Strawberry's Descent

Beelzebub sat alone in his throne room on an entirely uneventful afternoon, no audiences scheduled, no crises requiring his attention, simply enjoying a quiet cup of tea when a single fly landed delicately on his outstretched finger.

"...Steve," he said, warm and genuinely pleased. "How've you been, old friend?"

The fly buzzed.

"...No," Beelzebub said, sitting up properly now, scandalized. "Truly?"

The fly buzzed again, longer this time, clearly relaying considerable detail.

"...Did Brittany actually do that?" Beelzebub asked, genuinely stunned, setting his teacup down entirely. "After everything she promised him?"

More buzzing, insistent and rapid.

"...Unbelievable," Beelzebub muttered, shaking his head slowly. "I told him. I told him repeatedly. Being single is better."

A second fly drifted over, landing on his other hand, adding its own commentary.

"...You agree with me, Gerald?" Beelzebub said, delighted. "Finally, someone with sense."

Steve buzzed again, sharper this time, clearly offended on Brittany's behalf.

"...Oh, don't you start defending her," Beelzebub said, pointing a warning finger — carefully, so as not to dislodge either fly. "You were the one who told me she borrowed his good jacket and never gave it back."

The buzzing turned defensive, rapid and stammering.

"...I am not taking sides," Beelzebub said, entirely taking a side. "I am simply relaying established facts."

A third fly arrived, circling twice before landing on the rim of his teacup, buzzing with what could only be described as breaking news urgency.

"...WHAT," Beelzebub said, sitting bolt upright. "He proposed?! To her?! After the jacket incident?!"

Steve and Gerald both buzzed at once, overlapping, clearly equally scandalized.

"...This is absolute chaos," Beelzebub said, delighted, pouring himself more tea with the specific relish of someone thoroughly enjoying gossip that didn't involve him directly. "Absolute, wonderful chaos. Continue. Don't leave anything out."

The three flies buzzed together in an increasingly complicated, overlapping chorus, and Beelzebub listened to every word with rapt, genuine attention, occasionally gasping, occasionally offering his own unsolicited relationship advice to insects who had, by any reasonable measure, no actual capacity to follow it.

A fourth fly arrived partway through, landing directly on his nose, and Beelzebub went very still.

"...Wait," he said slowly. "Is that— Denise? I thought Denise moved to the eastern district weeks ago."

The fly on his nose buzzed, smug and unmistakably pleased with itself.

"...You came all this way just to tell me the ending?" Beelzebub said, genuinely touched. "Denise, that's very sweet of you."

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He sat back, surrounded by his small, buzzing council, tea gone cold, absolutely delighted with how his entirely uneventful afternoon had turned out.

"...Well," he said, to nobody currently occupying the throne room in any conventional sense, "I suppose I have quite a bit to tell Strawberry, next time she visits."

Steve buzzed one final time, questioning.

"...No," Beelzebub said, firmly. "I am absolutely not telling her about the jacket incident specifically. Some gossip stays within the family."

Arista arrived not twenty minutes later, notebook in hand, a specific question already sitting heavy in her mind, something she'd been turning over ever since the golems first mentioned their six hundred years. Beelz had been here longer than almost anyone she'd ever met, longer than the Republic's oldest records, longer, probably, than most of this world had any memory of at all. She wanted to ask if he remembered anything from before the storms.

She found Beelzebub deep in what appeared to be a genuinely elaborate personnel review, several dozen flies arranged in careful, orderly clusters across his desk.

"...What exactly is happening here?"

"Naming ceremony," Beelzebub said, entirely serious, checking something off a small, handwritten ledger. "I started properly. Oswald. Mitch. Suzanne. Dignified, considered names, each one given genuine thought."

"...And then?"

"And then I reached approximately ten thousand flies," Beelzebub admitted, "and found my creative reserves had, regrettably, run dry. So I simply began asking them what they'd prefer to be called instead."

"...Flies can express a preference?"

"Apparently, yes," Beelzebub said, gesturing at the assembled ledger. "Behold the results."

Arista leaned over, scanning the list, and felt her eyebrows climb steadily higher with every entry. "...Megamegladon. Craig. Gregg. Gregory — wait, you have both Gregg and Gregory?"

"They insisted on the distinction," Beelzebub said, mild. "Apparently very important to them personally."

"...And this one?" Arista pointed at the final entry, written in noticeably larger, more emphatic handwriting.

"Asteroid Destroyer," Beelzebub said, with the same casual gravity he might use announcing a minister of state. "I've made him personally responsible for planetary catastrophes."

Arista blinked. "...Asteroid Destroyer. Did he ever actually destroy an asteroid?"

"Have you seen any asteroid craters on this world's surface?" Beelzebub asked, entirely reasonable.

"...No?"

"Have you seen a single city wiped out by an asteroid impact, at any point during your entire time here?"

"...No."

"Then he is, quite clearly," Beelzebub said, folding his hands with immense satisfaction, "doing an exceptional job."

Arista stared at him for a long moment. "...That's not how causation works."

"Isn't it, though?" Beelzebub said, entirely unbothered. "Zero incidents, under his watch, for the entire duration of his tenure. I'd say that's a remarkable record."

"He's a fly, Beelz. He hasn't done anything. Nobody's asteroid-defense system was ever tested."

"And yet," Beelzebub said, gesturing grandly at the fly in question, currently sitting with what could only be described as smug, self-satisfied posture on the corner of his desk, "no asteroids. I find the results speak for themselves."

Arista pressed a hand over her face, torn between exasperation and genuine, helpless laughter. "...You've given a fly an entire cosmic-defense portfolio based purely on the absence of evidence."

"I've given a fly," Beelzebub corrected, delighted, "a job he takes very seriously, and performs flawlessly, every single day."

Asteroid Destroyer buzzed once, proud and unmistakable, and lifted off Beelzebub's desk in a slow, deliberate patrol circuit around the throne room, apparently taking his newly formalized responsibilities with genuine, committed diligence.

Arista watched him go, shaking her head. "...I cannot believe I'm going to remember this conversation for the rest of my life."

"As you should," Beelzebub said, entirely satisfied. "Planetary security is not a laughing matter, Strawberry."

"...He's a fly."

"He's my fly," Beelzebub said, warm and genuinely proud. "And he has never once let this world down."

Arista opened her mouth, closed it again, and simply nodded slowly, notebook still held loosely in one hand, the quiet, heavier question she'd originally come to ask having thoroughly, almost gratefully dissolved somewhere between Gregg-and-Gregory and the planetary defense portfolio.

Some questions, she decided, walking home, could wait for a lighter day.