They beat Vox. They stopped his weapon. They saved Heaven and Hell. But there are still consequences to his actions. His, and Charlie's. Her father was hurt badly by the weapon, and no matter what she does, he won't wake up. She may have to face the fact that he could die, and the very last thing she'll ever have told him is to go away because he fucked things up for her enough. No. She refuses to accept that. She's going to make things better. No matter what it takes.

“Dad!” Charlie shrieks, launching herself forward immediately. Her hands smash at the glass, but it doesn’t break. Not even when her claws extend as she assumes her more demonic form and digs against it. “That won’t work,” a voice to her left says. Charlie whips her head around. Carmilla is there, kneeling next to one of the panels closer to the floor. She glances up at Charlie’s wide-eyed look as Zestial slithers into existence again next to her. “Let him go,” Charlie snarls. “I am not holding him captive,” Carmilla says patiently. “And I intend to free him, if at all possible, but I will need your help. That isn’t ordinary glass—it’s infused with angelic steel, as is the rest of the device. It is not breakable by normal means.” “She’s right, Charlie,” Vaggie says, resting her hand gently on Charlie’s shoulder. “I know. I tried to break it with my spear earlier, when I first found him. Didn’t even leave a mark. But…” She looks up, eyeing the pod with horror. “But he wasn’t like this when I left him.” Charlie’s eyes burn with anger and tears as she turns back to the pod, and her father inside. He looks awful. His hands and feet are trapped in sturdy angelic steel cylinders, hanging him spread-eagled. And there are dozens of strange wires digging into his flesh across his chest, back, arms and hips, tearing holes in his clothes and dribbling with golden blood. The wires are still crackling with electricity, and every time they do, Dad twitches unnaturally. His body is limp. He’s held fully suspended by his arms. His hat has fallen to the bottom of the pod, his dormant halo barely visible inside the machine. His head hangs forward, twisted askew by one of the crackling wires. His hair is out of its usually slicked back style, hanging frazzled and messy in front of his face. She can’t see his eyes. She can’t tell if he’s awake. If he’s hurting. If he’s alive. He’s not even making any noise. With the way his body twitches with every crackle of electricity, she can’t even tell if he’s breathing.

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They beat Vox. They stopped his weapon. They saved Heaven and Hell. But there are still consequences to his actions. His, and Charlie's. Her father was hurt badly by the weapon, and no matter what she does, he won't wake up. She may have to face the fact that he could die, and the very last thing she'll ever have told him is to go away because he fucked things up for her enough. No. She refuses to accept that. She's going to make things better. No matter what it takes.

“Dad!” Charlie shrieks, launching herself forward immediately. Her hands smash at the glass, but it doesn’t break. Not even when her claws extend as she assumes her more demonic form and digs against it. “That won’t work,” a voice to her left says. Charlie whips her head around. Carmilla is there, kneeling next to one of the panels closer to the floor. She glances up at Charlie’s wide-eyed look as Zestial slithers into existence again next to her. “Let him go,” Charlie snarls. “I am not holding him captive,” Carmilla says patiently. “And I intend to free him, if at all possible, but I will need your help. That isn’t ordinary glass—it’s infused with angelic steel, as is the rest of the device. It is not breakable by normal means.” “She’s right, Charlie,” Vaggie says, resting her hand gently on Charlie’s shoulder. “I know. I tried to break it with my spear earlier, when I first found him. Didn’t even leave a mark. But…” She looks up, eyeing the pod with horror. “But he wasn’t like this when I left him.” Charlie’s eyes burn with anger and tears as she turns back to the pod, and her father inside. He looks awful. His hands and feet are trapped in sturdy angelic steel cylinders, hanging him spread-eagled. And there are dozens of strange wires digging into his flesh across his chest, back, arms and hips, tearing holes in his clothes and dribbling with golden blood. The wires are still crackling with electricity, and every time they do, Dad twitches unnaturally. His body is limp. He’s held fully suspended by his arms. His hat has fallen to the bottom of the pod, his dormant halo barely visible inside the machine. His head hangs forward, twisted askew by one of the crackling wires. His hair is out of its usually slicked back style, hanging frazzled and messy in front of his face. She can’t see his eyes. She can’t tell if he’s awake. If he’s hurting. If he’s alive. He’s not even making any noise. With the way his body twitches with every crackle of electricity, she can’t even tell if he’s breathing.