Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first pain hits around midnight.

It is really no more than a twinge, which would have otherwise gone unnoticed but that Alastor is on night shift at the front desk. 

Indigestion, he thinks. 

Alastor pats his stomach, regrets indulging in a second helping of liver pate, and returns his attention to Rosie’s latest edition of her treatise You -”Can”-nibal! - Legal Do’s and Don’ts of a Whole Body Diet. 

So, he tries to ignore the odd twists in his belly as the hours crawl by. They are not... pleasant exactly. But it is hardly worth twisting his knickers over. He has a job to do, anyway, and, while not fulfilling, is at least distracting.

Evening desk attendant had become a default role for Alastor of late. 

The prestigious and * according to their beloved princess * the absolutely necessary role of Front Desk Attendant had begun as a practical solution as more and more residents arrived. Someone needed to be delegated to take on the volume of calls (only half of them prank-calls now!), guest check-ins (and, to Charlie’s tearful disappointment, check-outs), and to handle guest requests. Especially given the helpfully placed signs around the common areas of the hotel encouraged such whiny dependency.

*Please Share ANY Complaints or Requests at the Front Desk!*

*We are HERE for YOU*

Inaccurate. 

Alastor is here for himself. 

Still, the quibbles of the rabble must be addressed.

The position had begun as a 9-to-5 one until a particularly bold guest attempted to find an extra box of tissues in the supplies closet at 2am and discovered why Niffty was Alastor’s favorite little minion. 

Really, all that commotion had been a bit much for a few missing fingers.

So, the evening shift was born. 

Sleep not being an essential part of Alastor’s routine, and after several guest critiques (“Complaints” Vaggie had erroneously labeled them) of his being absent from the desk during his scheduled daytime shifts to attend to his duties as hotelier and preeminent overlord, Charlie suggested he take on 2-3 evening shifts per week. In theory, this was a position shared with Husker and Charlie but their own roles as bartender and crisis-manager, respectively, often (always) required Alastor to graciously step in.

There truly is no rest for the wicked!

The peaceful hours between 9:00pm - 5:00am do give Alastor time to work on his broadcasts, answer soul requests, and keep up with his correspondence, in addition to attending to the stacks of hotel paperwork and the day’s written complaints.

CONCERN: Want 2 c AngalDusk nekked 

REQUEST: Sex 

GUEST NAME: Goonth

ROOM: 269

Management Response: Attached is a pamphlet for the Princess of Hell’s grade school equivalency courses. We highly encourage you to attend.

CONCERN: I read about using suboxone when looking to get clean when I was alive. I had an appointment at a clinic but ( illegible scribbles ). I want to use bad. Please. 

REQUEST: Please help.

GUEST NAME: Spicer

ROOM: 402

Management Response: Your request has been forwarded to the Princess for personal review. 

While writing up a cover sheet for Charlie, a particularly nasty cramp grips him around the middle. It feels like a series of pinches, starting at his sides and squeezing the muscles of his abdomen before settling in his lower back. 

Alastor finds he is holding his breath as it subsides. He swallows down the sour taste of bile. Nausea? Not even after consuming several loan sharks whole had he experienced nausea in the afterlife. Alastor, the Radio Demon, prides himself on being in possession of an iron stomach! A frown creases his brow, and his smile pinches tight at the corners. This reaction - this weakness - is simply unacceptable. He normally does not mind, and in fact, normally welcomes, a bit of pain. 

He is in Hell, after all.

Unacceptable for an Overlord. Simply despicable. Pain is gain, as they say, and the Radio Demon has brought substantial gains to Hell in his time. 

So, Alastor pins a wide grin on his face and raises his eyebrows to smooth out those creases. Radio waves alight with music, landing on a tune that complies with Vaggie’s recent request to play music that is “anything modern” and Charlie’s insistence that he “be true to himself.”

When the jazzman's testifyin' a faithless man believes

He can sing you into paradise or bring you to your knees

It's a gospel kind of feelin', a touch of Georgia slide

A song of pure revival and a style that's sanctified 

He taps well-manicured claws against the desk in beat. The volume increases with his appreciation of Mr. Scott’s expert saxophone solos. Truly superb! Why the commoners insist on this new age rap-punk-hip-hop-pop-bobbity gobbledygook is beyond him. Jazz is king.

Alastor’s mood dims when a pair of residents crosses the lobby in search of the complimentary continental breakfast. They wince in unison at a particularly soulful BLAT of Scott’s trumpet. 

One - a porcupine demon that runs through pillows literally and figuratively at a concerning rate - mutters, “Way too early for the tunes, my dude.”

He nods an acknowledgment to them, slowly lifting his lips to reveal the razors beneath, his eyes dilating to pinpricks, just on the brink of snapping into dials. The instrument start playing at half-speed, out of tune, and Ms. King’s voice deepens and distorts

play it swEEtly, take me dOoOOowwwn, oooooh JAAAzzmAAAaaan

And the lowly sinners…

shake their heads.

“Okay, Mr. Alastor. Reeeeaaal scary. Good morning to you too.” The skunk demon giggles (giggles!) at him.

Humf. Well, he will simply not tell them breakfast will not be served for another hour. There. 

Something about him has changed since the battle with Heaven. His near-death experience and subsequent recuperation have softened him. Both figuratively and literally. The demands of rebuilding the hotel were much more manageable to attend to in those early hours. Not that the Radio Demon would ever confess to it, but with his limited powers while his microphone was out of commission, he had to narrow his movements for his own safety. He had set a trend. Up and coming demons always went for low hanging fruit in the form of injured or weakened overlords.

But then, after his staff’s restoration, he simply did not have time outside of his hotel duties to attend to his overlord schemes.

The sinners started coming and did not stop coming. 

(Alastor will deny until his last breath that he recognizes any references to any popular songs here. But long hours at the desk have left him with time to expand his catalogue) 

(He will also deny the existence of any double entendre in that statement related to the bowls of sheath-shaped barrier devices on every floor)

There are new arrivals each and every shift, others returning for a second or third time (or fourth, or fifth, or sixth or….). Check-ins occurred most commonly in the middle of the night in a place where hope is a weakness and escape is best done in the cover of darkness. While Charlie took over most of the introductions and tours, Alastor found it best he handle the paperwork.

Oh, the paperwork.

There are files to be maintained on each sinner to identify their redemption needs and track progress,  and these were reviewed at daily afternoon staffings (3pm-4pm, like clockwork!), where Alastor recorded the minutes, and, of course, there were the guest requests to be addressed, and repairs to be made, and subsequently the rooms to be modified and cleaned, supervising the burgeoning book exchange program, scheduling individual and group therapy appointments, arranging rideshares to weekly excursions, tallying community service hours, sending reminders to sinners who failed to complete the required 1 hour per month, writing/recording/distributing success certificates, reviewing soul contracts, writing recommendations on soul contracts, coordinating mediation appointments to resolve soul contracts, sending appointment reminders, reviewing and grading sinner assignments following Charlie’s strict rubric, meetings with Husk and Charlie on liquor consumption trends and averages, completing order forms for food and supplies, performing regular inventory checking, preventing theft of said inventory to be sold on the black market, tracking down and intimidating those sinners who have stolen said inventory and sold it on the black market - which, really, is the primary market in Hell, to be fair, and the same suppliers the hotel orders gets substantial mark-downs in products (but Alastor views purchasing the same item twice as a form of inefficiency)...

…and then there were the financials…

They say mistakes are proof one is trying. Well, the Princess of Hell has tried and tried and tried and - 

Alastor had been forced to place a strong ward around the hotel books.

Vaggie - though she denied it at all correlated - brought Alastor a blood tea the next day.

In addition to the many unattractive hats he wears for the hotel, Alastor still has his responsibilities as Hell’s preeminent/only radio host and most prolific overlord! He owns just as many souls as all three Vees combined. Those poor but very fortunate souls need little oversight after the initial deals were struck - or contracts transferred after their original deal-holder had perished at the Radio Demon’s hands - but Alastor did pride himself at least being aware of their doings and continued existence.

The radio show is mandatory for hotel residents. Or, at least, it plays over the hotel’s speaker system. Hotel centered or approved local business advertisements, announcements, and encouragements have replaced the more violent segments his show became known for. He even takes song requests, with more than one evening per week spent sifting through hundreds of increasingly confusing requests.

“The artist’s name on the compact disc is Mr. Eminem, yet I have found several tunes in which he identifies as Mr. Slim Shady or Mr. Marshall Mathers. Then, in a request from this evening, the man professed to be Lucifer! Clearly, this sad soul suffers from a dissociative identity disorder of some nature in addition to generalized psychosis…”

“I simply point out that a tune entitled “To Kill a Hooker,” should spend a touch more time on the titular homicide.”

“What the devil is a WAP?”

“Boss, I’m beggin’ ya, just skip the songs ya don’t like.” 

(The lattermost being Husker's unhelpful response to Alastor’s inquiries.)

Days spent in staffings and attending to hotelier business, then 7:00pm-9:00pm in his tower hosting, then the overnight shift at the desk, and even powerful overlords must get some sleep…

In sum, Alastor spends a lot of time behind a desk these days when he otherwise could be tearing sinners limb from limb around Pentagram City and growing his power wheeling and dealing.

Where was he going with this ramble? Oh, yes! The word ‘soft’ and the many ways the adjective is attributable to Alastor, the Radio Demon, Overlord, and formally TerROr and TOrTuRe personified.

His physical appearance.

Alastor has always been slim, in life and death, even to the point of skeletal. A sedentary lifestyle is simply not conducive to a cannibal’s diet. Sinners - apparently - have a high fat content. Sure, he has gained a few pounds. It doesn’t bother him to have a more generous form. Flesh historically has been an indicator of status and wealth.

Angel assures him it is quite attractive in its own way 

(“More cushion fer the pushin’!”) 

Whatever that means.

If only Vox would stop running “breaking news” segments on the subject! 

RADIO DEMON: HAVE YOU SEEN HIM??? (YOU CAN’T MISS HIM!)

DEMON IS A FAT COW ARD: ALASTOR HIDES IN HAZBIN HOTEL

MOVE OVER BEELZEBUB - RADIO DEMON IS A REAL GLUTTON!!!

GUESS RADIO DEMON S WEIGHT AND WIN WIN WIN

RADIO DEMON: TAILOR SPILLS LATEST MEASUREMENTS - EMBARRASSING!!!

Alastor sighs. His coat needed to be replaced, is all. Torn and stained, a relic of another time, another Radio Demon. Gone are the days of stalking and fun, reduced to recordings and memories. He likely is the only overlord forced to arrange therapy circles and order bulk quantities of powdered cockatrice eggs and death cap cooking oil.

“Come on, Pip. That creeper probably ate it all already. I got some crickets in my room.” 

“Aww, stop! Mr. Alastor is so sweet, once you get to know him.”

The Radio Demon has officially failed to inspire fear in rodent demons.

“Good morning, Al!” 

Too bright, too cheery, and a voice that could only belong to - 

“Charlotte!” He infuses his own voice with crackling energy and folds his hands together on the desk.

“It’s quitting time!” Oh, is he permitted to escape this circle of Hell he is condemned to? Finally. “5 o’clock sharp. On the dot. Punch the clock.”

So, just a turn of phrase. 

How disappointing. 

“The financials could not bear the strain of such property damage, my dear.” 

“That’s not-”

“I will happily take my reprieve.” 

Charlie’s cheery face falls. “Yeah…yes, you deserve a, uh, ‘reprieve’. Shift over. Like I said.” She sighs heavily.

Alastor keeps his sighs internal. “Have you continued need of my services, Princess?” He asks, making an effort to keep his ear from twitching as a heightened cramp catches him by surprise. 

A record scratch cuts through air. 

Pain grips his belly and cascades in lightning bolts down his sides. He knuckles the edge of the counter. He can feel his arms shaking with the strength he puts in, and finds he has burned outlines of his fingers into the counter’s stonework.

Charlie, thankfully, does not seem to notice as she drops a stack of papers between his arms and rambles on.

“These came today and I know we have to make an order and you’ve already been taking care of the guest requests and room mods and I’m sure Niffty has some preferences on cleaning supplies and-”

Wholesale catalogues.

The true punishment of Hell.

“I will be delighted to peruse.” The words come out a bit garbled with his teeth clenched so tight. He can barely keep the static in his head; the pressure builds between his ears. 

Charlie beams and gushes at how AMAZING Alastor is for helping, chirping and squeaking without drawing breath, her body fairly vibrating with gratitude or joy.

But he needs to relieve the static pressure.

Why won’t she leave?

“O-okay. It’s just that it’s my shift. But I can go…?” Charlie tilts her head and gestures a her thumb towards the staircase.

Alastor breathes out, long and hard, the slightest static playing an accompaniment. “My apologies, how rude of me. My mouth runs off before my thoughts at times! I will take my leave, Princess. Ta!” His voice is thick with spherics as he pulls white static back into himself from the air. 

He manifests a pool of shadow to drop into, already dissolving into it when -

“Niff! Ya gotta be shittin’ me! She’s cut another goddamn hole in the wall!”

Scritch Scratch Scritch Scritch…Scuttle…Scratch…..POP…

The lights flicker.

“Heheheheheheee! Strings!” 

“Niffty! No No NO!”

Darkness.

“Nooooooo.” “Uh oh.” “Shit!”  “Oof! Hey! Watch the merchandise!” “I’m walking here!” “DO NOT TOUCH ME YOU PERVERT!” “Owwww, what gives?” “Pfft, your loss, bitch!” clink “Hey hey hey, booze is off limits ‘til five PM!” “Share a lil’ ya fucking drunk!” CRASH!

“Uhhh, Alastor? Could you…”

No rest for the wicked, indeed.

---- 

Charlie is prattling on about Synergy and Core Competencies. Alastor suspects she has dipped into the corporate ladder genre of self-improvement books and wonders if she might reconsider his recommendation of The Prince. Give those sinners the ol’ Machiavellian treatment and they all will fall in line! Redemption in mere hours!

He glances at the clock. 3:30pm. 30 minutes and he can retreat to his radio tower. Or perhaps he will cancel the broadcast for today, call in one of those “sick days” that Charlie has allotted, and rest off this indisposition. 

Tightening pain. Twisting in his belly. Hot cramps straining his muscles.

A violin bow scraps across its strings. A piano builds a music scale. Drumsticks snap on a snare, playing louder and faster as the pain builds with the rising piano scale and the violin trills - 

“Hey, Asshole! Cut the music!” 

A sharp voice cuts through the lyrical fog that had settled over his attention. His record skips - a horrendous scratch tearing at the air as a phantom needle seeks purchase on a non-existent track. His seat neighbors - Angel Dust and Miss Bomb - wince.

Those dulcet tones that could grind peppercorn can belong to none other than their very own friendly neighborhood former exorcist.

“Now, Vaggie.” Charlie says gently. “We are all working on healthy self-expression. Alastor has such a gift and he is so, so generous to share it with us. But, Al, uh, could you maybe wait until after the meeting? I would appreciate it.”

She continues, “So, in conclusion, the numbers are great, Team! We are on track to open up floor six by next month! And, no, a certain number will not be assigned out. My dad already has to visit here enough without being summoned every time a resident uses their key card. Eh-hum, but I am so, so excited to reach this goal! We just need to work a bit harder!” Charlie enthuses.

Work harder?

Alastor cannot help the trumpet blast that causes everyone else to jump.

His stomach hurts. Another pain rides on the coattails of the last and it is the worst yet. Hot, searing, slicing. It is worse than a knife in the back. It is a hundred flaming knives stabbing and twisting in his guts. 

A bead of sweat trickles past the collar of his shirt.

“What the hell!” Angel Dust (who, as Alastor has pointed out many times over, is not a member of staff) shrieks.

“Do you have something to add, Al?” Charlie asks nervously.

Alastor, pain subsiding, narrows his eyes as he widens his grin.

Enough is ENOUGH.

The Radio Demon is no slave. 

Or, to pilfer a Husker wittyism: Alastor has exactly zero fucks left to give.

“Merely that you might consider others , my dear, in your quest for self-fulfillment. Your poorly compensated staff, for example. Or, well, I do suppose they are mine , aren’t they? Ha-ha!” The words crackle out before he can filter out the harsh truth in them.

Charlie’s face crumples in confused hurt.

“Fuck off, Alastor.” Vaggie growled, grinding a knuckle in the palm of her hand.

“Ha! Though I do suppose we all had the unique pleasure of staring our eternal demise in the face! My souls on the line, my very near-death experienced. What fun! How...charitable of you, Charlotte.”

Charlie drops her gaze to the table and sniffles.

Vaggie makes a show of rolling up the sleeves of her cardigan.

(A lovely crimson article draped over a crisp white button down and black vest combo - Alastor would almost have approved had it been not paired with a pair of torn apart jeans and scuffed up combat boots.)

“I’ll kick your fat ass for free.” 

“My, My! Not very angelic of you, hmmmm?”

Vaggie’s grey skin flushes with the heat of her fury. Her remaining eye twitches. The legs of her chair scrap against the floor. 

“NO!” Charlie exclaims over the sound of the chair firmly being pushed back into place. Vaggie, body having been pressed a touch too hard into the table, shoots her girlfriend a glare for her interference. “Alastor, we do not use past trauma as insults.”

Vaggie sticks out her tongue at the Radio Demon.

“Very mature.” He bites back, radio overlay thick in his voice.

“ And, Vaggie, we do not body shame. Alastor is a healthy weight for his, uh, height.” Her eyes betray her nerves as she flicks them at Alastor to monitor his reaction. “But - uh - self-worth is not measured by one's self - I mean, umm, by appearance! Though, I think you look wonderful, Al, you are more…more…more…”

Well, his father did teach him to put wounded critters out of their misery.

He should try to honor him, as the good book says.

“Yet you still feel the need to give feedback on appearances! One really should practice what one preaches.” He cuts her off with a grin far closer to a razor sharp snarl. 

Charlie takes a deep breath. “I am sorry, Al. And I do hear you.” She leans towards him, a picture of empathy, and quickly aborts an attempt to put a hand on his arm. “You work so hard and you give so much to others. I see and I recognize your generosity.” She continues on over his trombone slide of protest. “I lean on you so much because I trust you so much. I trust all of you so much!” She waves a hand across the table. Her paramour puts a hand on her shoulder as she wipes away a tear. “I am so proud of all of you!”

“Aww, Charlie!” “Babe, we are proud of you too!” “Yeah, yeah. Sure. Agreed.”

“Moving on.” Charlie sniffs, wiping at her wet eyes again. “We have a number of insectivores with us now. I thought that if Niffty captured a few bugs, we could create a sort of farm as a breeding experiment. It would cut food costs and better meet our resident’s dietary needs. Niffty, what do you think?” 

The little cyclops blinks once. Twice. Three times.

“More bugs?”

“Yes.” 

“On purpose?”

“All contained in tanks!”

Niffty slams her head into the table. “They cannot be contained!!” She wails and slams her head into the table again. (Twice. Three times.)

“Okay, okay - we can table the idea for now!” Charlie says frantically. 

“BUGS!”

Angel reaches a long arm across the table to pluck the little demon from the air as she flies toward Charlie. She clings to his chest fluff and sobs. The spider awkwardly pats her back. 

“Next on the agenda: Husk has a request! Husk?” 

“Bar needs cameras.” The bartender says, sounding bored and uninvested in his own request. “Some sneakin’ shit’s watering down the booze.”

“No cameras.” Alastor snaps and sends out a shriek of feedback to cut off further argument. 

“We will change the locks on the bar cabinets.” Charlie decides and closes her eyes in tired resignation. “Again.”

Another episode of pain overtakes the Radio Demon and his rigid posture bends ever so slightly. His back is killing him. He groans from the growing agony and hopes that the others take it as despair for the financials. He just needs to push through, is all. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. 

But he notices his breathing has consequences: with each exhale, he transmits a new station through the air waves.

Inhale.

Opera

Inhale.

New Age Rock

Inhale.

Polka

Inhale.

Big Band Jazz

Inhale.

Disco

Inhale.

Bluegrass

Alastor silences the noise by holding his breath. 

“Al, please.” Charlie looks at him, frowning. “Can you please take this seriously? A resident has requested we add an option for medication assisted treatment to help in their battle with addiction. I have requested some literature on it from the Royal Library, but, Angel, if you don’t mind, could you weigh in…”

Another twist in his guts breaks Alastor’s attention. Blood and static rush in his ears. The time frame between the pains is nearly non-existent now, one rolling into the other without relief. . His heart thumps hard against his ribs. White hot spasms radiate through his back. Nausea creeps up his throat. He swallows it down, unable to hold in the gasp as he recovers.

He inhales, long and slow, once more, claws pinching pin-prick holes in the fabric of his tight trousers and pressing into his legs. Not enough to break skin. Just enough to ground him. A static of distraction from the throbbing in his gut, his back, his thighs…

Another wave of pain crashes over him.

He is humming, a grumbling sound low in his throat, and he cannot stop it.

Sweat drips down his temple.

He feels the edges of his smile quiver.

Something is wrong.

“You doin’ okay there, Smiles? You ain’t lookin’ too hot.” Angel squints at him in concern.

Alastor latches onto the insult, latching onto an outlet for the pain, relief in the form of a target . His grin settles. Then it turns wonderfully deranged. The Radio Demon’s head tilts like a broken door on a rusty hinge and his voice booms with sonic pulses.

“Ah ah ah, quite the contrary! You will find I am very HOT.” 

The Radio Demon had ceased toying with the fabric and braced both hands on the table, pulling himself up to loom over the spider demon, coaxing his power to pull his joints apart, the room dims, green flames lick his skin, outlining his silhouette as it starts elongating to become…

His stomach lurches, disrupting his little power display and snapping his joints back in place. Agony. Throbbing, sharp agony. He folds over, arms curled around his middle. His claws do draw blood now as they tear into his back through the lining of his jacket. 

The table is cool against his forehead. 

“Alastor?” Charlie asks with hesitation. 

With effort, he raises his gaze to meet the stares of the others.

Radio silence follows until - 

“Uh, Boss?” Husk raises his brows in disbelief.

“Aww, Smiles!” Angel draws four hands over his wide mouth.

“You're…crying.” Charlie observes faintly. Her head gives a shake and then she melts . “Oh, Al - you’re crying!”

Alastor would deny it but, to his surprise, his hand comes away wet when he swipes at his cheek.

Well.

Well, he outright refuses to allow Little Miss Brightside to see this as a “breakthrough.”

“Pardon me. I am unwell.” He mumbles, preferring infirmity to emotional vulnerability. His gut lurches again, and he barely suppresses the urge to cast up his accounts.

A pathetic whimper slips from his lips.

Not particularly inclined to add vomiting to this already embarrassing display, and ignoring Charlie’s squeak of protest, Alastor rises on shaking limbs and stumbles to the door. He grabs the frame as his legs nearly give out. He tries to force his body into stillness and fails. 

The Radio Demon seeks out shadows to sink into instead. For the first time in Hell, they deny him from their depths. Shadow frantically pulls at his arm in warning. Alastor tries to force his way through anyway, gathering even more shadows to him. Power rebounds off the solid wall of darkness and a green flash of light explodes in the room, knocking several chairs and their occupants over.

Niffty laughs maniacally and claps her hands.

“Again! Again! Again!”

The scenic route it is then.

-----

Each step is a lifetime. 

The demon claws along the hallway walls, gouging out chunks of plaster and wood as he drags himself forward, leaving scorch marks where the bare skin of his face or hands brush. The distance is too far: more searing agony tears through him. Wave after wave of pain. He grits his teeth and swallows his scream, tasting the iron tang of blood when he bites straight through his tongue.

Shadow grabs him by the suspenders and pulls him, stumbling, into the elevator.

The elevator rumbles. Electricity snaps and crackles as the Radio Demon ascends. His power leaks into the small space and battles with the electricity. Photons stretch and snap at electrons, zapping and shocking in return. The gathering static nearly suffocates him. 

He vomits instead.

By the time he wards the door to his room, Alastor is panting. His ears are pinned tight against his skull. Sweat soaks his clothes and the damp cloth makes it nearly impossible as he tears at his tie, his coat, his collar. The fabric shreds as he panics in his need for air. White static fills the room and runs up against the damp humidity of the swamp. It combines into a thick, rolling fog speckled with green and blue static charge.

Alastor sucks it all in anyway, desperate. 

Adrenaline and fear - yes, fear - set his pulse racing. He gags and chokes on electric fog. Sound waves crash into the walls. His body pulses with static energy as he panics. Several shadow tendrils whip wildly around the room. When they collide with the sound barrier, the resulting sonic booms are deafening. He draws them back with difficulty. But, almost immediately, vibrant green light cascades through the air without aim, burning slices through the carpet and furniture.

The Radio Demon is losing control.

Another wave of pain immobilizes him, ending the chaos like a candle doused. Hot agony courses through his belly as the muscles of his abdomen contract tighter and tighter. He moans, more feedback than voice, the sound muffled. His teeth are pressed so tightly his jaw aches, smile more grimace than grin. 

Alastor crumples to the floor. 

Instinctually, he tries to draw his knees up to his chest. There is no relief. He rolls to hands and knees. No better. He emits a needy whimper of feedback into the now silent room. 

Pressure…pressure building…muscles rippling down…down…pushing?

Something is very wrong.

Poison? Possession?

His body is turning inside out. He is being ripped apart. The demon within…the poison… whatever it is is shredding his innards, disemboweling him from within. 

A sound rumbles in his throat. He lets out another low moan. Then he finally screams. The bulbs in his ceiling light and bedside lamps explode. He hears the washroom mirror shatter and the tiles crack along the floor.

Shadow frets around him - circling the walls and ceiling, stroking Alastor’s shoulders as they tighten, holding his hips when an impossibly greater pain rips through him. Its featherlight vibrations against his burning skin are a too brief comfort.

Alastor becomes dimly aware when Shadow grabs his antlers in a vice grip. The demon cranks his neck to an unhealthy angle to stare at the red depths of Shadow’s eyes.

“Help me.” He gasps, his voice strangled and small. 

But his ethereal companion is fading. Alastor sends an angry command to stay. He sinks his claws in Shadow’s arm, earning a silent shriek from his companion. Shadow clings to him, frantic to the end, vibrating in its own terror and desperation, as it turns charcoal, then dove gray, then becomes a wisp of mist.

“Please.” Alastor begs empty air. “Don’t go…please…”

Hot, electrifying pulses surge him to his knees once more and he crawls, desperate, back toward the door. A veritable shower of blood pours out from between his legs, soaking his trousers. He bears down again, unconsciously, and is not surprised that it only adds to the flood. 

He’s dying.

Alastor is dying. 

He will be found in a mess of excrement and blood. Innards torn to ribbons and devoured. Yes, the demon within is devouring his guts. The Radio Demon is being eaten alive from within! The irony is rich as cream and bitter as burnt coffee. How his enemies will laugh! 

Alastor’s muscles contract with an insistent pressure, and lost to instinct, bleating out in terror, he obeys and bears down. More blood. His whole body is drenched in fluids now. He swipes away dripping red locks of hair from his stinging eyes. But there had been relief in obedience. He bears down again, cursing the day he died, and - 

Something is coming. 

His trousers are tight from fluid and…yes, yes Alastor feels something when he cups a hand between his legs. Round and solid. He slices through his trousers with a flick of a claw and then uses both hands to riiiiiiiip the garment asunder.

Blood sprays over his hands as he bears down again. His legs shake with the effort and he falls back on his hands to remain upright. He needs to get it out, that something inside him. Another scream spills from him, no feedback, no static, no screeching record. Just Alastor. His power has deserted him. Alone. He is alone and he is just Alastor, the man who was born to belong nowhere and to no one. More blood. More pain. Bear down. Grunt. More. More. Inhale. Push. Exhale. Inhale. Push. Exhale. Inhale. Scream. Push. He widens his legs as that hard, solid thing breaks through his body. Scream. Blood. Pressure. Push. Pain. Inhale. Push Push Push Push -

Then it all gives way with a near audible pop! 

Something slides to the floor in a slimy puddle.

Alastor drops sideways onto his rear, legs spread, and stares, stunned.

Small…so small. Gray, and speckled with white, bloody gunk. It’s not moving. Quiet. The room is near silent, disturbed only by the hum of faint white noise. It’s not moving. Alastor lays a trembling hand on the small - so small - chest. Nothing. Not moving. It needs to move. Not breathing. It needs to breathe.

With care, he lifts the thing into his arms and presses it into his chest.

Time stands still.

Breathe, breathe, the demon thinks and pretends it is not a prayer. 

It is still. 

Please, it must breathe. Let it breathe, he begs and stops pretending.

It sputters a cough and finally - finally - gives a thin cry. 

Warmth blooms in place of the ice in Alastor's chest. His heart is still racing as he uses a sharp claw to slice through the thick, pulsing cord near the…the thing’s belly. Without a thought - refusing to think - he summons a spark of green flame to cauterize the end of the fleshy stump. He lays the crying thing back onto the soaked carpet. With a second snip of his claw, he cuts the cord as near to his sore nether regions as he dares.

It gives a thin wail of distress. His sore legs scream at him as he stands, wobbling like a newborn fawn, and stumbles to the bathroom. The mirror is indeed shattered, as well as the vanity lights. The only light in the room is the low, red glow his eyes give off and it sparkles in the glass like dying embers. 

The whole suite looks like a crime scene. And not in a good way.

Never mind that now. 

Alastor grabs the pile of towels from the rack. He returns to the room, collapsing back to the ground, and gathers up the mewling thing in a fluffy white towel. Hands still trembling, he gently rubs white and red gunk from its face. The snub nose crinkles. Blurry, beady eyes squint at him.

The little thing is pale, wrinkled, and covered in a sheen of slime. 

Disgusting.

It flings out a limb towards his face but Alastor catches it. It is tiny. Barely the length of his handspan. Two little fingers curl around one of his.

It has pale pink shells for nails compared to his glittering red claws.

With a huff, he tucks the thing’s appendage into the towel with the rest of the body. 

Embarrassing really. To think this scrap of a creature could bring down the Radio Demon. Not dead. Not dying. Just tired, exhausted really. A short nap, a bite to eat, a quick wipe down and he will be good as new! The trousers, of course, will need to be burned. And the jacket. Actually, he should set the whole room ablaze and begin anew. 

The thing stares at him, a deep crease between its brows. Bright blue eyes consider him.

“You may lodge your complaints with the front desk!” He says and gives a manic giggle. He runs a hand over his face as he collects his frayed nerves. To his confusion, his cheeks are streaked with fresh tear tracks. He tries to swallow, his throat not wanting to cooperate.  

Tap. Tap. Tap.

His ears prick at the sound, swiveling in all directions.

He clutches his bundle closer to his ribs. It squeaks a muffled protest.

Tap. Tap. TapTap. TapTap. Tap. 

Protect.

He must protect.

Thump. Thump.

But he cannot do anything.

Protect.

He cannot fight. He cannot defend. He is too weak. He cannot even dip into the deep well of power from his contracted souls. Even the ever present Shadow does not appear at his summons.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Hide.

Any one of his many, many enemies would find him easy pickin’s right now.

Protect.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.

Alastor finds, for the first time in his life and death, he really does not give a single damn about his own survival.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

Safety. Hide. Cover. Safety.

The knocking comes again, more insistent. Louder. 

BANG! BANG!

A muffled voice calls his name.

Protect. Safety. Shadows. Hide.

He clutches the bundle to his chest. His knees tremble as he crawls. There is no possibility he will make it to the swamp. The bed then. He grabs at the coverlet, pulling it down without pulling it off the bed. A barrier, however thin. He gently places his…the…the bundle under the bed. The blanket falls back in place.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Muffled yelling.

Protect.

“Hush.” He croaks to no one and leans his back against the side of the bed. He sways even as he sits. The room is suddenly unbearably cold. 

Click.

The lock flicks over in a poor mockery of a radio dial.

Radio. 

Waves. Alastor, you thrice damned fool, grab the airwaves! Sink into the shadows! Flee! Alastor! ALASTOR

No.

The doorknob turns. 

Protect.

Alastor starts to claw his way towards the door on his aching belly, tearing fistfuls of wet carpet in his progress. He will fight, if he must. At the least, he will be a shield of flesh and bone. He must protect his…the…his…

ALASTOR !

The door opens.

His smile, locked in a snarl, nostrils flaring, is a warning to the intruders. A low-pitched frequency is an audible proof that his powers are recharging by the second. He pulls at shadows, coiling them between his fingers, and sends them to the still standing tombstone radio on his dresser. The dial snick, white static, barely audible, floating to him. He breathes it in. A zap of energy. More power.

But not enough to stand a chance.

“Oh my gosh! Al!”

“Woah! That’s- that’s a lotta blood.”

A tall, suited figure enters the room at a rush.

The low frequency is cut with sharp microphone feedback - an audio manifestation of his instinctual panic. The numbers are against him: 2-to-1 (yes, two voices. He heard two voices). He is too weak to meet an attack head-on even with better odds. The small dose of power already is slipping from him in his buzzing fear. He scrambles backward, low static rumbling in a growl, a dark trail following as his body continues to leak mucous laced blood. 

Protect.

“Hey hey hey.” The tall one - Charlie. Alastor, that’s Charlie - murmurs, her voice calm and pleasant, crouching down towards him. “Al, it’s just me.”

He forces out a long breath. The radio dials in his eyes flicker back to round pupils, even if they are pin-points. 

The fallen angel takes another cautious step forward, ignoring her partner’s hissing protest.

Alastor scrapes together enough power - reaching into the very marrow of his bones - to send shadows swirling around him and the bed. The room glows green. Voodoo symbols - hearts pierced through with swords, criss-crossed lines of protection- scatter across the floor. 

It mewls from beneath the bed. Alastor sends out a wave of sound, snippets of piano and chiming bells, to cover the noise. He growls again and bares his sharp teeth.

The shorter intruder holds up her palms, a gesture of peace, “Okay. Okay. Message heard, loud and clear. Staying here.”

Now, placed between it and the danger, Alastor recalls the energy into himself. He will need it, to stay vigilant through the night.

The room is quiet as a tomb.

“Alastor. Please. We want to help. You are hurt.” Charlie has lowered herself to the floor, apparently unaware of the blood she kneels in. “It is just me, Charlie, and Vaggie. You know us. Let us help.” She stretches out an arm, palm up, offering. “Please, Al. Trust us. Let us help. We won’t hurt you.”

Safe?

The arm Alastor had been bracing himself on against the ground collapses; he is so exhausted that he can barely hear a record skip in response. Charlie gasps but she - now at a sideways angle - does not move. He turns his head and nudges the blanket away with an antler. In the darkness, he spots the little white bundle. 

His heart pounds.

Safe, it is safe here. Leave it here. 

“Come on, Al. Trust me.”

Safe.

His fingers catch the edge of the towel and he pulls it towards his chest. The thing inside snuffles its nose against his shirt. It mewls again - a frustrated sound, searching for something he does not have. 

“Whatcha got there, Al?” Charlie has crept closer.

The mewl builds into a reedy cry. He shifts the bundle, turning it away from the buttons on his shirt.

Radio silence.

Then. 

“Fuuuuuck. Wha- you are seeing this, right?”

Alastor grips the bundle tighter, his heart rate picking up. His ears flick wildly, sensing danger everywhere. Every muscle tenses, poised.

“Charlie, we have to get-”

She cuts herself off when Alastor bares his upper lip again, flashing razor sharp teeth and white gums. The room starts to darken.

“Ah, shit,” The voice hisses.

“Stay back! Let me…Al…Alastor, look at me.”

Golden eyes glow bright at him, begging him to place his trust in their owner. Her hand is outstretched, palm up. His ears lower against his sweat drenched hair as he bows his head, nuzzling his pointed chin into the towel. Charlie - in an act of either bravery or absolute madness - lays a hand on his left ear and strokes a thumb over the wet fur. 

Alastor bleats pathetically in response.

Encouraged, she lays her other hand on top of the bundle, a thumb pulling away the stained towel from its face. It continues to cry thinly.

“Shh, shh. There, there. It’s okay. We’re okay.” She runs a finger along its cheek to catch a silver tear. It turns to suck at her thumb when she strokes along its jaw. “You must be very hungry. Long day, huh? Vaggie - we need goat milk and…hmmm, well, get an eye dropper for now. And more towels. Uh, a lot of towels. And hot water. Oh, and could you please bring that quilt from our room here? And a thin blanket from the supply closet but probably needs to be cut and-” 

“Okay, okay! Babe, I only have two hands!” 

The color of Charlie’s eyes inverts. “Then get help!” She snaps.

The pain returns.

Alastor doubles over with it. He feels the bundle being tugged away and he holds on with all his remaining strength. Too weak, arms shaking with a new rush of fear and adrenaline, he loses the fight and gasps at the physical pain that loss brings him. Warm blood flows down his thighs. Voices shout over his head. Two hands pull his shoulders and press his back against the side of the bed. 

“Breathe, Alastor. Not done yet.”

“No, I can’t-” He starts to explain. 

Pressure builds back in his abdomen. His muscles bear down. But he can’t. He will rip in two this time. He will bleed out. He will fade into the shadows, forever incorporeal. 

And it needs him.

Two hands press on his belly, pressing down. Hard. Another pain and it is done. His body spills its contents easy this time. A rush of blood wettens and warms his thighs. Then…something….something else…no…

“Easy. It’s just the afterbirth. You’re so lucky my folks were hippies.” Vaggie says, managing to hide most of her disgust as she folds that fleshy mass into another towel. “Okay, I need to wipe you down. I’m going to cut off your pants. Bite me and I promise we'll both regret this.” 

Alastor is too tired to even give her a playful snap of his teeth. 

He drifts in and out of consciousness from there.

A crisp towel scrapes against his thighs before someone brings a wet cloth. Another pair of hands wipes away the dry, tacky sweat from his face and neck. Someone else holds a glass of water to his lips, urging him to swallow. A pair of silken pants cover his legs and a folded towel is stuffed between his aching thighs. Two sets of arms lift him into bed, murmuring reassurances when he whines against it. 

Then his hand searches the cool bedding and feedback rings out in panic.

“Nah, none a that. Charlie’s got the kid right over there. See? Just gettin’ some good ol’ goat juice. You take it easy, alright? It’s gonna be fine, Smiles, we gotcha. Ol’ Husker’s out snaggin’ ya a nice chunk o’ meat for a job well done. We’ll keep it raw for ya, Smiles, like I’m thinkin’ -”

“Drop it, Angel.”

“Fine. For now.”

Alastor drifts again, skimming the surface of sleep. But he cannot rest until-

“Here we are, back to your da-…your mo-…back to Alastor.” Charlie lays the bundle - freshly wrapped in a soft blanket and swaddled securely - in the crook of his arm. He curls around it.

“Thank you,” He whispers, voice broken in nearly unintelligible rush of static.

Charlies gives him an answering hum but otherwise says nothing. She does, however, give his ear another comforting stroke. He lets his eyes close again.

Safe.

He finally falls into a dreamless sleep.