.” your anger was finally cooling down now that he wasn’t completely out of it, and you pressed your lips against his forehead to prove it.
And now, all of sudden I’m thinking about what if when Alec and Magnus are talking in Hunter’s Moon and MAYBE Magnus will admit that he feels a bit off and then Alec suggests that if he want to they can go home and Magnus will agree, smiling a little, but Alec wants he to smile even more and would kiss him on the forehead saying something like “remember, I don’t care about your title, I love you”. And Magnus is like “omfg I love him so much”, and I’m just laying here on the ground being like jfjfhsjaksnanwakana…
*Summary: Cali was never a good person - she never tried to be a good person. She always knew that her work was illegal, but taking bribes to falsely report on illicit organizations and their leaders, making them look better to the public and authorities, turned a massive profit for her. Allowing her to pursue her love of journalism.
She knew that people believed her lies, she knew that she was constantly driving innocents into the hands of criminals. But none of that ever mattered to Cali, that is, until she was hired by Vincent Whittman to promote himself and his cult. She found herself in over her head, entangled with the cult and its charismatic leader until her suicide shortly after Vincent's death.
In Hell, she continued her work, eventually becoming an Overlord by slowly and quietly making deals, building souls over the centuries. After Adam is killed, Vincent, known in Hell as Vox, has the idea to use the Hazbin Hotel to his benefit in order to wage war against Heaven and to take the role of God. He calls on Cali once again, knowing that only she can spin his words the way he needs in order to gain power and the support of Hell's people.
*Warnings: Parental abuse, murder, thoughts of suicide, attempted suicide
*Tags: [CHECK AO3]
September 4, 1952
Cali was seven when her father started hitting her mother.
It had started out small in the beginning. His voice raised a touch too loud, anger a bit too prevalent in his tone, a grip slightly too tight against his wife’s arm. Things that Cali didn’t see until it was too late, things that she was too young at the time to take notice of. What they meant. What they could lead to.
Andrew was different. While only two years older than his sister, he had witnessed the cruel beginnings of the abuse of their mother, he had understood what those things had meant, what they’d lead to, and he recognized the cycle of that abuse when their mother started to take it out on her children.
Their father’s grip became rougher, eventually breaking the skin and leaving ugly bruises around the wounds. His hand would crash like a whip against his wife’s cheek, sending her reeling from the blow. He would throw her to the ground, voice deep with rage and booming, echoing through the walls of their home with a certain harshness that made it so there was nowhere for reprieve.
Cali was nine when her parents started hitting her brother.
She had stood frozen when it first began, Andrew’s eyes locking onto hers from his pitiful position on the floor. A look in them as though he wanted her to hide, but simultaneously to help him. Before then, he had always been her shield from it all, an untouched beam of hope that allowed her to think, even for a moment, that her life wasn’t entirely bad.
That image of him was shattered against the floor, just as he had been, no longer there for her to hide behind when her life would fall apart every night. In the past when her parents would fight, Andrew would step in front of his younger sister, allowing her to grip onto his shirt and bury her tearful eyes into the fabric. The first night when he’d become the target of that abuse, his shirt hadn’t been stained with her tears, rather his own, mixed with blood.
It was a fear that was primal, an image that Cali would be able to picture in perfect clarity for the rest of her life. Each time the violence was the same; it was brutal, heartless, and one of the first times of many that she was made to witness the cruelty of the world in front of her. Even when she was much too young to be exposed to anything like that.
Cali was eleven when her parents started hitting her.
It had always seemed inevitable somehow, as though the previous displays of violence were warnings of the future, a dark prophecy of what would similarly happen to her whenever her parents decided that she had stepped out of line.
If the previous time was a warning for the future, then each subsequent beating was even rougher than the last, almost as though she were being built up. The pain became more intense each day, the abuse lasting longer, the anger directed at her flaring stronger, all to see what more she could take before she’d just give up.
It lasted for years, seeming to never end. The torment unrelenting, her life grinding to a halt to the point that Cali couldn’t feel anything else but the pain. It was constant, even when she wasn’t actively being struck. Her wounds were never allowed to heal, her body never allowed to mend itself before the wounds would be reopened.
There were days when Cali would bring the knife to her throat, empty thoughts of a death unmarred by the pain echoing in her daily life. The point of the blade would always hurt more than any blow done by her parents, panging like a vibration in every inch of her. The sharpness digging through her flesh enough to draw a bead of blood was different from the pain she was used to; because she was doing it to herself, not really knowing why she could never go through with ending it all.
Cali was seventeen when her brother killed her parents.
She’d watched it happen, watched as Andrew stabbed both of them with the same knife that Cali would hold to her own neck. She felt conflicted about it, even when she shouldn’t have. Some dark part of her mourned her parents, not for who they were, but for who they could have been. Had they not been the people that they were, had they not done the things that they had.
Cali was always disgusted with herself when this feeling would creep into her mind, hating herself for even slightly mourning the people who had for years abused herself and her brother. Because it didn’t matter who her parents could have been, all that mattered was who they were: cruel, vile, and unrelenting.
The only one of her feelings that had mattered in that moment was the unflinching sense of freedom, something that she had never truly felt until that day. For once, she didn’t have to sit witness to the needless violence on display. Her wounds were allowed to heal and scar over, unopened, for once, after years of bloodshed.
But the mental injuries never seemed to fade. Her mind forever burdened with the image of her brother - beaten, bloodied, and defeated, lying defenseless against the floor. The feeling of her skin yielding uselessly to the brutality waged against her always came back with a freshness that was unsettling, as though the events were still happening even years down the line. It was that lesson in hatred, in violence, in cruelty that Cali had been forced to learn. Something that no one, child or adult, should have been exposed to in any capacity.
The day she discovered her love for journalism was the day she wrote a heartfelt article defending her brother in the press, ultimately leading to his acquittal from the murder charges. Cali knew that Andrew was guilty, she had watched him as he’d killed them, and still, she lied. She garnered the support of the public, persuaded the police, but most importantly, she had awoken a skill, a passion inside of herself that she hadn’t even known was there.
Cali had spent so long suffering in silence, so long under her parents’ cruel thumb that she had forgotten how it felt to enjoy something. She wondered if she had ever really enjoyed something at all in her life, being unable to remember a time in which she had felt anything real other than the pain of having to continue on.
But this was the result of that freedom, the freedom she’d felt when her parents were finally dead. Cali realized that she knew nothing about herself, never being able to discover her passions or find joy in simply living without the ugly shadow of pain looming over her shoulder like a fog. Finding that passion felt as though she were finally stepping out into the sun for the first time, and she realized that she never wanted to have to live in darkness ever again.
Cali was eighteen when she started her own newspaper, filling its pages every day with new stories. She worked like a woman possessed, as though she could somehow make up for the years she’d spent trapped in a pseudo imprisonment, unable to do what she loved until then.
Her work was honest in the beginning; stories that were unflinchingly true, well researched, and backed by facts were the only stories which Cali wrote for a while. Back then, one of the last things she ever wanted to do was spread misinformation, either knowingly or by ignorance. In her mind, doing that would have undermined her entire passion for journalism, spitting in the face of the painstaking work she put into always reporting the truth.
Cali was nineteen when Andrew was convicted for the murder of her parents. She was twenty when he was killed in prison.
Her article defending him was seen from then on as one of two things: an unfortunate tale of a grieving sister who had no idea of her brother’s crimes. Or as a heinous manipulation, Andrew forcing Cali to write lies about him so that he could avoid the charges. Neither were true, of course, however the latter rumor had always stuck in her mind. It gnawed at the back of her head, it made her wonder, forcing her to picture a scene depicting Andrew doing such a thing. It stuck, it gnawed.
Cali was twenty-one when she took her first bribe.
She had been following the trail of an alleged underground bootlegging ring fronting as a café downtown, until she managed to catch them in the act of smuggling illegal alcohol one night. In exchange for not reporting on them or going to the authorities, Cali was given money. More money than she could make in half a year.
It made her think again, about that thought clawing at the back of her mind, the fabricated image of Andrew forcing her to publish lies about him in the press so he could avoid charges. If she could make this much money by just keeping her mouth shut, then how much could she make by lying on their behalf?
Cali started more newspapers, all under different pen names untraceable to her, in order to publish more false narratives without raising suspicions, almost having at least one paper in each state capital or major city. Over the years, she collected thousands of dollars from illicit organizations, their leaders, and independent criminals, becoming well known in crime circles around the country.
She did it all; reporting sketchy organizations as self-help groups to keep their names positive in the press and to lure in new victims for them, writing sincere columns about murder suspects and drug dealers to clear them of their charges, and anything else that someone running an illegal organization or committing crimes could need.
Even if those organizations fell through or were shut down, even if those suspects were eventually arrested, Cali was untouched. Reporting wasn’t a crime, even if those things she reported on turned out to be illegitimate, but even so, no one could trace her multiple newspapers back to her in any way. The money flowed in at all times as she toured the country covering up crime, driving in new victims, and continuing her passion for journalism.
In the back of her mind, she always knew that she was hurting people, that those who believed her lies were being exploited by the criminals she protected, but none of that mattered to her, it all just served to make her even richer.
Everything would culminate, however, in early September of nineteen fifty-two. At that point, Cali had been doing her job well for nearly twenty years, becoming extremely wealthy in the process and practically a household name by underground criminals. She was known for being reliable, but, most importantly, she was good at her job, and everyone knew it.
Cali lived modestly despite her fortune, having survived through the Great Depression, she knew how quickly her money could disappear if she was careless with it. However, she did have a rotary phone in her home office, as she was regularly called upon by potential clients hearing of her work through the grapevine.
On that night, the fourth of September, nineteen fifty-two, it was raining outside; droplets of rain falling from the angry gray storm clouds settled above her apartment in New York City and pounding with nonexistent fists against the large window behind her. The darkness of the night sky obscuring the unfavorable weather and making the small glowing lamp on Cali’s desk visible from the streets outside alongside the many other blinking lights making up the skyline of the city which never slept.
Her workplace was always silent, save for the calming tempo of the rain pelting the glass behind her chair, an environment of relative silence that she always liked to keep around her, especially when Cali was hard at work and needing focus.
Having just returned from Illinois and already working on an article downplaying the crimes of an illegal gambling den in Chicago, she was jotting down general notes and information about the organization in her notebook. Her eyes tired and half-lidded, vision blurring slightly as she attempted to stay awake while continuing to write, knowing that she had to finish the article and have it sent out in one of her Chicago-based papers in a few days.
The phone’s shrill ringing jostled Cali from both her tired state, and from her working mindset, causing her pen to falter over the paper as she registered the noise. The ringing was almost impatient, as though even the phone itself knew that what would be said in this call would have a great impact on the trajectory of her life going forward. An urgency which could not be ignored.
Cali counted the rings, and only on the fourth did she pick up. It was her calling card, wordlessly letting the caller on the other end know that it was indeed her they were getting into contact with. Even so, when Cali did not speak first, as she never did, the caller still felt some need to ask, if not just to confirm with whom exactly he was speaking.
“Good evening, I’m looking for Vera Calisto.” It was not a question looking for an identity, but more of a simple statement of fact. The voice of the caller was slow, yet purposeful, as though trying to begin an inquiry of personal matters rather than conducting business. Clearly male, as the vast majority of her clients were, his voice was smooth with a hint of a persuasive edge bordering it. The tone perhaps befitting of a television host or a salesman, Cali mused.
She readjusted the pen in her fingers, the phone pinned between her ear and non-dominate hand. “This is she.” Cali replied, her own voice calm and professional, having held many calls beginning in this same way in that week alone. She continued to write despite the ongoing conversation.
“Wonderful,” the man on the other line said, his tone the same, not fitting the words he’d chosen. “Before I begin, do you prefer for me to call you Cali, Vera, or Ms. Calisto?”
Her pen paused for a moment over the paper, black ink beading into a small pool over the words she’d already written before she closed her eyes and took a breath. “Any is fine.” Cali lifted a square of blotting paper which she kept on her desk. She gently pressed it over the puddle in her notebook, watching as the sheet soaked up the excess ink on the page. “Who am I speaking to?” Her tone was slightly sharper than previous, clipped minusculely with impatience and slight annoyance, not necessarily annoyance deriving from the caller himself, but rather the falter in her writing.
“Well, Vera, do you know of a Vincent Whittman?”
Cali’s eyes flicked to the receiver clutched in her hand and pressed against her ear, as though the caller could see the movement from wherever he was. The use of her real name was uncommon, as no one usually called her ‘Vera’, even as a child, she had always just been ‘Cali’. It was a childish nickname perhaps, but yet one she still mostly went by; a pen name which had faithfully concealed her true identity for nearly twenty years.
And of course she had heard of Vincent Whittman - television host, televangelist, and cult leader. She smirked at the accuracy with which she had predicted his occupation by just his tone of voice alone when he’d first spoken. It was surely an infamous name, befitting of such an infamous man. One that she would have been embarrassed had she not known with whom she was speaking the very moment he’d revealed his identity.
Cali’s pause had been silent, yet loud, speaking volumes more than words ever could, yet she still replied with an unneeded confirmation. “Of course.”
She could hear the smile in his voice over the phone when he spoke again, seemingly incredibly satisfied and pleased with himself that his unsavory reputation had been so easily associated with his name alone. “Then I’ll cut right to the point.” He said. “You are aware of my work, and I am aware of yours. I have an offer for you.”
Vera Calisto was forty-one when she began working with Vincent Whittman.
*Summary: Cali was never a good person - she never tried to be a good person. She always knew that her work was illegal, but taking bribes to falsely report on illicit organizations and their leaders, making them look better to the public and authorities, turned a massive profit for her. Allowing her to pursue her love of journalism.
She knew that people believed her lies, she knew that she was constantly driving innocents into the hands of criminals. But none of that ever mattered to Call, that is, until she was hired by Vincent Whittman to promote himself and his cult. She found herself in over her head, entangled with the cult and its charismatic leader until her suicide shortly after Vincent's death.
In Hell, she continued her work, eventually becoming an Overlord by slowly and quietly making deals, building souls over the centuries. After Adam is killed, Vincent, known in Hell as Vox, has the idea to use the Hazbin Hotel to his benefit in order to wage war against Heaven and to take the role of God. He calls on Cali once again, knowing that only she can spin his words the way he needs in order to gain power and the support of Hell's people.
*Warnings: Cults, manipulation
*Tags: [CHECK A03]
September 28, 1952
Vincent wanted something from Cali.
She saw it in the way that he followed her as she walked around the compound. In the way he looked at her longer and more often during his sermon-like speeches to his followers.
Even during his broadcasts, when he was being watched live by likely thousands of people around the country, Vincent would constantly break his characteristically intense focus on the camera and instead direct his attention to Cali herself, who was always just out of sight. To the viewers, it must have looked incredibly strange.
He was sending her a message, Cali could tell. A wordless, silent intimidation, in a way. After speaking words of grandeur and fame, Vincent would glance her way. When Vincent would bring up the news or journalism or articles, he’d smirk, eyes drifting over as though he expected something.
Vincent looked at her as though he knew exactly what he wanted her to do, just that he had no idea how to ask her to do it. Or rather, he hadn’t yet figured out the correct words to say that would make Cali inclined to do whatever it was for him, whether she wanted to or not.
He’d lean against her desk as Cali attempted to work, hip connecting to the edge and hand bracing dangerously close to her own as though he had done it his entire life. His black and white striped hair fell messily over his baggy, heterochromatic eyes as he flashed his signature smile through sharp, gapped teeth, as though the camera were still trained on him.
With herself in a lower, seated position, Vincent towered over her as he leaned over her desk. Always by design.
It was Sunday, a week since Cali had arrived to the Vox Populi, and her final day with them after seven days. Her fingers moved slowly yet diligently over the keys of her typewriter, eyes scanning the pages for mistakes as she worked through the final version of her article.
Cali planned to publish her writing tomorrow, on Monday, in most of her papers along the Northeast region of the United States, just as Vincent had requested during their first phone calls. She would begin with New York on Monday, then Pennsylvania on Tuesday, New Jersey on Wednesday, and Vermont on Thursday. Until she would hit the rest of the states on Friday: Maryland, New Hampshire, Connecticut, Maine, Rhode Island, Massachusetts, and Virginia.
Virginia was key, as it was where Vincent had gotten his start at Channel Six.
She had written nearly ten different versions of her story to not rouse suspicions that they were written by the same person. That was the secret to her success, what made her so desirable for good press.
None of her papers traced back to her in any way. Cali had hundreds of aliases, aliases of aliases. So when she’d publish those versions of her story about Vincent and his cult, it would look like several newspapers written by different people in different states were running with the same story. This made her articles seem more credible to the general public. And more enticing to would-be new members of the Vox Populi.
But Vincent still wanted something more from Cali. His looks lingered, his steps behind her echoed, his vicinity to her always occupied by him. Whenever he’d open his mouth to speak, she’d always think that he would ask for whatever it was, until he’d inevitably jump to something else entirely.
It unsettled her slightly, knowing that he wanted something from her, yet unaware of what exactly that could be. In Cali’s mind, she had done everything he’d wanted, gone above and beyond in many aspects, so what more could he desire?
“Vera.” Vincent’s voice was final, almost testing as her name left his mouth. A twinge of annoyance was there, until he seemed to notice and dropped it. “Are you listening?”
He had been saying something, but Cali wasn’t paying attention. He’d been talking her ear off since their moment on the hill under the stars a few days ago. “I’m working.” She retaliated, never stopping her perfect typing.
Cali watched his jaw tighten for perhaps less than a second before he continued. “Well, I have an idea that you’ll want to hear.” He said. “It’s asking a lot, I’m aware, but I have every confidence in you. Because you’re truly brilliant, Vera.”
Despite her better judgement, a slow warmth creeped into her chest. Vincent was flattering her because he wanted something. Because he was trying to break down her walls and condition her with praise. He had told her that he wasn’t trying to make her into a follower, that he had recognised that she was too smart for that.
But he still hadn’t stopped.
Her fingers twitched over her typewriter’s keys, only then realizing that she had stopped typing. “Stop with your flattery, that doesn’t work on me, Vincent.” Cali pulled open a drawer containing her other versions of the article. She cross-referenced, rewriting a sentence that was too similar to a previous one, acting as though his words hadn’t affected her.
“Oh, doesn’t it?” He asked, with a tone that was almost mocking. Vincent could have pointed out the tiny blush in her cheeks whenever he complimented her. He could have brought up the way her eyebrow twitched when he used her real name. He could have talked about the way her body flinched when he would suddenly lay his hands on her.
Vincent knew that these tactics did work on Cali, he’d tested a few when they’d first met in person. The compliments, the switching of his tone, the grabbing of her shoulders, the use of her real name. Her reactions were delicious, so full of meaning for a woman who seldom gave her true past or feelings away.
But he didn’t mention any of that, knowing that if he did, she’d be less likely to comply with his ‘idea’. Vincent drummed his long nails against her desk.
Cali sighed, put the other version of her article back into the drawer, moved her hands away from the typewriter, and crossed her arms over her chest. She leaned slightly back in her chair, attempting to distance herself from Vincent’s close proximity to her.
Whatever he had wanted for days on end, whatever he couldn’t find the right way to ask for, he was about to ask for it. And Cali would be lying through her teeth if she were to say that she wasn’t curious. She steered the conversation back. “What’s your idea?”
Vincent grinned, teeth showing. “Yes, well, I think we should change our tactic for the article’s release.” Cali immediately opened her mouth to retaliate. She was already nearly finished, it was her final day here, he couldn’t just upend her entire plan. But Vincent held up a finger, forcing her to hear him out.
“Most people on the East Coast already know me, they’ve heard the rumors of a cult, and will buy your article hook, line, and sinker. I guarantee that. They love me - my broadcasts, my story, their history with me, they’re just looking for one thing that will put those rumors to bed. That, Vera, is you.” He paused, allowing his words to sink in.
“But those rumors are only circulating around here for now, and they will likely spread around more places if your articles do their job and bring in more members for me. I think, if we play our cards right, that we can get ahead of those rumors before they reach the West Coast, or even the entire country.”
Vincent leaned closer to Cali, making her previous efforts to escape his proximity unsuccessful. “Here’s my idea: we publish your article in every single newspaper you own across the entire country, alongside a twenty-four seven broadcast of myself on every channel of my network. Public perception of me and my cult will skyrocket and, with my name attached, make your papers a staple in every household.”
He grabbed her chin with his icy fingers, nails slightly digging into her skin. “You and me, Vera, the entire country will know our names.”
Cali blinked several times, processing his speech. He wanted her article about the Vox Populi in every newspaper she ran across the country. He must have known the work that something like that would take. More revisions, more typing, more everything. He must have known how long something like this would take.
That was it.
She’d have to stay longer.
Her mouth was dry as she opened it, disbelief coating her words. “Vincent, I- I’ve never published one article in every paper that I own. I run hundreds, I don’t think that you understand the scale of that.”
Vincent barked a laugh, his breath warm on her face in stark contrast to his cold fingers gripping her chin. “Oh, I understand, Vera. I understand that people across the country will read your words, flock to my cult, and make us rich.” He leaned to her ear. “You’re still doing this just for the money, aren’t you?”
His lips grazed her earlobe.
Cali froze, her own words coming out of his mouth laced with bite and horrifying persuasion. The shiver that began at her ear spread through her entire body. Her fingers twitched again. A forgotten retaliation caught in her throat.
Mouth still so close to her ear, she could hear Vincent lick his lips, she could feel him release another hot exhale onto the side of her face. It warmed her cheeks for more than one reason.
Vera Calisto never verbally agreed to his plan, unwilling to concede that he had convinced her both with the promise of what she truly wanted, and with his intimate proximity. But she would begin work on more revisions of the article. She would plan to release it in every paper she owned over the course of the coming week. She would ignore the smile that Vincent gave.
And the way he looked at Cali like he needed her.
***
The first articles had gone out on Monday, just as originally planned, spreading to a few states in the Northeast, including Virginia. The first of many live broadcasts began as Vincent planned for people to read the stories and then immediately turn on their televisions to see him. Viewership had spiked a predicted amount on that Monday, with both Cali and Vincent monitoring the numbers.
On Tuesday, her article spread to her papers in the Southeastern states, and Vincent’s broadcasts gained even more viewers. A few people who’d read Monday’s edition began to turn up at the compound, willing to join the Vox Populi.
Wednesday was the slowest day, as Cali’s story went out to the Midwestern states, a region of the country with less population. It was planned, but the numbers still stagnated. Cali could see how that made his demeanor fall. He had snapped at her once or twice during that day.
It was lower numbers from his broadcast, more work on the live feed for less viewership, including more revisions on Cali’s article for fewer eyes. New members from the past two days had trickled in. A few of those new people were put off by the caveat of joining the movement; that being Vincent would own all of your assets, and that you couldn’t leave.
Some turned back. Most stayed.
On Thursday, Cali’s article hit the Southwest. Vincent had been predicting for Texas to be a big puller of numbers, due to the high population. On that day, the views spiked again, hitting taller peaks as people all around America tuned in to his broadcasts. Many were new, but most were repeat viewers from the states Cali’s article had already affected. People from every state she’d sent her story to began to show up on the compound’s doorstep. The small white church began to fill.
Friday was the final day, as every state in the West finally got to read her article. The inclusion of California made the numbers hit peaks that even Cali and Vincent hadn’t predicted. On that day, the entire nation watched Vincent’s broadcasts. People from every state had read Cali’s words.
The volume of people coming to upstate New York was staggering, and Cali began to feel the worry that she had been shunting aside since Sunday finally creep in. She and Vincent had done the math, predicted the general flow of new viewers, readers, and members based on past numbers for both of their projects, but the actual numbers had been much higher than either had predicted.
Vincent called it ‘good business’, called it ‘a sign that you and I are doing well’. Cali didn’t see it that way. Vincent saw growth, Cali saw instability. She saw how the viewership continued to climb even days after her article had hit the nation, she saw how those numbers hit their predicted marks, then exceeded them with worrying attention.
That was exactly the problem: attention. That was why she never published an article in every paper that she owned. If too many people started to look at her reporting, then someone could figure out what she was doing.
Vincent didn’t listen to Cali when she suggested that he stop the daily broadcasts. He didn’t listen when she aired her concerns about too many eyes on this story. He didn’t listen when she asked that he stop letting anyone even slightly willing to join into the cult.
But she couldn’t deny the money.
One of the deals they’d set once Cali had agreed to his plan of running her articles all over the country, was that, for every new person who joined the cult, Cali would get twenty-five percent of that new person’s assets when he signed them over to Vincent.
In a way, that made her involved. It made her just as much of a cult leader as Vincent.
It made her rich.
And it had made her famous. Once the entire nation had heard Cali’s story of Vincent Whittman: TV host, televangelist, and leader of a new-age movement focused on improving the lives of its members, the story spread like wildfire.
Rival television news networks picked up the narrative. Journalists were reporting on the story, some even coming to the compound themselves and filming the area. Vincent was interviewed on the largest network in the country, and that only pulled in more people.
And Cali was caught in the center of it all. She had never seen firsthand the effects of her journalism. She had gotten calls from people or organizations a week or two after their story had come out to thank her for their newfound positive press, and she had seen how a few others would pick up that story and perpetuate it, but never on this scale.
She had never watched people flock to the organization which she lied about. She had never seen the entire nation completely hooked on one of her stories. In the back of Cali’s mind, there had always been an aftermath of her false journalism, but she had never stood witness to it.
Cali couldn’t deny that Vincent’s plan had worked. She was rich, making more money than she would in an entire year. She was famous, finally a household name by people everywhere, rather than just in the circles of illegal crime. She was noticed, receiving network deals and offers for spots on live TV.
The church was full when she stood inside again on the twelfth of October, a Sunday. Three weeks since she’d arrived and two weeks since she was supposed to leave. People were squeezed wall to wall inside and filling the isles. There were already plans underway to make the church bigger, to grow the number of buildings in the compound. To write more articles, air more broadcasts, pull in more followers.
Eyes all looked up to her, and Vincent, who stood behind her, cold hands braced heavily on her shoulders in just the same way as when she’d first arrived. Even the people who had only looked to Vincent with adoration in their gazes now looked to Cali with that same reverence as well.
The two seemed regarded as equals by the followers, if their worshipping eyes meant anything at all. Cali was reminded that a large portion of the people in that church hadn’t known a time when it was only Vincent standing above them at the altar.
So when his hands left her shoulders and instead dragged down her arms, leaving freezing lines in their wake, Cali didn’t shudder. When he took her hands in both of his own while standing behind her, she didn’t move. When he leaned down to whisper in her ear, she didn’t flinch.
“Stay.”
Cali knew that Vincent was in over his head. She knew that he was running a group destined to fail, even more now than he had been. She knew that he wouldn’t be able to handle this massive congregation on his own.
She felt indebted to him. For building this place, for allowing her to feel at home, for making her rich, for making her famous. Now that she was here, now that she was this involved, Cali couldn’t leave. It terrified her, and yet, it made her excited heart beat faster.
The gaze of every follower was directed on her, as though wanting the very same thing that Vincent did. His hands tightened around her own, thumbs soothingly stroking her fingers as he practically placed his chin on her shoulder.
Eyes - begging, pleading, worshipping eyes looked up at them both as Cali stood frozen.
And ignored that voice in her head which begged her to refuse.
Nothing's definite right now, but I’m thinking about leaving this fic here for now and publishing/working on another fic that I've been developing for 4 years.
If I do this, I'll come back to 'Truthless' when Hazbin s3 is close to coming out
