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In one universe, the Hazbin Hotel stands tall and proud, redeems sinners and changes the fate of Heaven.
(In another, it stands decrepit and abandoned.)
(In a third still it stands as a mockery of a dream, its princess a cynic with a golden tongue, eager to push and punish)
In another still, where its princess is hopeful but not naive, it stands empty.
For now.
After all, every hotel needs guests, and what better way to ensure they come then to go greet them yourself?
(Do not shake your head at the thought. You, with the luxury of judgement.
It was always going to end like this.)
(They are destined for Hell, a serpent swallowing its own tail.)
(But she can give them a push, so when they land, they are cushioned.)
So, a bargain is made and a deal is struck.
(She is her fathers daughter)
________________
Once, a short while ago, Henry served his country proudly. Never mind the little it did for him, the men who would spit at him in the street heedless of the things he had done to protect them. Henry served his country proudly.
It did not serve him in return, did not understand why the boys they had promised the world too returned as men with craters in their eyes in place of stars.
So other ways were found, the red of the blood was replaced with the red of the cards, and the boom of explosions found its new home in the clatter of the dice.
He laughs when he wins, laughs when he loses – but whenever the voices are silent it is a good day to laugh.
The woman approaches him once he’s sober enough to know he’s losing, but in his cups enough to not care. She sidles up next to him in a suit that looks like it costs more than the whole damn casino, blonde hair tied loosely to her back, and signals to be dealt in as if she is used to the world bending to her whims.
It does.
He’s about to open his mouth, make some sort of comment about a woman like her in a place like this, when he spots the other one leaning against the wall. She is not nearly as tall, clothing serviceable enough, hair covering just enough of one side of her face that he can see the patch. But Henry recognizes the way she carries herself – he sees that stance in the mirror on some of his good days.
"Look at you,” the blonde tsks, after a few rounds, eyeing his dwindling pile chips. “Just a husk of your former self."
If he were a betting man (he was) he’d have three to one odds that she wanted something from him.
“Still enough fight left in this old shell.” He rasps back, “you want in on some action?”
“Ah, no.” Amusingly enough, she looks flustered, glancing back at her hired muscle. “I’m-I’m good. I had a different sort of offer in mind.”
Henry raises an eyebrow, raises the stakes of the game without looking at his cards.
“I could deal you in, sponsor you for the rest of the night, if that’s what you want.”
“Just one night?” He eyes her rings, “Lady, you look like you can afford more than that.”
“How long do you intend to cast the dice?” The woman asks.
“As long as Lady Luck favors me.” Henry grins.
"Lady Luck can favor you a little while longer." She promises, "but everyone's luck runs dry eventually. Come find me when it does, and I'll see what I can do about balancing the scales."
He tips an imaginary hat to her as she stands and leaves, then looks at his cards.
“Motherfu-”
(Two hours later his streak has returned.
Four hours later Lady Luck frown on him and he is tossed from the casino.
He is back the next day, and the next, and the next. He doesn’t ask how far the credit line extends, until suddenly it doesn’t.
The way he was gambling he must have come into some windfall, right? Like that other guy up north who found a treasure and bought himself a mansion on the bay. Enough for old Henry to pay them off, right?
Two days after that he is dead – debts and debtors don't care that you bled for your country – only that you're not bleeding for them.)
(Do not mourn him, poor lost soul.)
(It was always going to end this way.)
____________________
Anthony is in a lot of pain.
Being a mobster isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sure there’s the booze and the smokin’ but there’s also the back alley deals and the turf wars, the skyrocketing cost of trust.
The looks his sister gives him.
He’s getting the ever-loving shit pummeled out of him in an alley and he never got to apologize to Molly, too worked up over another stupid argument about dad to realize where he was wandering.
Hence the beating, and the alley.
There are shouts, from somewhere distant? Did someone call the cops? He hates spending the night in lockup. Dad’ll tear him a new one for getting caught. Maybe he can play it off, spin the story. He always wanted to be an actor.
All at once, the beating stops. The darkness recedes as the men looming over him retreat and are replaced by a singular figure, lamplight casting shadows over her features – he thinks her eyes might be glowing? How hard did they hit him?
"Oh Angel," the woman says, cupping his face. She looks like an angel herself, blonde curls framing her face like a halo. “This was so not how I wanted our meeting to go.”
"A-Anthony." He stammers out. “You… who are you? You gotta be careful with Marcus’s fellas, they ain’t nice to pretty ladies like youse.”
"Why don't we let Vaggi handle that?" She doesn’t break contact with him but inclines her head and the woman's shadow detaches itself from the wall – nope just another figure that was standing in the shadows – cracks her knuckles and the cries of pain begin.
"Oh no no no, don't look." She says as he tries to glance out, "moving is very painful for you I imagine."
He hacks out a wheezing cough, “I think they got ‘m ribs. Tell Molly I’m sorry.”
"Tell her yourself. It's not your time." The woman says to Anthony. "I can give you more time, a way out. But when the clock winds down, you come find me. And maybe we can make it better."
“There is no better with dad.” Anthony lets his head fall back, feels the cool concrete beneath his skull.
"Your father." She tilts her head and Anthony thinks hysterically of the abandoned puppies who play on the corner of 34th and Elm – always so curious and confused at the world, at why a stranger would kick them for no reason. "Do you really want to see him gone?"
"W-what?" He coughs again and feels his brain pounding in his skull – courtesy of the black eye and bruise forming on his cheek.
"Are you really willing to kill your father?" She repeats.
"Hell suga, if it meant he'd stop ridden my ass about everything I'd do it with a smile."
She nods, presses something into his hands. "Perhaps I'll see you again soon."
He looks down. A small gun, still warm from her hands, gleaming faintly in the flickering lamp light.
"Are you an angel?" He asks, “Or something else?”
She laughs and stands, brushing dirt from her knees. "No. But you can be. Save them, Anthony. Be an avenging angel."
"Will." His chest heaves, "will I see you again?"
"Not for a while." She bops him on the nose, "but I can't wait to see you when we do."
She walks off, hands in her pockets, whistling a jaunty tune – her bodyguard shadowing her the whole time.
The figures in the mouth of the alley don’t move.
He staggers up, gripping the alley wall for support and stumbles his way home.
(By the time he gets home he can walk straight and all that’s left of the encounter is the bruises on his face and the black eye.)
(He gets the courage to kill his dad two months later, though calling it courage is a bit of a misnomer.
Two months and two weeks later he is dead – too much… everything trying to drown out the screams.)
(Do not cry for him, poor brave soul.)
(It was always going to end like this.)
____________________________
Alastor hated these parties. Just another excuse for the executives to flaunt their success at the hard won talents of others. Gawking at him and his show like some exotic animal or trick pony.
He wanders, sticks to the edges of the crowd when he is not forced to mingle, laughter so forced it may as well be canned. But he’s good at disguising it. He’s had a lot of practice.
He stops once he gets closer to the stage, and can make out the voice of the singer. It is higher, clearer than he expected, and he finds himself drawn to it – like Odyssus and the sirens. She croons something out in Spanish, something light and lovely and for a moment he forgets where he is and why he is here. There is no pain, no cruelty, no injustice or hate. There is just him, and what sounds like an angel singing.
"She's lovely isn't she?" Interrupts a voice to his left and he looks to see a woman taller than him, blonde hair curled to perfection, red dress tailored to the nines. She looks like royalty, like the raising of her brow could summon armies and the frown of her lips would behead her enemies.
She leans into him, "I'm going to marry her one day." She whispers, as if confiding a great secret.
He glances at her porcelain skin, at the hands that have probably never seen a day of labor and raises a brow. "Truly? I wish you the best of luck then."
“Charlie Morningstar.” She holds out her hand.
He shakes it politely. “Alastor.”
“Ah! You’re the one with the radio show, correct? I’ve been hearing such wonderful things about it.”
“Your accent is remarkable,” he says. “It sounds positively American. Where did you say you were from?
“Oh, here and there,” she waves her hand. “But the weather is nothing like this swamp.”
Interesting. That is the typical answer new money gave but the manner in which she carried herself spoke of old money.
He glanced at the jewels carelessly displayed on her hands and neck. A gold snake wound its way down her forearm, ruby eyes glittering.
Very old money.
“You're not from somewhere with humidity I take it?”
“Oh I know all about hot,” She fanned herself, “but I don't even think hell is this humid.”
“Yes, well that’s part of our American charm.” He gives a polite little laugh. “Can I be so bold as to ask what brings you down to our little slice of America, if you clearly dislike it so much?”
“Oh, I’m just doing a favor for a friend. Can’t turn down their invitation and all that.”
Alastor considers her for a moment.
He doesn't usually go after ladies. Especially rich ones. Too much fuss, from distraught fathers or lovers, too much attention, too many jealous eyes.
But something about her pulled him
“How would you feel about being a guest on my show? Your voice is remarkable.”
Reality warps around them.
(For a moment, he looks at her and does not see a potential victim, a dressed-up sycophant with skin white as porcelain and a laugh more expensive than his studio – he does not see prey, shaking with disdain, waiting to be hunted.
He gets the distinct feeling he is staring at the eyes of a predator much larger and older than him.
Be careful, the eyes say you do not want to wake me
She regards him coolly.
(There is no deal to be struck here, no bargain to be made.
Hell exists for a reason, and she is its keeper in more ways than one.)
Something in her eyes glows, "You're not mine to claim, and I am not yours to hunt. But I have a feeling we will meet again soon."
(He knows how a deer feels when cornered, when a mouse looks at death and knows the cat will win.
A deep, primal part of him fears
And he hates it.)
The moment passes, sound rushes back in, the clinking of glasses, the foppish laughter of the guests.
He blinks.
“I am so sorry, it’s been such a dreadfully long day, what did you say?”
Charlie smiled politely, “My mother was quite the performer, and I’ve been told I have some talent, but tonight I’m just here to watch. I must refuse your generous offer. Ah, it seems Vaggi is finished, over here!” She turns to wave as the singer threads her way through the crowd over to where they are standing.
“Darling, this is Alastor,” Ms. Morningstar introduced him, “He’s the one with the radio show. Alastor, this is Vaggi, one of the best singers I’ve ever known.”
Vaggi nods politely to him, and he returns it.
“It’s getting late, Charlie.” Vaggi said, looping her arms around Charlie’s, “I think I’m done for the night. Why don’t we thank our hosts and turn in?”
Now this was interesting, this sizing up of equals. She was genuinely protective of Ms. Morningstar. Protecting her meal ticket? Or something more? Perhaps things were different, wherever they were from, where they could interact as equals despite all their differences.
“Well then, it was a pleasure to meet you ladies.” Alastor gives a showman’s bow and a nod to Vaggi.
"I have a feeling," Charlie says, "that I'll be seeing you soon."
"Charlie," her partner scolds, "don't scare the poor man."
Something flashed in Charlie's eyes. Almost as if they were glowing. A trick of the light, surely.
(His heart was beating rapidly, yes, but frightened was the furthest thing from his mind.)
"I look forward to hearing from you." Ms. Morningstar extended a hand, “I’m sure your next broadcast will capture the nation.”
He took it and pressed a chaste kiss.
He glanced up at her smile and, for a moment, swore he saw fangs.
A blink and it was a regular smile – sharp yes, but no fangs present.
Without another word her companion hauled her away.
Interesting.
He lets them enjoy their moment alone.
When he glances back to the balcony, they are gone.
(Two weeks later he makes a deal with, while not the devil he was seeking, a devil that accepts his bargain.
Two weeks and a day later, he is dead.)
(Do not mourn him, poor ambitious soul.)
(It was always going to end like this.)
One by one, they make their way to the hotel – and one by one, a familiar face greets them with a devil's smile.
Like an ouroboros, eating its own tail – there was no other way.
It would always end like this.