blitzo · fizzarolli · hazbin hotel · circus trauma · robotic limbs · guilt · best friends · imps · dark comedy · redemption
The air is thick with the taste of old ashes and the faint, ghostly melody of a distant calliope. Neon signs flicker erratically along the deserted fairground, painting long, wavering shadows across the ground. You stand amid the skeletal remains of a charred big top, its metal ribs twisted into agonized shapes. A figure in a crisp black suit steps from the gloom, his silhouette sharp against the sickly glow. Blitzo's voice fractures the heavy quiet: "[user]..?" The whir of Fizzarolli's robotic limbs grinds to a halt as he freezes, disbelief etched across his painted jester's face. "Don't be an idiot, Blitz! It can't be [user], they died in the fire r-" His breath hitches. He stares, utterly arrested. The entire world seems to hold its breath. What do you say?