Chapter Text
In a cell in the Sloth Ring lay a sheep, a ram of fifteen years. More accurately, he was a demon, but his kind were called sheep or goats. It was difficult for most to tell the difference between the two, but for those in Sloth, it was fairly easy. The only problem was exerting the effort to do so.
Oddly enough, demons of Sloth preferred being called sheep or goats over the correct, technical term for his kind, and with good reason. The name for their kind, baphomet, also belonged to a powerful demon. While not a Ring Lord, a demon that embodied one of the seven deadly sins, or a member of royalty, everyone in Sloth knew of him and dared not speak his name. It was one of the first lessons everyone in Sloth learned. When you spoke a devil’s name, he is sure to appear.
This particular sheep had been abandoned in his infancy when he was days old and left to be raised on a farm, an orphanage for his kind. While Bel’s Farm for the Lovably Challenged was dreary on a good day, none of the other farms were much better and held little affection for the lambs and kids within. The staff was so lazy that it was up to the children to do most of the manual labor, seeing as they had the energy to do so. Fortunately, the staff also couldn’t be bothered to abuse the children, nor could the children be bothered to misbehave all that much.
However, the ram was slightly different from the others. He had something of a work ethic. Considering where he was from, it was odd to be sure, but he was not unwelcome, especially when it came time to wash the dishes or wash the laundry. His farm was rated the most well-kept in the entire Ring, thanks to his efforts. All other farms were tied for last place.
The ram wore a tattered, bleached purple shirt filled with holes and torn fabric. His pants were dark, ragged, and torn. His wool and eyes were a blue marguerite, and his horns were Bossanova. Atop his head was something of a candle but lacked wick, and no amount of water nor wind could put out the biloba flower flame that burned atop it, nor could any amount of heat melt the wax. Or perhaps it was hair. No one in Sloth knew, and everyone was too lazy, or in this sheep’s case, too nervous to find out.
The tips of his nose, tail, and ears were white, and though this wouldn’t seem relevant, his teeth were in good condition. He didn’t know why, but that was something a few prospective parents and owners looked at, especially those from Wrath.
While farms were miserable places to be, sheep and goats were relatively lucky. They were adorable, calm, and easy to care for, and for those in Greed, they were surprisingly successful. As such, it was never a matter of if they would be adopted , it was a matter of when. From what he heard from the matrons’ mumbled conversations, the same could not be said for hellhounds.
There was an exception to the rule: the sheep in question. Since he was young, the ram did his best to put his best hoof forward when being interviewed by what he hoped were his new parents. He was as respectful, calm, polite, and honest as he could be when he spoke and never responded nastily towards even the rudest and cruelest of couples. This never seemed to help in the slightest.
‘Why did you waste our time with that brat? Voice aside, just look at him. He’s absolutely worthless!’ They would all say in one form or another to whatever matron was on duty that day. Unfortunately for the sheep, none of them ever shut the door that divided the interview room from the viewing room where the matron watched. As such, he could hear every insult and jab levied at him. When he was a little lamb, the insults and criticisms often reduced him to tears. Nowadays, while they still hurt, he could control himself better and take the insults in- maybe not stride, but he expected them at the very least.
The ‘absolutely worthless’ sheep in question was named Collin. Since he was left on the farm's doorstep without a name on his swaddled person, the matrons had given Collin one randomly.
The farm had a jar filled with first names for just an occasion. Because the staff were too lazy to fill the jar themselves , prospective parents and owners had to drop a first name into the jar when they arrived for their interviews. Two years after realizing that they would need separate jars for boys and girls, the staff got around to buying the second jar. Three years after that, they sorted the names into boys and girls. It took another five years before someone had the wherewithal to put the names in their respective jars.
Every farm’s resident had an ID number for what little record keeping there was ; Collin's was FR-47523, and a last name that was as simple as it was apathetically cruel, with the assigned ID number tacked on at the end. Since they were in Sloth, it was easiest to call all the children what they were. In Collin’s case, an unwanted ram whose only discernible trait was his ID number.
Collin lay on a hard, cold slab of metal under a tattered, dusty blanket, facing the cinderblock wall of his cell. It had been a very long and disappointing day, and he was physically and emotionally drained. He had yet another interview with a couple looking to adopt a sheep. The interview went about as poorly as it always did. His interviews always went poorly; he just never understood why. Was it how he talked? Was it his voice? His eagerness to please? Did he need better clothes? Was he just too old now? If that was it, what was wrong with him when he was younger?
He sniffled as the couple’s words resounded in his mind.
‘Can we talk to any of the other ones in the back?’ One of the demons asked the matron. ‘We should have known by the name, but just look at him. He’s worthless.’
It was more on the nose than usual, but not anything he hadn’t heard at least once.
‘Oh, you got Collin,’ he recalled the matron saying with an exasperated sigh. ‘Sorry. The computer organizes these them by their arrival date. He’s always first. We don’t have the time or energy to reorder the list. You have to understand it's an entire mouse click. We should have one that might suit you better. Just a moment.’
Collin should have been happy for the lamb they interviewed next, and he was. Asher, who was about three, was led into the interview room, gave the pair a smile and a wave, and was adopted on the spot. Not too shocking. Asher was well-behaved and intelligent for his age and exceedingly fluffy and adorable.
Collin felt just a twinge of envy as he recalled Asher happily prancing behind his new parents. Worse, there was a bitterness that was beginning to grow in him. He knew that he shouldn’t feel that way. He should be happy anyone got adopted, especially when they were still young. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what made everyone else so special. Wasn’t he well-behaved? He was cute when he was younger, so what was the difference between him and anyone else? What did everyone else have that he didn’t?
Collin’s hand gripped his blanket. What was he doing wrong? He felt tears beginning to grow , but he forced himself to keep them down. He was fifteen, sixteen in a few months. What was crying going to do for him? Collin’s mind began to wander. How many years did he have until he aged out? Three, two and a half if he was being accurate. After that, he’d be out on the streets, but at least he wouldn’t have to deal with constant rejection. Then what? Where would he go? What would he do? He didn’t have much of an education. What if finding a job was like finding parents? Maybe he could work here?
That last thought seemed to manifest a dark cloud over him. Was he going to die on the farm? He didn’t want to dwell on that prospect longer than needed. He’d much rather sleep at this point. Yeah. Sleep sounded nice. He lived in Sloth, after all; no one would blame him for doing so. He bundled himself in his fraying, itchy blanket as best he could to get comfortable. Collin closed his eyes and started to drift when he heard the door on the far end of the hall open with a slow, heavy creak.
“Looking for anything specific?” The matron on duty asked. Her name was Margret, a disinterested woman, to say the least. Well, all the matrons were disinterested. Someone could be shot , the matrons themselves included, and they would barely pay it any mind. The only enthusiasm any of them had was when they could go on break. Margret was a denizen of Sloth as well, complete with her own candle. However, she was neither a sheep nor a goat. She was something. Collin didn’t know what, and when he asked, she would always say, ‘Don’t worry about it,’ in a disinterested, nasally voice. She had saggy, rusted skin, four eyes that struggled to stay open on some days, cloven hooves, and two scrawny arms that ended in two claws.
Another couple must have been looking for someone to adopt. A walk-in , perhaps ? They were rare but welcomed, as walk-ins meant the Matrons didn’t need to go through the hassle of scheduling interviews. Maybe he should tell Margret to skip him if she came by and save everyone the trouble. He couldn’t deal with any more rejection today.
“Not really,” a voice responded. Male by the sound of it. “Are any family friendly and calm enough to not immediately attack me ? I tried for a hellhound, but those runts tried to maul me if I got too close.”
“Sorry to hear that, sir,” Margret said as if she were reading off a checklist of things to say.
“Eh, I’m not too disappointed. None of them really needed someone like me. But, family friendly?” He repeated.
“Sir, this is a farm. All of them are. The children here should be much more calm and obedient than the hellhounds you looked at. Perfect if you need them to work, get you a beer, or just don’t want to deal with training them. Are you looking for a sheep or goat?”
“Either works ,” He said.
The moment they got close enough, several lambs and kids began bleating in a bid to get the stranger’s attention. Collin heard some pawing at their bars and the clattering of hooves as others hopped about in their cells to draw attention to themselves.
“Please settle down,” Margaret said. The lambs obeyed, falling silent soon after the order was given . Then again, bleating more than a few seconds was too much of a hassle.
“Aww, they're all so cute and fluffy and-” Collin heard him pause. When he spoke again, his voice was melancholy. “-sad still. Why is everyone so sad?”
‘Because places like these are proof we’re unwanted,’ Collin thought to himself . More accurately, proof he was unwanted. He’d been here longer than anyone aside from the employees.
If the visitor saw him, would Collin be ‘sad’? That’s not the word he would use. Despondent? Too intense. Apathetic. That was it. What else could be said about him? The more he thought about it, the more he wondered what could be said about him that would make anyone want him. He was scrawny , so he wasn’t a good fit for field work . He seemed bright but not smart enough to really ’ make it,’ even in Sloth. Nice? That’s about all anyone could say about him, and nice was never worth much where they were. He could wash dishes and laundry and not complain about it . Like anyone outside of the matrons cared about that.
“What about this one here?” Collin heard the matron say.
There was a loud bleat followed by the sound of horns bashing against bars.
“I like his energy, but I don’t know. He seems to want to ram into anything that moves.” There was another loud clanging as a goat rammed the bars of his cell and bleated out an insult. Collin was certain it was Bernard by his use of colorful language. Most couples didn’t like the attitude. Other goats? They would likely kill to adopt him. If he recalled correctly, two goats were scheduled to interview him the day after tomorrow. Collin batted away the bitter thoughts and hoped they were nice to him and that he found a happy home. “Someone calmer would work.”
“A gift for the wife, huh? No problem. We have a nice selection of sheep we can focus on.”
Collin heard them continue down the hall, looking at and waving off sheep that bleated for attention and likely put on their cutest faces for the visitor.
“Who’s that?” He heard the stranger say.
Collin’s ears twitched. That sounded too close. He turned his head just enough to see that Margret was touring an imp. He stood right outside of Collin’s cell. He was tall for his kind, taller than even Collin. Two large curved horns protruded from his head, patterned white and black. He had red eyes that seemed to glow in the dark. His face had a white splotch. He didn’t know if it was normal, makeup, or a scar. On his forehead was some kind of heart sigil. He wore a tattered coat and a red skull charm around his neck, boots with pointed red toes, and a pair of fingerless gauntlets.
Their eyes met for a brief moment , and there was something that changed in the imp’s expression, but Collin didn’t know exactly what.
“Oh. That’s just Collin,” Margret said. “I wouldn’t bother with him. Anyone who’s talked with him wrote him off just as fast. We think he’s defective at this point. We can’t get rid of him until he turns eighteen, so we’re stuck with him until then. Just follow me, sir; I’m sure we can find you a sheep worth something.”
Collin didn’t even try to hide how much that hurt. It was true, though; why else would no one want him? Collin simply turned back around and compressed the ball he had put himself into. He tried not to, but he let out a slight sniffle and tried again to get some sleep. He found reprieve only temporarily.
Collin woke when the door to his cell opened with a bang. He turned and saw the blurred image of Margaret. “Matron Margaret? Is something wrong?” He asked groggily, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He looked at a nearby clock. He’d been asleep for two hours. He wondered if the imp had adopted anyone while he slept.
“There’s an imp that may have brain damage, but that’s not my problem.” She groaned as she accomplished the herculean task of reaching into her pocket. “I have good news for you, Collin. You’ve finally been adopted . Yay.” She lazily spun a party noisemaker for maybe a second or two and used her other hand to throw some confetti into the air. It was the hardest she’d ever worked in her tenure at the farm.
Collin didn’t know how he was able to sit up so fast. His ears perked up, his eyes were wide, and he felt his heart seize. Someone adopted him? But there had been no meeting, no interview, no looking inside his mouth like that one couple from Wrath did. Was this real, or was someone from Cannibal Town hungry? No, it couldn’t be that. The overlord herself came by once when he was three, took one look at him, and left immediately. Next, he heard that she had declared all goats and sheep off limits lest they eat him, and somehow, that was a fate worse than damnation. The decree was still in effect and was, by far, the kindest way anyone had ever told him he was worthless.
Collin wanted to say something, but his voice seemed to catch in his throat. Only little whimpers and noises managed to escape for a minute or two until he was finally able to say in a cracked voice, “I’m adopted?”
“I know, it shocked me too. Don’t worry about him ; I recommended a very good doctor in case he wants to get his head examined . Just don’t screw this up for yourself, Collin. He’s all yours, sir,” Margret called into the hallway.
Collin watched as the imp from earlier entered his cell, smiling widely and holding up his adoption form, which had been signed and sealed with Bel's rubber stamp.
“Collin, right? Name’s Blitz, the O is silent. But you can call me Dad.”