Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

He returned to the hotel again at noon.

Alastor found that his mind felt calmer somehow. With his own repulsions suppressed by the steady sway of Vox’s eye being that close to Vox, that intimate and vulnerable felt… good? Tolerable?

The only down side was with the effects of Vox’s hypnotism slowly slipping away his skin began to crawl again with the familiar itch of discomfort he’d felt before…

Shaking off the residue of this morning Alastor reached for the wide double door of the hotel, his fingers curling behind the bronze handle before pushing it open.

“Charlie—?”

Alastor's words cut short as a body collided with him in the millisecond he crossed the threshold into the hotel lobby. A pair of arms locking around his ribs in a crushing embrace, a face burring into his chest and—

“...Charlie?” Alastor repeated, caught somewhere between surprise and shock.

She was… trembling. Quiet sobs shook her body as she curled her blonde head into his chest, the movement a hesitant, understated thing, but it had Alastor reaching up instinctively to cup the back of her head.

“Alastor— Alastor—” she sniffled, shocking his name out from between weak cries. “I’m s–so glad you’re here I—” another harsh sniffle, hands tightening into the back of his coat. “–Angel he— we found him in the lobby this morning and  he was— there was so, so much blood Alastor, and his outfit wasn’t even on properly after whatever fight– and—”

Alastor thought he might be sick.

Bile, sharp and burning, climbed up the back of his throat as his lungs seemed to seize up entirely.

“It was awful.” Charlie cried, still clinging to him like a lifeline. “I– I don’t know what happened, I didn’t even k–know he was coming b–back–!”

Vaggi stepped up behind Charlie, her expression solemn, as he placed a hand on Charlie's shoulder and gently tugged her back. “Give him some space, hun.” she gently coaxed, her eye flicking between her girlfriend and the radio-demon. “I think Alastor needs to be able to breathe.”

Charlie gave a sort of pained nod, releasing Alastor and stepping back, her hands coming up to scrub her face as she half-turned, leaning into Vaggi's shoulder.

Alastor didn’t even know what to say. His staff almost slipped out of his fingers from the sheer numbness that’d overlook him at the words.

The state he must’ve been in. The way his chest was torn open, insides no doubt on full display. The corset on his back half torn open by Alastors own claws no doubt looked like something far worse. The blood everywhere. 

And…

Alastor swallowed, the weight of his conversation with Vox earlier still on his shoulders.

He knew Vox had said that Angel must’ve been part of the plot to kill them but… Alastor wasn’t entirely sure if he believed it. 

Alastor had seen many facades over his decades in Hell and Angels pain… he thinks it may have been the realist thing he’d seen in a very, very long time.

“Where… is he now?” Alastor asked, sounding slightly despondent, his gaze scanning the hotel floor, only finding the dark pool of crimson dried up on the carpet where Angel's corpse had been.

“We carried him out back.” Vaggi explained, still rubbing soothing circles into the princess’ back. “Figured it was better to get him out of sight before anyone else came back and saw. It was…” her nose creased, eyes blowing wide into something haunted. “Bad.” 

Charlie shuddered at the mere mention.

Vaggi looked up at Alastor, scowling. “You gonna say something?”

Alastor merely stared back, expression horribly blank. “I’m not certain what you desire me to say, my dear.” he replied, expecting the ex-excorsist to drop it.

Vaggi's eyes, however, narrowed. “You don’t look very surprised that he’s dead, Radio Demon.”

Alastor went completely still.

Charlie slowly lifted her head, wiping at her eyes. “W–what?” she mumbled, eyes glassy. “What do you mean?”

Fuck.

Alastor’s smile tightened at the edges, thickening the indifferent facade, not foolish enough to say to the princess of hell and her murderous partner that he’d murdered their first patron just yet.

“Nothing at all.” Alastor dismissed, waving a hand. “I’m merely wondering what’ll take for us all to move on from this little ordeal.”  he sighed with faux neutrality.

Charlie's head snapped up, fresh tears forming in her eyes as her lips parted in shock. “Alastor…” she shook her head. “... why would you say that?”

Alastor's ears flicked. “Because, this is hell sweetheart—”

“Because he’s a bastard killer Charlie!” Vaggi snapped at the exact same time stepping forward and pulling on Alastor's sleeve—

Alastor’s eyes widened. “What are you doing—?”

She twisted his arm pulling forward his arm—

And the blood he hadn’t quite managed to scrub from his sleeve.

Alastor's eyes blew wide.

Charlie gasped, pale hands flying up to cover her mouth and Vaggi—

Vaggi snarled. “Bastardo!” she exclaimed, pulling out her spear and poising it up towards Alastor. “Tell us what you did, you radio-rambling shit-lord!” 

Alastor's head snapped sideways, mock-playfully batted Vaggi’s spear to the side. “Does it kill a man in hell to have a hobby, Valerie?” he jabbed. It was the last straw.

Vaggi snapped.

“Vaggi wait—!”

Charlie's plea went ignored. 

Wings flaring wide and spear angled to strike, Vaggi launched herself at Alastor. The radio demon dissolved into a fuzz of black shadow before the spear's edge could so much as graze him, appearing in the exact spot Vaggi had seen before—

“Now, now.” Alastor bargained, foolishly reveling in the conflict. “You should learn to restrain—”

“Radio-fuck!” Vaggi cursed, spinning sharply in her heel as her snowy wings flared again, spearing the angelic point of her weapon towards Alastor's chest—

“Vaggi, no!” Charlie pleaded.

Alastor disappeared again, melting into an inky darkness again before he could be harmed.

“Stop hiding and explain to us what the hell you’ve done—!” Vaggi demanded her gaze searching and searching for the radio-demon until—

Alastor reappeared in the center of the lobby. Smile still plastered across his face and hands half raised in a far-too-calm appeasement for the matter at hand.

Vaggi saw red, huge wings flapping in one strong movement that sent her barreling across the space between them faster than Alastor could disappear. Her hand bawled into a tight fist against the scruff of Alastor's neck taking them both down—

She slammed her spear into the ground inches from Alastor's face.

Her features twisted viciously into nothing short of a snarl as she bared her teeth at him.

Alastor wheezed slightly, breath knocked out of his lungs with more force than he’d been anticipating—

“Come now,” Alastor hissed from beneath the gritted teeth of his smile, “you’re jumping to conclusions, my dear.”

“No.” Vaggi’s fist shook him by the shirt harshly, knee digging into his stomach painfully as she leveraged her weight perfectly on-top of him. “Eres un maldito manipulador! Explain why there’s blood on you!” he demanded, still gripping her spear.

Alastor’s brows pinched into a scowl. “I never said I hurt Angel,” he protested.

Vaggi’s wings ruffled angrily. “It doesn’t matter whether you said it or not, Alastor! You’ve  clearly hurt someone! The entire black of your sleeve is covered in blood!”

Alastor's eyes flickered wearily between her and the sharp spear-edge inches from his face—

And then he disappeared.

Re-appeared somewhere else clutching his chest.

Was there truly that much of Angel's blood still on his coat? He could’ve sworn he’d scrubbed it clean–

His gaze dropped to the backside of his coat and his heart dropped right along with it.

Everywhere. There was Angel’s blood all over—

A first hit Alastor squarely in the jaw.

He hit the ground faster than he expected too, his brain rattling against his skull. 

And when he tried to rise again—

Something cold pressed into his neck. Firm and sharp enough that he knew that even the slightest tilt of his head risked taking his head clean off his shoulders.

Not.

Good.

“Now.” Vaggi practically spat, holding the end of her spear against the radio-demons neck in a lethal grip. “You answer my question before I take this  spear and drive it through you.” she threatened.

“Wait, Vaggi–” Charlie tried, jogging towards them from where she’d been stood at the doors, voice a gentle plea. “Don’t hurt him! We still don’t know—”

Alastor's eyes snapped wide as Charlie started to speak. 

She was defending him. Believing him innocent of a crime that he has most certainly committed, and trusting him. 

Wrongfully so.

And he couldn't stand it.

So much so that he did perhaps the most ignorant thing he could've done in that moment.

“I did it.”

The words came out rough against the static filling his ears. The admittance being the only thing his mind could grasp onto.

“I killed Angel.” He said again when even the momentary silence grew too much to bare. “I killed him.”

The words hung heavy. Pressed down like pressure on a taught thread that was brimming to snap.

And it did.

Vaggi pummeled towards him. 

“You’re dead!” She declared raising her spear, movements quick as she thrusts straight for his chest—

He wasn’t there.

He appeared again to her left, almost blocked by the vast surface of her own wings. She spinned towards him, wings flapping viciously, almost toppling over at the speed of her own movements as her spear swung in a wide arc.

He leaned back, barely – just barely – escaping the radius of the swing.

Before she can attack again Alastor pivoted, anticipating the next swipe of angelic spear before it even lands. He kept moving, refusing to slow down as he raised his staff high—

And slammed his cane down against the floor.

The sound snapped. Green energy, like lightning, skittered across the lobby floor somewhat viciously in all directions. And with it? Shadows lunged.

Vaggi let out a vicious curse, using her wings to leverage herself as she scrambles back, tearing her spear out of reach; but  not quick enough to fully evade the onslaught of winding shadows that shot in her direction.

One reached for her, moving with the speed of a damned whip, and she barely dodged it, dipping down with unhuman speed, planting her heels against the ground in a desperate attempt to slow the way she skidded.

She lifted her head and—

More shadows.

And beyond them, the radio-demon was grinning with eyes so vacant it was as though any trapses of emotion had been carved and torn brutally from his chest. 

For a moment, Alastor observed, she almost looked sympathetic, but whatever memory of the state Angel was in when they found his cold body trampled that sympathy the moment it surfaced into nothingness.

The thick tendrils of defensive shadows snapped out again.

And this time, the ex-exorcist lunged back at them, no longer flying but still using her wings as speed, ignoring whatever desperate cry came from Charlie, as she attacked – angelic steel splitting through darkness.

One tentacle came round the back, almost like it was trying to sneak up on her, snagging her ankle—

She wrenched herself from its slippery grip with a sharp cry of anger’ stomping down on it. Hard. Crushing it under her heel before stabbing it with the tip of her blade…

And then she kept moving, swift as a bird, as she swivelled in Alastor's direction, ready to throw her spear straight for the killing blow now that his shields were down…

Alastor’s eyes widening in instinctive horror as his hand clutched the edge of his coat in a bracing stance—

His hand closed around something sharp. Something he immediately let go of. And then he remembered…

In a moment of final, desperate terror before Vaggi could reach him Alastor's hand slipped into his pocket, hand closing around the handle of the same angelic knife he’d used to murder Angel Dust.

He took it out.

And threw it.

…For a moment it was as if hell itself froze over. 

Everything moving in slow-motion.

Vaggi half-sprinting, half-flying in his direction, spear gripped furiously between her hands, as though she could close the space between them with sheer will. Alastor, stood perfectly still, grin barely holding up at the edges as he held his staff defensively with one hand…

And Charlie.

Sweet, hopeful, delusional daughter of the Morningstar…

Running as fast as her legs would take her towards them with fresh tears glistening down her wishy-washy cheeks. Hand half extended as though she could somehow slam pause.

But the blade didn’t stop. Light and shadows sprawling up the edge of the silver edge as it rotated through the air and found its target.

The blade pierced the heart of its victim.

Not of the fallen angel

But of the princess of hell who threw herself, without hesitation, in front of her lover to intercept the blade.

Alastor’s mind fell quiet.

Terribly, dreadfully quiet as he watched the angelic blade sink deep into Charlie Morningstar's chest.

He didn’t breathe. And when he glanced over, it appeared that Vaggi wasn’t hardly breathing either.

And Charlie…

Her skin looked sickeningly pale, features drawn tight and her usually lush, dark lips appeared ashen. Pressed tight. Her eyes were blown wide, practically popping out of her skull, with a sort of distant, glassy sheen.

Her hands shook where they hovered just in front of her torso. Her posture slightly bent in pain.

And the blade – sharp and true – stuck out of the princess's front. Stating the surrounding bright-red of her blazer a dark crushed-rasberry shade of maroon.

It spread, spilling down her front in a steady flow, not stopping.

Red saliva started to bead at the corner of her mouth—

“No!” Vaggi cried out, running to her lover immediately, hands teaching out immediately to steady the princess, helping her to the ground as her large soft wings curled protectively around them both. “No, no, no.” she chanted with growing terror.

She placed one hand on the small of Charlie's back, and the other into the flat of her stomach just below the blade. 

When she lifted her hand again her pale grey skin was covered in blood.

“Shhhh.” Vaggi murmured, her own breathing picking up as she pulled Charlie's trembling body to her chest, rocking her slightly. “Te tengo, mi amor. Te tengo… just breathe, babe…”

Charli gasped hard, her chest rising and falling quickly around the stiff blade. “V–Vaggi.. are you okay?” she breathed, tears still spilling down her cheeks.

Vaggis’ heart fractured. “Yeah, babe, I’m okay. But you…” a sort of horrified, strangled sound tore from her throat.

“H–hey…” Charlie managed, forcing a  small, fragile smile, her trembling hand coming up to cup Vaggi’s cheek. “Don’t w–worry about me. I–I’m j–just glad you’re s–s–safe.” she swore, her voice shaking apart at the edges as her eyelids started to slip shut—.

“No, no, no.” Vaggi mumbled sharply, shaking Charlie's body lightly as a tear broke down her cheek. “Charlie. Stay with me. Please.”

The princess's eyes fluttered open just a tiny bit more.

“‘M here.” Charlie murmured from though lidded eyes, even as her hand dropped back down to her chest, forcing a shaky smile. “Don’t worry.”

Vaggi took it as a victory.

“That’s right,” she encouraged, forcing some lightness into her tone even as sobs rattled her voice. “You’re doing so well, La cariño. So, so well – just keep your eyes open and we’ll get you help, okay? We’ll start by taking out this knife, a–and then we’ll stitch you up and call your dad and—”

Charlie's hand snatched Vaggi’s before the fallen angel could reach for the handle to pull out the blade.

Vaggi’s eye went wide as she understood with a wave of ice-cold agony why Charlie stopped her.

Charlie’s voice softened considerably, almost pitying. “Vaggi…” she murmured, and it sounded too much like a goodbye.

Vaggi’s hands shook violently. “No!” she protested, tone biting. “Don’t say my name like that, you’re gonna be fine. We’re gonna be fine…” she insisted, pulling her partner closer as though if she could physically hold onto her tight enough she could stop her life from slipping away.

Charlie let out a solemn laugh. “Vaggi… it’s angelic.” she uttered softly.

And that alone—

Said everything.

Tears – hot and blurring – burned in Vaggi’s eye. She bit down on her trembling lip suppressing a harsh sob.

“No— please.” She pleaded, curling her arms all the way around Charlie as she pressed her face into her shoulder. “Please.” 

Charlie coughed weakly. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not!” Vaggi cried back, sucking in a ruined breath. “It’s… not… Hell needs you… even if they don’t know it yet. This hotel needs you. I need you.” Her voice cracked on that last one.

Charlie merely reached up again, the movement lagged by pain, as she slowly wiped a tear from Vaggi’s face. “You don’t need me, Vaggi. You shine so bright on your own, you just don’t see it.” 

Vaggi sniffled.

Charlie smiled. “‘C’mere.” she murmured, knowing Vaggi would understand… and she did.

The fallen angel turned her head, shifting until her forehead was pressed straight to Charlie's — their noses grazing affectionately and breath mingling in those final moments.

“I love you, Vaggi.” Charlie vowed softly, a smile to her voice even though the pain no doubt streamed through her and the blood that was now starting to drip onto the carpet below. “I love you. More than the moon and stars, I love you. More than heaven and hell, I love you. More than any hotel, any project, any sinner or saint —” she pressed her forehead firmer as she finished. “I love you more than any afterlife. You’re my person –  and no amount of time will ever erase my love for you from existence.”

“And you were my person, Charlie Morningstar.” Vaggi choked gently around a sob. 

Charlie hummed so gently the fallen angel might’ve thought she felt her heart crack again.

And then—

Barely audible—

“...Don’t kill him, Vaggi.” The princess of hell whispered. “Don’t put that on… yourself…”

Vaggi heaved a shuddering breath… but in that moment she didn’t think she would’ve been able to have denied Charlie anything, even if she wanted to. “I won’t.” she swore. “I promise.”

And the tension in Charlie's body… eased.

“Thank you…” she breathed, her hand coming up to gently tangle in the silver length of Vaggi's hair as she nuzzled her ink-dipped nose against her lover.

Vaggi met her motion for motion. Leaning down to caress Charlie's soft lips in one final, mournful kiss…

And with that kiss stole Charlie's final breath.

The princess went limp.

Not theatrically, or in some sudden gasp of air, or dangerous fall just… slackened in Vaggis arms.

Leaving only the cold of her skin and the steady drip of her blood behind.

Vaggi felt like she died with her – large wings curling lovingly around Charlie's limp body as she held her in her arms. Tears falling silently.

Meanwhile Alastor… hadn’t moved a muscle.

He stood, watching the interaction with a rigid sort of nausea. As though his mind hadn’t finished reconciling with the fact that he’s even thrown that blade nevermind the fact that the princess of hell, Charlie Morningstar herself, was now laying dead as a result.

“...Even hell’s brightest light can be snuffed out.” he mumbled, not entirely sure how or why the words slipped out. 

And Vaggi—

She spun at the sound of his voice.

“You.” she snarled, pale eyes cutting in his direction as her entire frame trembled. “Don’t you dare speak after what you just did. Don’t you dare say a goddamned word.”

Alastor's ears dropped slightly. “I had no intention of—”

“Save it, Radio.” Vaggi snapped, not even willing to hear him out.

She moved slightly, letting down Charlie's body with explicit care to every tiny movement as she laid her out, folding Charlie's dead hands with careful little adjustments over her mid-section.

Then… she shuffled back, rising unsteadily on wobbly knees.

The began to make her way over to him, each step a staggering, jagged thing. Stiff and slow.

Alastor didn’t even attempt to evade her.

Not when she stood before her, tears shining in her one visible eye—

And slammed her bawled first into his chest. Hard.

“Get out.” She hissed, punching his chest again. And it hurt. “I never, ever want to see you around here again – do you hear me? Ever! I don’t care what you do. I don’t care if you crawl back to your stupid little airwaves, or broadcast your stupid little screams, or go die in a hole somewhere, Alastor—”

Her fist slammed into him again. Weaker now.

And though she continued to assault him… Alastor let it happen.

Not fighting back. Not unleashing his shadows. Not shielding himself.

Never so much as raising a hand against her.

He just… endured. But the words stung more.

“—Go crying back to your precious Vox! You're not needed or wanted around here because congratulations shithead you killed everyone who cared about you being around—!”

She was practically screaming the words one moment.

And then dropped into utter silence half-a-heart-beat later.

For a second Alastor wondered what had happened to cause her to stop… what stopped that final blow from landing—

And then he saw it. Blood turning cold.

A blade — jagged and lethal —

Stuck straight out of Vaggi’s neck.

Alastor stepped forward, catching her by the waist before she could fall, lowering her down quickly. “Vaggi?” he choked desperately, using her actual name for once—

What was happening?

Dear god, what was happening?!

In his arms, Vaggi tried and failed to say something, causing thick, golden blood to ooze past her lips in a sort of wet, choked splutter.

Alastor grimaced, eyes widening. “No, no, my dear don't do that—” he uttered quickly, reaching to try and do something about the knife protruding from her neck and—

“Angelic steel.” 

The realisation hit Alastor in the same moment that he heard it. But it wasn’t Alastor who voiced the realisation, it was—

“You're welcome.” Vox said in place of a greeting, stepping into the hotel lobby with his hands slipped almost casually into his pockets. “Hell, Al, you okay? She looked half-murderous.” 

Alastor practically dropped Vaggi, letting her body slip from his lap and roll onto the ground. His hands shook far too much.

He ignored the angel-blood now also smearing his clothes as he struggled to rise. “V–Vox?” He choked a little messily.

Vox blinked. “Jesus, Al. It's a blood bath in here.” His gaze snagged on the princess and widened. “Holy fuck—”

His gaze snapped back to Alastor.

“You good?” Vox checked immediately, observing exactly what the radio-demon had been up against. 

Alastor shook his head, limping a little clumsily in Vox's direction. “What are you doing here?” he said, struggling to keep his voice level.

Vox’s screen glitched. “Wha–” he blinked. “Nothing. I came here looking for you, making sure nothing bad happened considering…” he gestured vaguely to…

Everything.

“I’m glad I arrived when I did.” Vox continued, walking towards Alastor who appeared a functional mess. “Like I said, looked like she was gonna kill you—”

“She wasn’t.” Alastor cut in.

Vox halted. “Wha— but, Al, when I walked in the bitch was literally attacking you!” he exclaimed, electricity sparking at his fingertips as he threw out a hand in emphasis.

A muscle feathered in Alastor's jaw. “She wasn’t trying to kill me.” he repeated, gaze shifting now from Vox to Charlie's body still a few feet away. “She was asked not to. So she wouldn’t have.” he said as though it was final.

The media overlords' head turned at the words. 

His eyes tracking Alastors to Charlie's body… and then, slowly, back to the radio demon.

Vox’s hands slackened. “Well shit.” he cursed, a shadow of something Alastor couldn’t quite place on his features. “What now?”

Alastor licked his lips, his tongue dry. “I don’t… know.” he admitted, feeling a little nauseated. “I never meant to kill…”

Charlie. He’d killed her. The realisation crushed whatever small flicker of light was still burning deep within the shadowy turns of his soul – snuffed it out like water dousing a flame, leaving behind only the faint echo of forgotten warmth and the damp chill of reality.

“Hey,” Vox breathed softly, tugging the radio-demon from his own thoughts. “I’m here, Al.”

Alastor sucked in a soft breath.

Vox was inches in front of him, and Alastor couldn’t precisely recall the moment that the TV-demon had gotten that close, but he was; a gentle, almost concerned, curve to his mouth, eyes drooping a little sadly, his pristine screen tilted curiously to the side… shoulders slummed in his blue suit as he reached up slowly—

Extending his arms out. Waiting.

And with Charlie and Vaggi dead. With Angel Dust’s body dragged somewhere out-back and Niffty and Husker missing…

Vox stood there like he was the only real thing left in the world. 

And, if he had said that, in that moment, the radio-demon was fairly certain he would’ve believed it. 

Alastor didn’t breathe in the moment it took to close the very small amount of space between them and practically curled his head into the other overlord's shoulder.

His claws came up, clutching weakly at the pale blue lapels of Vox’s jacket, unsure why it was so hard to breathe. His ears fell, twitching family against his head, and his shoulders quivered with the aftermath of intensity. 

After a few seconds Vox’s arms came around him, locking the radio-demon into the embrace, the hold strong… and Alastor practically collapsed into it like a marionette with its strings loosened.

“Woah–” He heard Vox gasp faintly at the sudden shift in Alastor's weight into his shoulder, before adjusting and starting to manoeuvre both their bodies down into a kneeling position.

Alastor didn’t resist. Simply let himself be dragged down slowly until he was on his knees in front of Vox, his head still buried into the crook of Vox’s neck, his hands still shaking as they folded tighter into fabric.

His breathing felt off somehow. Lighter.

“Shhhhh.” Vox’s hand snaked up the radio-demons' back, knuckles slowly sliding up each notch of Alastor’s spine with soothing precision. “I’m here. Trust me, I've got you.” 

His hand cupped the back of Alastor's head.

Smoothed down the hair there.

Again.

And again.

Static rattled as the radio-demon slowly exhaled, some of the tension easing from his shoulders as Vox’s claws easing though the back of Alastor’s hair in careful strokes; plucking tiny knots from cherry and ash-brown strands.

The tips of his claws scratched lightly against Alastor's head.

“I’m here.” Vox repeated, a strange tilt to his voice.

Alastor felt concern tug at his heart though aching ribs. He attempted slightly to pull back and look Vox in the eyes, but the claws raking lightly against the back of his skull kept him in place.

“Vox—” he tried but hissed when the TV-demons claws pressed a little too firmly into his head.

Vox didn’t answer claws still dragging — scratching.

Alastor let out a strangled cry.

“Vox, stop—!” he pleaded, pushing against Vox's chest, only for blue claws to dig and twist painfully into the back of his head.

His heart lurched.

Alastor tried to push back harder, ignoring the way his partners claws only semed to take it as encouragement to grip harder, now drawing blood—

“Vox, you’re hurting— Vox—” 

Vox’s hand eased up.

Hand pulling back from the back of Alastor's now blood-smeared hair—

Away from the shallow scratches now marring the back of the radio-demons head—

And Alastor hoped for a dreadful moment that he had been heard. That Vox would stop hurting him.

But then—

Pain.

Alastor let out a low pained sound, somewhere between a growl and a scream,  as Vox’s claws dug roughly into the back of his head—

And dragged down. Taking blood and skin and hair along with them.

The radios-static around Alastor screeched. His teeth grinding painfully as he fisted his hands in Vox’s jacket and attempted to shake him through the pain, breathing fast and harsh as un-shed tears started to burn in the order of his red-toned eyes—

He practically retched from the pain that bleared though him. The sound of nails against bone raking violently.

And then falling away entirely.

Alastor practically wrenched his body back, or, at least, he tried too, but the claws tangled in his hair came back up before he could scramble away, grabbing him viciously by the roots; and yanked his head up. 

Teeth chattering as he was forced to meet Vox’s gaze.

“Awe, what’s the matter, Al?” Vox teased, laughter shaking his voice. “Are you confused? Scared maybe?” 

Confusion and humiliation and fear burned so hot behind Alastor’s ribs that he managed nothing more than a pathetic, strangled sound in answer.

He tried to pull back but Vox’s hand in his hair merely wound tighter.

“A-a-ah!” Vox objected, pulling Alastor's face closer to his own as his other hand came up to smush Alastor's cheeks in roughly. “Stay there, radio demon, I want a word.”

Alastor's eyes filled with horror, his hands coming up to claw desperately at Vox’s hand on his face — confusion exploding in his mind.

“You know,” Vox uttered casually, tilting Alastor's face to the side and musing as though he were a doll. “This was fun and all, but I think it’s time you woke up.”

Alastor's eyes narrowed, a confused noise rising in the back of his throat that was stolen away by what Vox did next—

As electricity – white and blazing hot – burst through him without warning. 

────────────

Alastor was floating.

Just for a moment.

A moment, in which, the radio-demons mind was entirely blank. Entirely quiet in a way it hadn’t been in a very, very long time.

The quiet was a simple thing.

A breathless thing.

He could stay here forever, in the endless dark. Surrender to it. Maybe even wield it. Make it his own.

But it was too close to sanctuary.

And sanctuary wasn’t made for monsters like Alastor.

A monster who killed people. A Monster who manipulated innocents and fucked with feelings. A monster who, in the space of just a few days, had ruined everything.

And so, before he knew it, he was crashing back down into reality except only this time—

This time—

Something was different.

Something was whole. 

────────────

The lights were too bright. The air was too loud. The pressure on his chest, no doubt a boot that was grinding on his ribs, was too intense.

There were many things wrong when Alastor came blinking back into consciousness after Vox had electrocuted him half into double-hell and back. But there was one thing—

Right.

And that being that Alastor remembered.

Blinking, he managed to clear the haze from his vision, eyes honing in on the demon standing above him. Stood on him with a foot planted against the middle of Alastor's chest.

Vox. The same tacky picture-box that Alastor had been practically weeping into the shoulder of just minutes ago. The one Alstor had been practically clinging to for god-knows how long. Nuzzling and cuddling and kissing and—

Fuck.

No.

The memory resurfaced violently alongside bile. 

The hands on his body and the gut-twisting revulsion that arrived long with them. Vox’s voice murmuring sweet nothings into his ear with a sultry tone as he gripped Alastor's hips and thrust—

Whatever surge of horror came with the memory sent Alastor lurching violently, struggling under Vox’s boot as he heaved to push the TV-demon off him. Furious.

“You fucking bastard!” Alastor growled, eyes blazing—

Vox laughed.

Fucking laughed.

“Welcome back, Alastor.” he hummed smugly, “You missed me?”

The radio-demon looked around desperately, catching sight of his staff on the ground just half a meter away and—

Didn’t even hesitate.

The moment he reached out – faster than Vox could comprehend what the sinner under his boot was even doing – and his fingertips grazed the staffs handle, dark shadow burst around them

Tentacles of darkness, not like the ones before, but fast and huge moving with the speed of whips and the force of mountains emerged from the ground —

Vox staggered off Alastor, giving the radio-demon a real second to jump back up to his feet, adrenaline keeping him upright even as his body ached with a sore tiredness and the after-bite of electrical shocks still buzzing painfully through his nerves.

He lifted his head just in time to see Vox get slammed back against the stairs a few meters away by a huge tendril. Alastor lowered his shadows slightly, clearing a path to move closer but before he could…

The TV-demon vanished in a blink of sharp blue electricity.

Alastor braced.

Muscles tensing.

“Alastor~” A voice whisper sang right next to his ear—

Alastor whirpled immediately, darkness pooling at his heels as his staff flared a blazing green—

A jagged green and black bolt of power slashed out.

But — by the time it did the Media Overlord had vanished once again.

Alastor gave a vulgar curse under his breath, ears dropping. “Damn it.” he hissed, hand gripping his staff.

How long had his mind been in Vox’s grasp?  How much time had he managed to lose on novelty flirting and pathetic heists with the soul he hated? How much time had he lost?

How much control over his own self…?

It took Alastor a handful of seconds to realise Vox wasn’t reappearing anywhere straight away, and he took the opportunity to reach back and try to gauge the damage on the back of his own head.

Crimson spilled down his hair, gathering in hideous, thick clumps and he could vaguely feel out the shape of three shallow claw marks slashing though flesh. However, overall, Alastor found the injuries to be less severe than he’d first thought.

Breathing out a shallow breath Alastor stepped forward and made a bee-line straight for the steps.

He only paused briefly when he passed Vaggi's body again, gaze scanning her carefully—

Dead. 

His mind supplied his answer without hesitation.

His eyes slid once again towards Charlie a few meters away to the other side. That dagger still sticking horribly out of her chest.

Alastor swallowed tightly as he looked upon her. “I will bury you when I'm done with this.” he promised to no-one.

And then continued to walk.

Alastor made it about a three-quarter’s of the way up the red-carpeted stairs of the hotel lobby before Vox appeared again at the top of the stairs with a zap of electricity and a shit-eating grin that it took all of Alastor's restraint not to blast off his face immediately.

“Hey, babe.” Vox drawled in a sultry tone as he glared down at the radio-demon. “You know, you’re acting kind of rude, Al. I’m starting to think I'm getting accused of the wrong things, and the last thing we need around here is misinformantion… so let's clear the air, shall we,” a smirk, “old pal?”

Alastor snarled viciously, impatient with Vox’s smug persona as he sent a dark blast of shadow in the TV-demons direction —

Who vanished again before he could reach him.

Alastor, this time, chased straight after  him.

Staff clenched in his grip as he changed the bolt of electricity onto the landing and across the hall watching as it skittered with tiny sparks under the narrow gap of a hotel door.

Alastor's gaze sharpened, now slowing down as he grasped the door-handle with all his might and ripped it open—

“Get back here you deplorable picture-box!” Alastor demanded, disgust lacing each word as he stepped into the room and—

The entire space shifted around him.

The wallpaper twisted from the hotel's tacky red wallpaper into smooth wooden planks. The furniture dissolved into nothing — in its place a large mahogany bar and a set of red-velvet barstools settling in their place.

There was the soft hum of music, the way of voices all around them but… no sinners? Still, the lighting was a soft honey-comb glow, and the floor was—

Glitching?

One moment it was smooth polished planks of wood, and the next the polished marble floors off—

“Familiar?” 

Alastor turned sharply, heart pounding hard in his chest.

Vox stood inches behind him, smile crooked, and hands folded almost comically behind his back. He lilted his head to the side as he waited for Alastor to answer.

The radio-demons ears flicked in irritation, his teeth bared. “Where are we, Vox?” he demanded.

Vox’s expression shifted into something neutral, shrugging lightly. “You tell me, Al.” he countered.

Alastor's anger sharpened to a point. But then—

He did look around. Took in the whole space again because—

“Ton-Earl bar.” Alastor observed, sounding deeply confused. His head snapped in Vox’s direction at break-neck speeds. “How did you bring us here?” he countered.

Vox sighed wistfully. “Come on, Al. You’re smarter than this, aren’t you?”

Alastor's ears flattened at the condescension. And the nickname.

Vox continued. “This,” Vox said gesturing around the room. “Is a memory I can make you relive as many times as I want as long as i’m…” he tapped the side of his head with a metallic clang. “Up here.”

Alastor scowled with his eyes. His hand clenched. “Get out of my head, Vox.” he ordered with fury laced through each word. Shadows licked his fingertips around his cane. “I won’t play your ridiculous games.”

The room around them flickered.

Alastor braced, looking around sharply as he planted his feet a little more firmly into the floor.

Vox tsked lightly. “Ah, but you will.” he countered, stepping closer. “You see…” he started and then—

In a blink of bright bursting electricity…

Vox disappeared into the walls.

Alastor snarled low and furious, not even entertaining the bar around him as he shifted back towards the door to leave… 

But the door was gone. As though it’d never been there to begin with.

Alastor startled, stepping back abruptly. Further into the room that’d now taken the shape as Bar Ton-Earl—

A voice dragged him from his own thoughts. Loud and clear and so familiar that Alastor thought he might be sick.


“You’ve never aired on a radio-station?”

His.

Voice.

Echoed back at him as though it’d been physically torn from the back of Alastor's mind. Plucked from every neuron. And then set out like the hollow imitation of its original form.

“Nope.” a second voice answered — Vox.

“Not even for a brief segment?”

“Not even for a segment.”

“Not even for an interview or as a guest?”


“No, Al—”

“Why, Vox, my good man!” The echo of Alastor’s past-self exclaimed in exasperation. “You’ve simply never lived if you’ve never been on the radio…”

Alastor, now with all that he remembered, winced at the sound of his own voice reflected back at him. At the empty joy derived of artificial feelings that he beheld before him as he turned towards the back of the room—

And blinked.

There they were.

Himself and Vox. Video and the radio-star side-by-side looking like something too good to be true.

Alastor watched himself continue to talk animatedly, and then Vox answer in turn with affection so two-faced that it was almost repulsive to watch back…

“Sweet, isn’t it?” A voice crooned. Vox’s voice… except…

It wasn’t from the flashback playing out in front of him. 

It wasn’t coming from behind him. Or to his right. Or left. Or even above or below… it was everywhere. And nowhere all at once as though he were…

Inside of Alastors head. 

Alastor lifted his red-tipped clawed hands. Palms pressing against either side of his head as though he could somehow block out the noise but—

“Don’t be like that about it, Al.” Vox’s voice drawled, sending a shudder down Alastor's spine. “Be a good boy and put your hands back down; you know you can’t fight me out of your head under my influence anymore than you could fight me off your body…” 

No, no, no—

There was an amusement in Vox’s voice that made the radio-demons pulse spike. “... speaking of, I was certainly in your head here, wasn’t I?” the demon in his mind continued, drawing attention back onto the scene in front of him.

Alastor complied reluctantly looking back up into the scene in front of him —

Only for it to get blown to pieces seconds later.

Alastor's hands snapped above his head, bracing preemptively as the blast landed.

His and Vox’s past selves scrambled down, ducking under the low bend of the bartop and shielding themself as the roof caved in and she walls shook with the force of the blast all around them.

There was the raging boom of an explosion going off alongside a roar of gold and red flames followed by a high-pitched whizz like a nail against a chalkboard as a firework followed it bursting in an onslaught of fiery speakers—

Alastor braced for the same flaring heat he’d felt that night —

And none of it reached him.

Alastor exhaled a shuddering breath, still blinded by the smoke swirling in charcoal wafts around him. Visually, at least. But physically…?

He felt nothing.

Lifting his head, the radio-demon squinted, the panic and burning around him burning down into something soundless…

He stepped forward, trying to move through the memory, marble scraping under his boot—

Marble. Just like—

The smoke around him revolved slowly, slowly dissolving away and clearing out until he could finally see clearly—

“V-Tower…?” Alastor murmured in confusion. “But we werent…” his sentence faded as the smoke melted away and then…

Confusion. 

Heavy, weighted confusion hit him like a ton of bricks in the chest.

His senses were pulled back to the action before him. To the slash of dark tendrils and his gaze snapped away, towards the gaping hole in the side of the building where their dark silhouette, something slightly less hazy and almost familiar about it now, as it attempted to flee—

Only to go down with a heart-twisting scream to Alastor's own hand.

His gut sank, mind spinning slightly as he looked back towards the bar—

Because there they were. Him and Vox, braced under the barstop still… Alastor's body braced over Vox’s protectively as the TV-demon’s voice could be heard murmuring, just like he was that night; ‘Shit, shit. Al? Are you hurt?’

Except they weren't in a cozy bar like Alastor remembered. The bartop half-collapsed around them was made of compact tin painted in chrome — not wood.

The roof that’d caved in around them was not tiles and wooden-pillars but wrought iron and sheets of glass. The rubble stone and not chipped wood.

The floors of V-Tower.

Something he’d noticed but not truly understood until this moment.

On the ground now his gaze was on the projection of himself and Vox as he watched the TV-demon grab him by the collar and forcibly kiss him.

Saw the past reflection of his own body tense and then—

Something he most certainly did not remember was Vox’s screen briefly flashing red, that familiar spiral dancing across puzzles and then disappearing again just as quickly as it appeared in the first place—

Alastor felt physically ill as he watched in the memory as his past self went uncharasteristically slack – as his very body gave in to Vox as he returned the violating kiss, leaning in—

Alastor's head snapped away, unable to watch. His hand snapped up to cover his mouth, pressing down hard as if the motion could somehow erase what had happened.

Too little. Too late.

He’d done that and far, far worse since—

Shaking off the spiral Alastor briefly squeezed his eyes shut and shook himself, prying his own hand from his mouth with a shaky breath before looking back out of the smashed window, and the limp body of the assailant barely, barely clinging to the edge of the floor edge, half on the overhang of the steep drop of several floors —

Because they were still, undoubtedly, in V-Tower.

The realisation crashed over Alastor with a cold wave. 

“No.” Alastor breathed, an icy feeling spreading under his ribs.

A loud sap of electricity sounded over his shoulder and Alastor didn’t so much as look up to see who it was…The real Vox’s strode over to him, hand resting on Alastors shoulder as though he fucking owned it—

Alastor practically tore out of his grip whittling around—

“Bar Not-Real.” Vox said calmly, a condescending gleam in his eye.

That tone. That knowing tone—

It was the only thing that stopped the radio-demon from tearing out the TV-demons throat where they stood.

Alastor stepped back, ears flat against his head. “What does that mean?”  he demanded firmly.

“Oh, Alastor.” Vox drawled mockingly with a laugh. “Ton-Earl? Who the fuck would name a 1930’s bar ‘Ton-Earl’? He doesn’t even mean anything – it’s a fucking anagram.” 

Alastor's eyes widened, but before he could say anything Vox laughed again. Cruel and stupid.

“I thought you were smarter than that, Al.” Vox shook his head. “Then again I suppose you had good reason for your thoughts to be… scrambled.” Another slow, mocking tap to the side of his screen. “Not that it matters. You don’t even know what you did yet…”

Alastor's heart twinged painfully behind his ribs, dread settling low in his gut. What did he mean he didn’t know… what?

“I hardly see anything you think you made me do being worse than what I already know.” Alastor countered. Especially since Vox had basically— basically raped—

“Woah, woah watch it there, Al. You’re throwing around language I don’t think your broken mind can handle…” Vox said, causing Alastor's head to snap up.

Had Vox just—?

“—read into your mind?” Vox finished condescendingly. He chuckled lowly, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Al, baby. I’ve been here in your head this whole time. Every time you questioned me, every bit of horror and self-doubt in your head when you brutalised that whore Angel Dust, when you acted like a whore yourself and then practically begged me to stop in your head—”

Vox’s hand came up to bunch the sloped end of Alastor's hair. But the radio-demons hand smacked him away before he had the chance. Practically staggering away.

“Don’t you dare touch me!” Alastor hissed.

“Not what you were saying this morning, but…” Vox’s smirk sharpened when the radio-demon shrunk back.

Alastor's eyes darkened into something unforgiving. “Fuck you.” he cursed, ears flat.

Vox sneered. “You already did.”

Alastor's smile sharpened at the edges almost lethally, as he took a sharp step towards Vox and—

“Al?” Vox’s voice in the memory dragged his attention back. “Where are you going? Everything okay?”

Alastor’s head snapped over without it meaning to. He tried to keep the real Vox in his peripheral but before he could fully turn back the overzealous idiot had disappeared again into electric sparks.

So….

He watched as the memory projection of himself didn't answer, approaching the corpse instead…

Almost cautiously, his past-self nudged it with his heel, using his shoe as leverage to flip the body around from its side to front — dressed distinctly in all black, a midnight snood covering most of the sinner's face from view. And Alastor felt a strange urge to pull it off, claws reaching out—

“Oh fuck…!”

Alastor watched the memory unfold again with surprise. He’d never thought before that it was odd that he didn’t look at the sinner's face before leaving, but now… looking at it again with different eyes… It felt like Vox was trying to keep him away from it.

So Alastor did the only thing that seemed to make sense. And he walked again back over the the body.

He reached out—

And signed in relief when he was able to reach the body laying limp on the ground but also—

He retracted his hand slightly out of respect.

“Why can I feel things now?” Alastor asked, sounding almost alarmed.

“Because…” Vox's voice started to reply.

And fuck—

He must’ve practically been breathing down Alastor's neck.

A ghost of a touch feathering against his jaw—

Alastor jerked away, furious. He tried to spin towards where it felt like Vox should be but it was futile….

And then Vox’s voice filled the space again, the sound of it crawling everywhere. Clinging to everything; “It’s my illusion, Al.”

Alastor gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the Media overlord. 

He kept his gaze on the body below him, on the limp body splayed out on the floor, head snapped out to one side with a face covered by wisping strands of very pale hair and dark fabric. Alastor slowly reached out and when he did—

He didn’t stop.

His claws pinched the black fabric on the snood —

And pulled it back.

And—

“Tell me this is a trick.” Alastor breathed, looking down at the face that stared back at him. “No— no this doesn’t make any sense. Why would…?”

He trailed off, expression contorted in sheer confusion as he looked at the face of the bomber.

Pale strands of pink-tinted hair were cleared across white skin. Bright freckles dabbed on rounded cheeks and the unmistakable clean slant of a woman's jawline. And her eyes— no, eye —  was slipped shut in the silent slumber of death. Blood smeared unceremoniously at the corner of her mouth.

Alastor forgot to breathe.

Cherri Bomb.

He was so stunned into silence by confusion that Alastor remained still – abhorrently still – even as Vox came up beside him and planted both of his hands on Alastor's shoulders. At this point the radio-demon was just grateful those hands didn’t wander.

“She…” Alastor breathed, trailing off.

His gaze turned towards the crude vandalism on the wall of V-tower, something Cherri must’ve done before she blew the building to bits in some hopes that Alastor would see the message and understand; 

Turn up the radio, the television is too loud.

Not random. Not disappointed fans. But a message.

A warning.

“...Tried to save you?” Vox made a smug sound. “She did…” Vox snapped his fingers and across the room a door appeared borne of the humming buzz of electricity, and Alastor's gaze followed, latching into the door as the memory around them came to an end.

Vox chuckled lowly and Alastor tensed as he gave his shoulders an unwelcome squeeze before letting go, the media overlord gesturing to the door ahead in encouragement before speaking again in a harsh murmur;

“...Do you want to find out why?”

────────────

After a few minutes of searching for another way out, Alastor reluctantly concluded that the other door was his only way forward, but when he crossed the threshold into the next memory it was…

Different.

Quieter somehow. 

As though the hum of static in the air before Alastor had assumed was simply Vox’s powers had been sucked from the room; and Alastor realised with horrifying clarity that it was likely that way because it was his memory from when he’d still been under Vox’s influence.

He shuddered at the thought.

Now, however, the space was different. He wasn't in the not-real bar, or even back in the hotel….

The room was near-empty. With golden accents and purple-red velvet curtains at the back of a grande stage. All the lights were on— thin beams of white light illuminated a vacant platform. Not a performer in sight. Across from it, an all-to-familiar bar of stained, frosted glass and shining gold accents.

The Kat Casino.

Huskers place.

Two figures sat at the bar.

One with a greyish coat of fur, the familiar slope of cat-shaped ears and a pir of ruffled red and charcoal wings. His head slanted low in as he ran a pale tallon around the rim of a crystal glass.

Husker. His back to Alastor. Alive and drunk and devastated. 

“Husker?” Alastor tried speaking to the memory, but received no answer. So he turned his attention to the figure beside Husk.

Confusion struck him immediately—

“Cherri?” He breathed with a puzzled expression as he took in the woman beside Husk. The same build and blush-pink hair from before.

“What are they doing…?” Alastor started but trailed off as the memory before him started to play out.

And Alastor became very aware very quickly that this most certainly was not his memory.

“You’ve been here a lot lately, kitty-cat.” Cherri commented, sliding a glass of whiskey across the bartop unceremoniously, which Husk caught with a practiced claw before lifting it and practically downing the whole glass at once.

Husk licked his lips as he set down the near-empty glass onto the bartop. “That’s right.” he grumbled. “You got a problem with it?”

Charri sighed, arms curling around herself as she leaned against the bartop, struggling to meet Husk's eye. “No. But we both know Angie wouldn’t want you to drown yourself away in your own misery like this.” she offered.

Something haunted passed over Husks features. “Don’t use him against me right now.” he pleaded, sinking slightly against the bar-top.

The harshness around Cherri's expression melted at whatever she heard in Husk’s voice and she reached out, placing a consoling hand on the cat-demon’s shoulder. 

“He'll come back.” she murmured a touch too quietly, and Alastor wasn't sure if she was trying to assure Husker or herself. “Valentino can't keep em’ forever…”

Alastor's brows pinched as he watched the scene before him, a muscle feathering in his jaw. 

When was this? He’d just seen in the last memory that he’d killed Cherri Bomb...

“—Just over an hour before you murdered her.” Vox’s smug voice chimed in again, echoing all around the room and unheard by anyone in the memory.

“That,” Alastor murmured, referring to the voice, “Is going to grow intolerable rather quickly…”

Still, he thought, turning his attention back to the scene around him, if Vox was being truthful then… 

Alastor’s smile twitched. That couldn’t be right. He’d spoken to Angel. Just that morning. Was Angel disappearing off to work truly so distressing—?

“Why are you here, Cherri?” Husk asked after a moment, tilting his glass in his paw as he watched the dregs of bronze liquid swish up and down. 

There was a brief silence and then—

“I don’t know.” Cherri breathed, sounding suddenly tense. “I think I wanted to ask you somethin’. About that radio-lord of yours.”

Alastor didn’t breathe.

Husker in the reflection before him grumbled. “Not much of a story to tell. Why?”

“Ya know, just been thinkin’...” Cherri didn’t quite meet his gaze. “About the rumours he’d been around Vox…”  a swallow. “Husk, they hated eachother—”

“Don’t try to drag me into Alastor's shit.” Husk refused, gripping his glass once again. “If the rumours are true then Alastor’s doing it of his own volition. He’s an overlord, there's no way he’d let Vox get into his head like that.”

Charri frowned. “He got into Angles—”

Husk’s bar-stool scraped as he stood, wings flaring. “Alastor isn’t Angel!”

Alastor felt his heart still in his chest. His grip tightened around his staff that’d been rendered practically useless in the dreamscape around him. 

Even Husker hadn’t thought Alastor would be weak enough to give into Vox’s power.

The realisation stung sharply somewhere deep in Alastor’s chest.

The version of Cherri in the memory fired back. “That’s not fair. Vox was in Angie's head for months on end undetected! What makes you think he couldn’t fuck with the radio-demons just because he’s an overlord?”

Husk bristled. “Because Alastor is strong—”

“Oh, and Angel isn’t?” Cherri cut him off.

Husk froze. 

His wings slumped in defeat as he sank back down into his seat.

“No…” he mumbled tiredly. Drunkenly.

Charri sighed her hand sliding across the smooth oak of the bartop and closing the space between them, her fingers grazing Husk’s arm affectionately. “I know you miss him. But it’s not your fault, Husk.”

And Husk—

Sniffled.

Actually sniffled.

“I miss him.” Husk breasted, his voice watery. “I miss him every minute he isn’t here. I keep watin’ for him to come dancin’ through the lobby doors and start flirtin’ with the wall. Crack jokes ‘bout shit too dark to be crackin’ jokes about. Pester me for the last bottle of rum on a saturday night because we both know no matter how many times I say no i’m gonna fold and give it to him anyways…” his breath hitched faintly.

Cherri’s expression appeared crushed.

Husk looked at her for a fleeting moment before he looked away entirely. Appearing uncomfortable. “Forget it.” the ex-overlord dismissed.

Alastor's ears flattened in confusion as he observed the interaction. Was Husker…?

Alastor knew Angel Dust flirted persistently, and that as of late Husker had started to enjoy teasing him back… but was Husker… in love with him?

“Husk…” Cherri tried.

Husk shot her a sharp glare, glass clinking against the bar-top as he set it down slightly too hard. “I said; drop it.”

“Okay, okay” Cherri placated, lifting her hands in mock surrender. “I still think you should check in with the radio-demon. I was thinking about followin’ them tonight. I don’t trust Vox.”

Husk sighed, his breath low and gravelly. “I ain’t followin’ Alastor ‘round town for no reason. What if he thinks I'm followin’ him?” he shook his head. “Sorry Cherri, he’s got a chain around my neck and he ain’t afraid to yank it.” 

Alastor winced as the words landed. Did Husker truly think so low of him? Had he truly frightened Husker to the point that the demon thought him capable of needless cruelty? Though he supposed, the assumption wouldn’t necessarily always be wrong…

Cherri paled. “Alastor…?”

“—Owns me?” Husk fired back harsher than he meant to. Then caught himself. Softened.

He reached out, took his class and swallowed the remaining dregs at once. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he dropped the glass back down against the bartop and rose to his feet with a slight sway to his frame.

“Come on.” Husker mumbled, pushing away – practically stumbling – from the bar as he slid his hands into his pockets. “I’ll go switch off the lights and then we’ll take you home to the hotel. My drinkin’ mood’s been ruined.” 

Cherri opened her mouth as though she were about to say something but the words died on her lips as the ex-overlord trudged out of the room and disappeared a little ways down the hall.

He was gone for all of ten seconds before Cherri sighed, pulled open her satchel — the contents of it bursting with spraypaint of explosives Alastor now knew why were there — and dug out a notebook.

Then, tearing out a page and pulling an ink pen from her pocket and began to write.

Scribbling words down quickly onto a parchment of paper and—

She paused as the sound of Husks returning footsteps could be heard, finishing her sentence and slipping off the barstool as he carelessly stuffed the notebook back into her bag, dropped the pen into a side-compartment and darted out of the room swiftly from a completely different direction as though she were a trained assassin.

Alastor watched the act with a sort of curious perplexity.

But before Husker – or, rather the memory of him – could return Alastor steppe forward curiously towards the bar.

Towards that small scrap of parchment he didn’t want to admit he remembered seeing…

The words stared back at him, just like they had that night.

I know you think I'm crazy but I'm finishing it tonight. I’m sick of watching this happen — and god knows what will happen if he succeeds with his plan.

He already took one of us. 

I’ll end them both tonight. Keep radio and the video-star apart for good. Goodbye.

“Can’t believe the bitch figured out what was happening before she even got there.” Vox murmured in annoyance, voice coming from nowhere in particular.

Alastor's heart thumped as the realisation dawned upon him.

That note… it hadn’t been written the night before. Not that night and—

It clicked.

I’m finishing it tonight. Cherri’s plan to attack V-Tower. If he succeeds with his plan. To manipulate Alastor’s mind completely. 

He already took one of us. That one… still didn’t make complete sense.

I’ll end them both. It wasn’t a threat on Alastor's life – it was a threat on his relationship with Vox. Whatever fantasy, whatever illusion, Vox had constructed of them. And keep radio and the video-star apart for good. Well now.. That was obvious.

Necessary, even.

Alastor almost startled as Husker's silhouette appeared again in the doorway, and he stepped back as though he were a thief caught red-handed… until he remembered that this wasn’t truly Husker and that he couldn’t be seen at all.

The winged cat-demon looked around in confusion, gaze darting around the room. Bristling. “Cherri?” he called into the empty space as he slowly made his way over towards the bar, “Hey! Where’d you—?”

He cut himself off as his gaze landed on the folded scrap of paper on the desk… and he approached it. 

His footsteps slow, almost cautious, as he kept glancing around the space—

Curiously.

“Curiosity killed the cat y’know…” Vox commented, and Alastor hadn’t even realised he’d decided to stand just a few paces behind him with that ignorant smug voice…

And Alastor couldn’t wait to break that smile straight off the TV-demons face. But first… he needed answers. So, he kept watching.

In front of him, Husker reached the bar-top, reaching out and picking up the note, gaze skimming it quickly—

And then cursing. Violently.

Knowing what came after… Alastor couldn’t blame him.

“Getting sentimental, Al?” Vox crooned, approaching from Alastor's rear with loud, lazy footsteps. “Didn’t take you for the type to feel remorse.”

Alastor didn’t rise to it.

Vox let out a cruel, empty laugh. “You do know I can still hear your thoughts right?” he deadpanned, scoffing. “You’re absolutely pathetic – if this got to your head god knows what you’d do if I made you watch back all the fun we had after you begged me like a little bitch you get into your head and make you want—”

“It wasn’t Valentino that we killed that night at the Kat Casino. Was it?” 

The words landed cold.

Alastor’s tone was a sort of icy, unforgiving certainty that didn’t buckle or break under the slick vile nature of Vox’s proclamations. He slid Vox a brutal glare.

Vox froze briefly; as though sincerely caught off guard. And then grinned slowly.

“Took you long enough.” Vox answered smugly. “You figured it out, little fawn?” he teased using an infantilising tone.

Alastor didn’t even acknowledge his disgust at the nickname, instead—

“Husker.” he breathed, staff trembling briefly in his grip. “I killed Husker…”

It only made sense.

The note Cherri had left was for Husker. Something Husker had brought with him, likely to wallow in guilt over after she’d neglected to return the next night when he’d returned to the Kat Casino to wash his feelings down with alcohol and the sweet sting of numbness.

Until, that was, Alastor poisoned his drink the following night.

Vox’s hands hadn’t been too shaky that night — no. He’d just wanted to secure that Alastor was the once doing the damage so he could torture his mind with it again here.

There was a sudden presence at Alastors back and the radio demon spun, jerking back as he attempted to create some distance between himself and the Media Overlord. Furious words sat on his tongue he was prepared to spit at Vox before—

A clawed hand tipped his chin up as he turned around. 

Too gentle. Too patronising. Too—

Alastor wrenched out of it. Slammed his eyes shut and mentally prayed that he didn’t accidently look into the TV-demons eyes and his thoughts weren't about to begin slipping away from him at any given moment.

A breath of silence hung between them that was so dense Alastor considered screaming just to make it go away ... If hell was the punishment Alastor had hoped it was when he was alive, he had a distinct feeling that he was certainly reaping its consequences now.

He just needed to make sense of things.

Make sense of things in his head and then hopefully once Husker re-generated Alastor could talk to him and—

“He won’t be coming back.” Vox’s steely voice sliced though Alastors thought before it could finish.

The radio-demon's head snapped up. “What?”

Vox struggled and he wanted to strangle him for it. “He won’t be regenerating, Al.” he supplied with a sick tilt to his mouth. “You made sure he was double-dead.” 

Alastor hesitated for a moment…

… and then shook his head. “No.” Alastor refused, jaw clenching painfully. “The only way to do that is with angelic steel, and I didn’t kill Husker with angelic steel. It was poison. You told me it was poison!”

“It was…” a low amused hum from Vox. “but it wasn’t just poison, was it?”

Alastor stiffened, his spine snapping ram-rod straight.

Something dangerous curled beneath the surface of Vox’s gaze, and Alastor could feel the pressure of it even as he refused to meet the other overlord's eye. “You know I could show you, if you wanted, what you really slipped into Husk’s drink that night…” 

Alastor's ears lowered in fury. “You’re lying.” he accused with a growl. “You can’t truly manipulate me into believing I killed someone without even lifting an inch of angelic steel—”

“Jeez, Alastor, I get it. If you’re going to complain then I won't tell you anything.” Vox groaned, shutting Alastor up momentarily in surprise. 

“No?” Alastor questioned.

“No.” Vox turned his face away from Alastor, volume dipping. “I will… show you, though,” he added.

Before snapping his fingers, the movement produces a charged snap loud enough to burst someone's eardrums followed by the world around them falling away to darkness…

And the first thing Alastor heard when the room reshaped itself into the familiar halls of V-tower the first thing the radio-demon heard was begging.

Not just anyone's begging.

Angel Dust.

And Alastor knew in an instant exactly whose memories he was about to be dragged though.