Word Count: 7,000
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Location: IBPM Briefing Room Omega-3
Time: Morning...ish (Time doesn't exist linearly here)
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The squad gathered around Lawrence, half-wary, half-exhausted, and 100% confused why the schedule now included "Operation: Demon Showtunes."
Rika crossed her arms. "So, uh...what kind of world are we heading to this time, sir?"
Lawrence spun around in his chair, a devilish grin twitching at the corner of his mouth.
"You ever been to a place where Hell throws a jazz parade,
Where demons rhyme and sinners stay unpaid?"
Everyone blinked.
"Wait," said the nerd rookie, "are you...rhyming?"
Lawrence stood, dramatically snapping his fingers like he was summoning the spirit of Frank Sinatra fused with Lucifer.
He flicked open a hologram with a literal devilish grin.
Hazbin Hotel Universe: Welcome to Hell.
"Reality where songs are law, musicals run raw, and you can't survive long if you ain't got rhythm, y'all."
---
Lawrence clapped, and a subtle jazz beat dropped from the dimensional speakers—smooth, chill, with a saxophone that sounded like it chain-smoked regret.
"Hazbin's Hell, it ain't no joke,
If you ain't got rhythm, you'll probably croak.
They don't just kill, they sing your sin,
And if you mess up, the mic gets grim."
---
One rookie whispered, "Did he just freestyle that?"
Lawrence pointed with both hands like a broken nightclub MC.
"Now listen close, don't lose the thread,
This place got demons, not all brain-dead.
There's Charlie, kind—with a voice like light,
And Vaggie? Sharp. Deadly. But she'll still be polite."
He spun a dimensional ring midair.
"Alastor's a friend, but don't get bold—
He's got teeth like razors, heart ice-cold."
The rookies leaned in.
Lawrence kept rhyming. Without even thinking about it.
It was like a switch flipped inside him—and the trauma-coded demon bunny had just morphed into a comedic rapper bard of the underworld.
---
"Now Angel Dust? Gay, yes, don't make a fuss,
But touch my merchant bag, and he'll turn you to dust."
A beat. He paused, grinned.
"Real one, that spider. Holds my gear,
Anyone who tries to steal, he'll rip their rear."
Rika whispered, "He's still going…"
"I told you once, I'll say it thrice,
Even if you betray me—I'll still throw dice.
I'll make you laugh while I cry inside,
But if you stab my back..."
His voice dropped cold.
"You'll wish you died."
---
Silence.
The jazz beat slowed, like even the music had to process that threat.
Lawrence shrugged, now walking over to the briefing map. Still rhyming—naturally.
"Don't need to dress up, no hats or horns,
They know me down there—I've earned my thorns.
I'm on first name basis with sin's A-list,
Hell's chaotic, but I'm top of their guest list."
He tapped the screen.
"We're going for Flarium Ore, rare as peace,
Only 4,000 realities have a single piece.
Worth more than timelines, stars, or kings,
Makes weapons that cut through fate's own strings."
The nerd rookie raised a hand. "Do you even know you're rhyming right now?"
Lawrence turned and blinked.
"...Huh."
He looked at his hand, mildly concerned. "Damn. I didn't even script that."
He smirked again.
"Guess I'm too good at what I do... even when I'm glitching."
---
Meanwhile, the rookies?
Completely lost between awe and mild existential dread.
Rika muttered, "How are we supposed to compete with that?"
"Bro literally wrote a diss track on betrayal and turned hell into a comedy club," said another.
---
Lawrence sighed, dropping into his seat again, pulling out a thermos filled with "Liquid Sleep Deprivation."
"Listen up, squad."
For once, his tone flattened—but only a little.
"This next mission's not just about collecting shiny rocks and flirting with demons. It's survival through song. If you get challenged to a sing-off, you better have bars or backup."
He smirked, sipping.
"But don't worry. I got backup."
"Who?" Rika asked.
Lawrence pulled out a crystal key from his merchant coat.
"The Hazbin Crew."
---
"Charlie owes me a favor after I helped fix her lobby's dimensional plumbing."
"Vaggie respects me cause I didn't hit on her."
"Angel Dust? My gay spider bro. Once bit a demon in half for touching my bag."
"Alastor?" He paused, eyes flickering. "He thinks I'm hilarious. So we're good. For now."
---
"Anyway," he said, standing again, voice charged with confidence. "We leave in ten."
"Don't pack weapons. Don't wear armor. Don't bring logic."
He pointed at them like a conductor addressing his band.
"Bring rhythm. Bring flow. Bring soul."
And just as the squad turned to leave—he snapped his fingers one last time, the jazz echoing behind him.
"We're going to Hell, rookies.
Let's raise it properly."
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End of Chapter 7: "Jazz, Hell, and Rhymes in the Flame"
Word Count: 7,000