Chapter 1: Crossing Paths
[Scene: IMP City...]
The morning after Sinmas was oddly quiet in I.M.P. city. The air still smelled faintly of cookies and eggnog. Neon lights flickered lazily over the cracked walls of the I.M.P. headquarters, the usual chaos reduced to a post-holiday sluggishness.
Behind the receptionist desk sat Stolas, feathers slightly ruffled, his regal posture traded for a slouch of reluctant humility. The once-proud Goetia prince rested his chin in his hand, his eyes dulled to a tired glow. A long sigh escaped his beak as he idly tapped a claw against the wood of the desk.
It had been a few weeks since Sinmas, and the fallout with his daughter Octavia still lingered. The hollow ache in his chest was louder than the hum of the flickering light above him. "A new life. This is my life now." he muttered to himself. "How wonderful....''
From the hallway, Blitzo strutted in, his ever-wide grin betraying none of the exhaustion beneath his sharp yellow eyes. His striped horns caught the dim light as he leaned casually against the desk, looking at Stolas with a rare flicker of sympathy.
"Hey, handsome feathers..." Blitzo started, voice softer than usual. "You can stop staring into the abyss. It's not like it's gonna talk back to ya...''
Stolas glanced up, his tone a mixture of weary humor and melancholy. "Ah, Blitzy. Just... adjusting. It's rather humbling to go from a palace to a minimum wage desk job as a poor commoner...''
Blitzo shrugged, folding his arms. "Yeah, well, you ain't doin' half bad. Look—about Octavia."
Stolas's fingers froze mid-tap.
Blitzo continued, a little more gently, "She's a smart kid. Smarter than both of us combined, probably. She just... needs time to realize Stella's poison. She'll come around, eventually...''
Stolas then smiled a bit. But something in the back of his mind told him that was doubtful.
"You're her dad, Stolas. Pain in the ass sometimes, but still her dad." Blitzo said.
The Goetia prince chuckled faintly, the sound brittle.
Across the room, Loona was lazily pulling tinsel off the wall, her phone in one hand and a garbage bag in the other. "Ugh, who thought hanging fake entrails over the office was festive?" she grumbled.
Beside her, Millie and Moxxie worked together untangling the lights—well, mostly Millie worked while Moxxie managed to get himself trapped in the cords.
"Sweetie, hold still!" Millie said cheerfully, tugging the lights off her husband's horns. "You're wrigglin' like a worm!"
"I wouldn't be wriggling if someone hadn't decided to wrap me like a gift, Millie!" Moxxie huffed, his tail flicking in frustration.
"Aw, you are a gift..." Millie teased, kissing his cheek before returning to work.
Loona rolled her eyes. "Gross."
Blitzo snorted. "That's family spirit, Loony! Try it sometime."
"Yeah, hard pass." Loona said.
Before the banter could continue, the office phone rang—a jarring, crackling sound that cut through the room. Stolas sighed, composing himself before picking up the receiver. His voice came out glum, tinged with dry sarcasm.
"Hello, this is I.M.P., and what kind of asshole do you want us killing today?"
Blitzo shot him a double thumbs-up from across the room.
On the other end, a gravelly male voice replied, "I've got a job. There's a scammer in New York City, goes by the name Jonathan. He's been conning people with fake earplugs. Stole thousands. He ran me over with his car as he tried to get away. I want him gone!''
Stolas scribbled the details on a notepad, his feathers bristling slightly. "Ah, a mortal swindler. Delightful."
"The payment's already ready." the client added. "Expecting results soon. Do not fuck this up...''
"Of course. Consider it done," Stolas said, his tone now carrying a faint, aristocratic pride. "Blitzo, Moxxie, Millie, and Loona will be dispatched immediately."
The line clicked dead.
Stolas set the phone down and turned to Blitzo, who was already cracking his knuckles in excitement.
"Well, you heard the bird," Blitzo said, smirking. "Team meeting, everyone! Pack your bags—we're going to the Big Apple!"
Loona groaned. "Ugh, another human world trip? In New York? Great. Can't wait to smell the garbage and disappointment."
"Aw, cheer up, kid.'' Millie said brightly, loading her gun. "It's just a quick job!"
Blitzo turned back to Stolas, grin softening again. "Alright, handsome feathers. Fire up that fancy grimoire of yours. Let's open us a one-way portal to New York."
Stolas pulled out the ornate grimoire—its pages glowing faintly with celestial energy. He sighed once more, but there was a small, proud smile on his beak.
The air shimmered as a crimson portal opened in the center of the room, swirling with purple light and starlit symbols.
Blitzo pointed forward dramatically. "Alright, team! Let's go kill us a scammer!"
Stolas watched as Blitzo, Millie, Moxxie, and Loona walked through the grimoire portal. As the portal closed behind them, Stolas turned his head to the window, looking far out to the distance. Wherever Octavia may be, he just hopes that she is doing okay, even if the divide between them is more certain than ever.
[Scene: New York City....]
Above the city, the skyline burned with afterglow; the Empire State's crown winked an unnatural green against a sky that was half-dusk, half-neon. From this height you could imagine the whole metropolis as a living thing, a breath, a heartbeat, a million small desperate lights. Sirens were a muted drum beneath the hum of traffic, and every window held a story somebody else would never know.
Down on the lower floors, in a building that had once pretended to be respectable, the hum was a different kind of sorrow. The stairwell smelled of mildew and cheap perfume; the elevator had a list of tenants and a flicker that made the numbers look drunk. Apartment 3B looked like it had given up on the idea of being cared for altogether.
Jonathan pushed the door open and let it slam shut behind him. He was a ragged thing: beard like a patch of neglect, clothes that had been through too many nights and too few laundromats. He laughed low and ugly, a sound that pleased him the way a rooster delights in the dawn. On the counter, a set of molded, cheap earplugs sat in a small plastic bag, his latest con packaged and ready.
He plopped the bag down, ignoring the mountain of dirty dishes and the film of grime on the counters, and made for the couch. His friend — pinched cheeks, glassy eyes — had a rolled-up bill in one hand and a neat white line waiting on the coffee table. The couch looked like it had once been fashionable and lost a long time ago.
Jonathan slapped a wad of crumpled bills onto the table and grinned. "Boom, baby! I just made another sale!"
The friend's eyes flicked to the cash and then back to the pills. "Damn, bro. You're really raking it in. Keep this up, you'll be cruisin' in a Ferrari, or some shit."
Jonathan shoved a finger to his nose, took a quick line, and exhaled, the confident swagger in his shoulders softening into something more contented. "You goddamn right, I will."
Before he could finish bragging, the door groaned like a throat clearing. Jonathan rolled his eyes. Landlord. Noise complaint. Maybe a bill collector, maybe a neighbor with the world's worst timing. He peeled the deadbolt.
The lock clicked and the door burst inward.
Booted foot, flintlock, and a grin that didn't belong on any human face — Blitzo filled the doorway in one ridiculous, theatrical frame. He swung an arm out and the rest of I.M.P. crowded behind him like a bad idea made manifest.
"What the—? Hey! Who the fuck are you?" Jonathan stammered, thrown backward onto the threadbare rug.
"Hi! My name is Blitz — the O is silent — and I will be your motherfucking assassin today!" Blitzo announced, flourishing his flintlock with a kind of obscene pride.
Jonathan scrambled; instinct finally cutting through bravado. He made for the kitchen doorway as Blitzo barked a laugh and snapped off a warning shot that punched a neat hole through plaster above the sink. The report was deafening in the small room.
Millie and Moxxie moved like a single organism trained to collide with trouble. Millie's grin was all bright ferocity as she barreled toward the friend on the couch, who, startled, shoved a pillow toward Moxxie in a panicked attempt to slow him down. Moxxie, more methodical and less thrilled about bodily harm, grabbed at the pillow and was briefly swatted aside — only to reappear and yank the addict by the collar. Millie's axe came down in a sharp, practiced arc; the friend let out a raw, surprised cry as Millie's blow found flesh and forced instant compliance. He folded, stunned more than maimed, hands splayed against his chest as he whimpered for mercy.
Jonathan vaulted across the kitchen counter, glass and mugs rattling beneath his boots, and made for the back window. Loona moved like a shadow made of teeth and attitude. She leapt, a blur of claws and snarled command, and caught him at the frame. Her movements were fast and brutal but precise: a clamp to the arm, a snap that left Jonathan winded and on his knees, breath knocked out of him. He didn't have a chance once the I.M.P. crew closed the net.
There was a beat of stunned, stunned silence. The drug-addled friend lay groaning on the carpet, clutching his side; Jonathan jerked and coughed and then stopped trying to thrash. Loona had him pinned; Millie kept the axe leveled like a threat and Moxxie held up a shaking hand as if to check a pulse.
Blitzo sauntered in, checking all the corners like a man who'd rather be performing than policing. He flicked the safety off his flintlock and then set it on the table, beneath the crumpled cash. "Alright," he said, businesslike now. "Job's done."
Staring down at the two men — one unconscious from the force of the takedown, the other subdued and in pain.
Blitzo rubbed his hands together as if he'd just finished curtain call. "Now comes the inconvenient part: we gotta make sure no nosy neighbors are comin' by with flashlights and questions. Bodies? Cleaned up, discreet-like. Can't have the dhorks showing up like they did the last time...''
Loona rolled her eyes and knelt to check the addicts' breathing. "They're out cold. Not... you know. Not gross. I can handle moving them."
Millie gave a soft, efficient hum. "I'll help. We'll put 'em where they won't be found for a bit."
Moxxie, pale and shaking from the adrenaline, swallowed. "We should be really careful, sir. Someone could see.''
Outside, the city continued to breathe and glow; the green-lit crown of the Empire State watched on, indifferent.
The I.M.P. crew worked with grim efficiency — hauling the two men out of the apartment complex to finish them off.
[Scene: Meeting with Miles Morales....]
The alley smelled like oil and rain and last week's trash. A rusted dumpster sat like a maw against the brick, its lid hanging open to swallow whatever unlucky things were shoved inside. It was the kind of place where city secrets went to die and where no one bothered to look twice. Blitzo, Millie, and Moxxie worked in efficient, grim silence, black body bags thudded into the metal like sacks of rotten laundry. Loona stood watch, ears up, tail flicking with irritation at the smell.
Moxxie and Millie shoved the last bundle forward. It hit the dumpster's lip and vanished with a final, hollow sound. Millie wiped her hands on her sleeve and offered a weary, satisfied huff. "That's it. Good as fucking gone."
Blitzo had already flicked out his phone and grinned like a performer about to cue the finale. "Okay, Stolas, showtime, baby." He jabbed the call button and, with a practiced air of impatience, leaned against the brick as if he weren't sweating slightly from hauling bodies through a back alley.
On the other end, Stolas answered—his voice the same resigned lilt that had become their soundtrack for this tired, make-do life. "Yes, Blitzo?" There was paper shuffling in the background; the sound of a prince who'd swapped courtiers for paperwork.
"Heya, Stolas," Blitzo said, all cheer and false civility. "We're finished. Ready to open the grimoire portal? Pretty please?"
A long, theatrical sigh flowed through the line. "Very well." Stolas's voice was soft, slightly glum. "I'll have it ready."
The air at the far end of the alley shimmered. Embers blinked into starlit runes and a soft wind whispered between the bricks as the portal coalesced—an oval of midnight and scattered constellations, hungry and formal all at once. It threw a strange, cold light that washed the dumpster's rim in silver.
"Alright, gang," Blitzo said. "let's hurry the fuck up before anyone sees!"
They hadn't made it two steps when the sounds above—movement on the lip of the adjacent building—stopped them cold.
A figure dropped into view without a sound and landed squarely between the demons and the portal. He crouched like a cat, poised. The suit he wore swallowed the citylight: predominantly ink-black, woven with a subtle sheen that caught the alley's silver like a net. Stark red traced the shoulders and forearms and bled into a stylized spider sigil across the chest, the emblem jagged and alive. Tiny arcs of electric blue light flickered across the suit's seams, like small lightning bolts writhing along muscle and fabric. When he rose, his mask's white lenses reflected the portal's twinkling stars, unreadable and unblinking.
Blitzo stopped in mid-stride and blinked. "What the—? Hey! What the fuck gives? What is this, Halloween? Move out of the fucking way, stranger!"
Millie planted her feet, axe catching the starlight. "Who the hell are you?" she demanded, voice low and ready.
The stranger—a kid, by the cut of his shoulders and the easy tension in his stance—stepped forward just enough that he could be seen. "I should be asking you the same thing," he said, his voice calm but carrying. There was a quiet authority layered under the city-slick cadences. "You have some nerve dumping dead bodies out in the open like that."
"And I'm not going to let you just leave..." he finished, and there was no bravado in it—only steady intent.
Blitzo's smile hardened. He lifted the flintlock casually, not yet aiming. "Look, kid—this is none of your fucking business. Move along before you get poked with something unpleasant."
Loona snarled softly, a warning rumble in the back of her throat as she shifted to block a flank.
Moxxie readied a dagger.
Millie held onto her battle-axe tight, a frown on her face.
The portal's light spilled over the group, making shadows jagged and long. Stolas's voice, thin and impatient, came faint through the connection. ''Can you all please hurry up?''
The kid—Miles, if the name the city would later shout was any indication—didn't flinch from the guns or the threat. He planted his feet, fingers flexing at his sides. ''Now we can do this the easy way, you can just give up your weapons, and I will take you to the nearest police station. Or we can do this the hard way....''
"Alright then, Kid..." Blitzo said, voice sharpened with relish. ''We will do it the hard fucking way!''
Miles didn't answer to that. He stepped forward, closer, and prepared a fighting stance.
The flintlock gun went off with a thunderous crack but the bullet never reached its mark.
Before the muzzle flash could even fade, Miles Morales had already moved. Two white-blue flashes erupted from his wrists, twin threads of energy-lined webbing slicing through the air. One wrapped around Blitzo's flintlock, the other snapped tight around his leg. With one fluid motion, Miles yanked.
The gun flew from Blitzo's grasp, clattering into the darkness of the alley. A split second later, the demon was ripped from his feet and slammed onto the concrete with a sickening crack. His head bounced once against the pavement before his body went limp—unconscious before he even realized what hit him.
"Blitz!" Millie screamed, her Southern drawl sharp with fury.
She was already charging. Her axe came down in a gleaming arc, cutting the air where Miles had been standing. But the Spider-Man had moved—his body twisting with impossible grace, one leg sweeping low, one arm coiled like a spring. The edge of the axe embedded itself into the pavement with a shriek of metal and sparks.
Before Millie could wrench it free, Miles spun on his heel and drove his elbow square into her chest. The blow landed with a deep, dull whump that sent a shockwave through the alley. Millie's breath left her in a gasp as she was launched backward into the brick wall. She hit it hard, leaving a spiderweb crack in the masonry before slumping to the ground, out cold.
"Millie!" Moxxie cried. His dagger flashed silver as he lunged at Miles in desperation.
But Miles caught his wrist mid-swing, stopping the blade inches from his side. Electricity began to crawl across his suit, dancing along the web-lines in flickering blue veins. The air itself seemed to buzz.
"Don't even think about, possum" Miles said.
Then he drove an uppercut straight into Moxxie's chin. The hit was clean, brutal, and backed by a venomous surge of bio-electric energy. Moxxie's eyes rolled back as his body lifted off the ground, flipping backward into the dumpster. The lid slammed shut with a heavy metallic clang.
A low, guttural snarl tore through the air. Loona. She bounded forward on all fours, eyes blazing, claws extended. Her hellhound tail swung like a whip, slicing through the air with lethal force. Miles ducked, her tail cutting through the air.
He moved under her guard and drove a quick jab into her abdomen. It wasn't enough to break her—but enough to knock the wind from her lungs. Loona staggered back, clutching her stomach, a sound halfway between a growl and a gasp ripping from her throat.
Before she could recover, Miles flicked his wrists again. Two webs shot forward—each one clinging perfectly to her ears.
"Sorry, puppy." he muttered.
He yanked.
Loona let out a yelp as her momentum betrayed her. Her body flipped midair in a clumsy tumble before crashing hard onto her back. The concrete shook with the impact, dust and trash fluttering around her motionless form.
The alley fell silent, save for the distant hum of the city and the faint ripple of the still-open portal at the far end. The lightless alley now lay littered with unconscious demons.
Miles exhaled slowly, lowering his stance. His heart was steady. His breath calm.
His eyes drifted to the phone that had fallen beside Blitzo's hand. The screen still glowed faintly.
"Blitz?" came the voice—smooth, elegant, worried. "Hello? Blitz! Please answer! What is going on?"
Miles glanced at it silently. He stepped forward, his boot grinding over broken glass and debris. Without a word, he lifted his foot—and brought it down hard.
The phone shattered, the voice cutting out mid-syllable. The fragments scattered across the pavement, dark and silent.
Miles stood there for a moment longer, the faint blue arcs on his suit slowly fading out. Behind him, the starlit portal flickered uncertainly, casting eerie light over the alley's carnage.
"Not in this city..." he murmured.
Then, with a swift leap, he shot a web toward the nearest rooftop and vanished into the night, leaving nothing but silence, four unconscious assassins, and a fading portal to Hell. In the far distance, Miles Morales swung gracefully through the air like it was a basic routine of his. He made his way to the sanctum of the most powerful wizard of the magical arts, Doctor Stephen Strange.
[Scene: Meeting with Doctor Strange....]
The first to wake was Blitzo, because of course he was—and he woke violently.
"MMRFF—WHAT THE—HEY! WHAT THE FUCK?!" he shrieked, thrashing in a chair that seemed way too normal-looking for how stuck he was. His limbs jerked and twisted, but every movement only made the glowing golden bindings tighten with a hiss of magic.
Next came Moxxie, blinking groggily before reality hit him like a brick. He jolted upright, tried to stand, and immediately found himself just as immobile as his boss.
"O-oh dear... it seems like we're restrained by some kind of magic, sir..." Moxxie said, tugging uselessly at the shimmering rope. Sparks flicked off it like tiny fireflies.
From the left, Loona groaned awake, her ears pulling back in irritation. "No shit, Moxxie..." She scanned the room—towering bookshelves, floating candles, ancient relics sealed in glass, scrolls that hummed with eldritch energy. "What the fuck is this place?"
The fourth was Millie, who woke with a snort, violently flexed, and snarled when her bindings held. "Oh, now THAT ain't normal rope."
Before Blitzo could yell again, a calm voice answered from the shadows:
"Where the magic happens."
All four turned—and there he was.
Miles Morales stepped out from between two towering bookcases, The black-and-red design looked almost alive against the warm glow of the lanterns. His posture was steady, controlled—arms crossed, expression unreadable behind his mask.
"You again..." Blitzo spat through clenched teeth. "Of COURSE it's you again. What, was punching us not fucking enough? Now you wanna monologue?!"
Miles ignored the outburst and closed the distance between them.
"What I want," he said evenly, "is to know who sent you. Because it's not every day I see a bunch of—" he gestured vaguely at their faces. "—red skinned possums and a hell dog. And I've seen pretty crazy stuff and all, but this, this is a special kind of crazy...''
"For the record, we are imps, you dumbass!" Millie snapped.
Miles tilted his head. "Cool. Still need an answer."
Blitzo scoffed. "Look kid, I know you wanna play Halloween superhero dress-up—and hey, good for you, the whole aesthetic is cute—but we have a place to be, like, RIGHT NOW. So how about you—"
"No..." Miles cut in. "Not until you tell me what you were doing here. Who hired you? Mephisto? Dormammu? Or some kind of demon boss from the pits of Hell?''
"WELL technically that boss would be me." Blitzo said. "We're I.M.P—Immediate Murder Professionals. Licensed. Mostly. well, uh, sometimes. And now that you know that, let us go!"
"What are you going to do with us... torture us?" Moxxie squeaked.
Before Miles could answer, another voice echoed from above—smooth, resonant, authoritative.
"That would be a no."
The I.M.P all jerked their heads upward.
From the open space above the staircase balcony, Doctor Stephen Strange descended slowly, his iconic red Cloak of Levitation fluttering behind him like a regal banner. The mystical winds tugged at his blue robes, detailed with layered fabric and intricate stitching that spoke of both ancient tradition and arcane functionality. The golden Eye of Agamotto glimmered at his chest, casting soft reflections across the room's artifacts. His expression was stern—his goatee sharply groomed, his presence unmistakably commanding.
He landed with the composed grace of someone who bent physics as casually as breathing.
"Good evening," Strange said, adjusting his crimson collar with effortless authority. "Or... whatever time it is in the dimension you're from."
Blitzo blinked at him. "Holy shit. Discount Tony Stark with a cape."
Strange's brow twitched. "Charming."
Miles looked at Strange with a mix of respect and relief. "Yeah, they woke up faster than I thought."
"Yes...'' Strange replied dryly, eyeing the imps. "Demons usually do."
The room hummed with quiet magic, the golden bindings shimmering brighter.
Blitzo gulped.
Loona's ears flattened.
Moxxie began sweating.
Millie's eyes darted for exits that did not exist.
Strange clasped his hands behind his back.
"Now then..." he said calmly, "why don't we all talk about why you're on Earth...''
Blitzo sputtered, eyes darting between Strange and Miles as sweat formed on his forehead.
"Well, uh, we uh..." he stammered, jaw trembling.
He shot a desperate look at Loona, Moxxie, and Millie.
All three shook their heads violently—Do NOT tell them.
The golden ropes magically tightened in response to his hesitation.
Moxxie squealed. ''Ow! Blitzo! Whatever happens! Don't tell them!''
The pressure broke him.
"WE ARE ASSASSINS IN A BUSINESS TO KILL MORTALS!" Blitzo shrieked in one explosive breath.
The others collectively deflated.
Millie dropped her head, disappointed in him.
Loona rolled her eyes hard enough to strain a muscle.
Moxxie just turned away, face locked in a betrayed frown.
Miles's mask-eyes narrowed in sharp white slits. "So... you're hitmen. Basically."
"Yes—YES, but we— we only kill people who actually deserve it!" Blitzo insisted, voice cracking. "Okay? Like—terrible people. We came from the underworld, some client of ours wanted to pay us to kill some shithead scammer. Alright? I gave you what you want—now let us go..."
Miles Morales turned desperately to Doctor Strange.
Strange stepped forward, eyes cold, posture tall and imposing.
"Fine," he said in a tone that carried no victory, only warning.
"I will send you hellish heathens back to the dimension you came from."
Blitzo exhaled, relieved—far too soon.
Strange leaned in close, their noses nearly touching. "But know this..."
Blitzo quickly froze.
"If you ever come back to New York and show your faces—let alone step foot here again—The avengers will have you removed. Permanently."
Blitzo swallowed audibly.
Then—SNAP.
A sling ring portal erupted beneath the I.M.P, golden sparks swirling like a whirlpool. "OH SHIIIIII—!" Blitzo shrieked as the ground vanished.
Loona, Moxxie, and Millie plummeted with him, flailing.
WHOOOOOOOMPH!
They slammed onto the floor of the I.M.P headquarters in a heap.
Stolas, seated at the receptionist desk wearing reading glasses he absolutely didn't need, gasped dramatically.
"Oh my Satan! Blitzy! Are you alright?"
"I'm just fuckin' fine, Stolas!" Blitzo barked, adjusting his back with a crack. ''Is everyone else okay?''
Loona groaned and stood—then immediately hurled a stapler at his head. Blitzo ducked by pure instinct.
"You are such an idiot, Blitz!" she snapped, fur bristling. "Why would you tell that wizard everything?!"
"Wait—Loony—Loony, c'mon, I panicked! Alright? I panicked real hard—! And whatever the fuck knows what was going to happen to us if I hadn't said anything?''
The door slammed shut so hard the glass rattled.
Millie followed, tugging Moxxie along. Moxxie paused only to give Blitzo a long, pointed glare—deeply wounded, deeply irritated—before disappearing through the doorway.
SLAM.
Stolas blinked several times. "Am I... missing something here? Did you get the target like the client requested? and what of this wizard that you are all speaking about?''
Blitzo dusted himself off, anger bubbling. "Yeah, we got the fuckin' target...." he muttered. ''I am heading back to my office...''
He stormed off—
SLAM!
Leaving Stolas standing alone in the lobby, clutching his clipboard, utterly bewildered. "...What in Hell happened up there?" he whispered to himself.