Chapter Text
Alastor grew up poor. He never traveled outside of New Orleans, though he had always wanted to. The world was cruel and it was relentless, white folk always looking down on him and his Maman. His time was not forgiving, opportunities few and far in between. So, it was with morbid fascination that he walked down Las Vegas Boulevard without having slurs thrown in his face.
In the back of his mind, he knew that 90 years had passed since his death, an odd fact that he never really put any mind to as most Sinners tended to forget about the world above. It was easier to forget, kinder to save yourself the longing of a warm sunny day in the bayou, the feeling of warmth on your skin, the sound of the water lapping on the shore and the scent of Spanish moss…
He tried not to be bitter at the fact he was here in Nevada and not Louisiana.
Shoving those thoughts aside, he instead marveled at how similar Earth seemed to be to Hell. With time moving the same pace throughout the realms, technology evolved the same way, if a bit behind. The cars looked the same, the buildings, all the way down to the street lights, not that anyone in Hell ever used them.
Still, even with his somewhat familiar knowledge of the new age, he was entirely unprepared for what The Strip had to offer.
Las Vegas unfurled in front of his eyes like an alien planet as they walked down the sidewalk, shoulders bumping constantly with tourists. Street performers busked and scammed their way to dinner on every corner. A group with matching t-shirts even tried taking Alastor’s picture, thinking he was a mascot of some kind, bloody as he was, even shoving a few dollars at him after the fact. It felt suffocating, constricting, and claustrophobic.
Vox on the other hand seemed to be enjoying the attention a bit too much, smiling like a kid in a candy store with his father’s credit card. His eyes were widener than saucers looking at everything, a childlike wonder at this exciting new development. Every picture people took of him he provided with style and enthusiasm, even pretending to stab a few tourists as a pose. They handed him a few bills and Vox hurriedly pushed them out of the way to move on to another group.
Looking down at his hard earned cash, Vox realized everyone was only handing him 1 dollar bills. Fucking cheapskates. Scowling, he turned back to Alastor who was shoving a man away from him as they waved a cell phone for a selfie.
“Get away from me, you moronic fool!” shouted Alastor as he brandished his broken bottle. The other man in the Hawaiian patterned shirt backed off immediately.
“Woah, woah! Chill out, you psycho!” Ugly shirt guy stomped off and everyone kept clear of the Radio Demon after that.
“Can you stop scaring the money away?” sneered Vox as he came up to Al, the red clad demon straightening his coat again.
“What on Earth are you doing?! We are attracting far too much attention,” hissed Alastor. He pushed Vox and the TV demon stumbled forward as he was led down the street.
“Hey!” Vox shouted, Will you lay off? I’m having fun here!”
“I don’t care! We should be getting off the streets.” Alastor pulled Vox into another alley, this one narrower and littered with trash.
“What’s with the ‘we’ thing?” grumbled Vox, sidestepping a sleeping bum. “You made it clear years ago you’re a one man edge lord.”
Alastor glared at the other, his smile straining in frustration. “Well,” he growled, “Considering we just disposed of a body in a dumpster, I imagine two blood covered men walking down the street might be tad suspicious, don’t you think?”
Vox rolled his eyes and shoved Alastor’s shoulder playfully to which Al responded with another growl. “Relax! No one’ll find it! I did it plenty of times and never got caught. Besides, look where we are!” Vox flamboyantly spread out his hands.
“A dirty alley?” Alastor deadpanned.
“No!” Vox glowered. He grabbed Al, ignoring the noise of outrage and turned his rival’s head out into the street. “Las Vegas! Think about it, Al. Hell is still going to be there when we get back. Why not have a little fun with this?”
Alastor glared at the sun setting behind the towering casinos. Neon lights flickered on and music played from hidden speakers around them. Not ten minutes ago were they at each other’s throats, but he had to admit, this was a curious development. There was air in his lungs and the stench of a million drunks in his nose. Sin City offered herself like a whore on the street corner, a temptress who knew your every desire, her lips mesmerizing you until you finally gave in and paid her to ruin your life.
But the Radio Demon had plans. There were people to manipulate and souls to devour. Here he had nothing. No shadows, or puppets to control, no glowing eldritch power emanating from his soul. Alastor was just a human man now. A weak, pathetic human man. Square one as it were. A fury not unlike fire rose in him and he whirled around to face the smug faced Vox.
“If you think for a second that I would want to trail along with you in this god forsaken plane of a miserable existence, then you are an even bigger idiotic waste of space than I ever thought you were! Just because you have nothing left to live for doesn't mean you can drag me down like you did your miserable little empire.”
Vox scowled, rage and humiliation rising, making his chest tight. A hard look crossed his face before he suddenly smiled. “Whatever, Bambi,” he Vox. “Look, if you wanna get back to Hell so bad, lemme give you a hand.”
Alastor had half a second to realize what Vox was going to do before he was manhandled and thrown into the street. He fell hard onto his side, his monocle flying from his face. Effectively blind now, he shifted an arm underneath him to prop himself up while his other hand reached to readjust his monocle.
“Vox, you fucking idiot, when I get my hands-” a lound honking suddenly cut him off and Alastor whirled his head in the sound’s direction only to see two bright lights rushing towards him.
90 years of deer instincts are hard to shrug off, he found.
…
Vox had to clamp a hand over his mouth to stop himself bursting into laughter. That asshole flew at least ten feet from the impact! The bus screeched to a stop. Screams and gasps rang out. Somebody even called for a doctor! Vox was practically doubled over in the alley. Eventually he composed himself enough to venture out into the growing crowd, forcing his way to the front where he could see a man and woman attempting cpr on Alastor’s crumpled form.
All humor left him as a pang of jealousy suddenly hit him. He watched enviously as the man’s hands pressed down on a dark, bare chest, intimate despite the anonymity. A random stranger closer to Alastor's heart than he would ever be. The closest Vox had ever come was when he was ripping out the stitches on Alastor’s angelic wound, an act just as charged in his opinion, but backed by decades of mutual hatred for each other. ‘Once upon a time it had been fondness,’ said a voice in his head. Cold bitterness flooded Vox.
A few EMTs shoved past his shoulder, rushing to the scene. They took over and put what looked like stickers attached to wires over Alastor’s chest and side. Vox looked on in passive interest at the still Overlord, a bag mask placed on a still smiling face, his own dropping into a fine line. Unbelievable. Not even dying could wipe that stupid grin off! Fuck that asshole. Whatever, he couldn’t care less. No really! Hell could have the Radio Cunt back. Vox didn’t care.
Alastor may have technically been dead again, but the thought didn’t make him feel any better, initial feelings of enjoyment buried 6 feet under with a rusty shovel. There was no showmanship, no stakes, no adoring masses cheering Vox’s triumph. Just a body and disappointment. Would he have felt this way if he had actually killed Alastor permanently last week? Or would killing the Vees and the rest of Hell have been worth it? Why did he feel so empty when he thought about it?
Numb and disassociating, he turned away from the scene as someone yelled ‘clear’. Every step forward felt hollow, bitter. Fine. He could do this on his own, in fact that was preferred! No one to nag him, or insult him. No one to tell him his ideas were shit and that he could do better. A solo act was fine, great even! He just… hadn't been one for a while… Vox heard ‘clear’ two more times before a gasp and rough coughing rang out. He froze mid-step as cheers and applause erupted from the crowd. The corner of his frown quirked up in disbelief.
Burying his definitely not relief, he pushed back through the now uninterested horde of tourists and vacationers to see a scraped and bruised Alastor nearly fist fighting an EMT who was trying to take his vitals. Vox briefly wondered where the broken bottle was until he saw it smashed underneath the bus. The whole affair would have been funny if the radio broadcaster didn’t have a crazed, wild look in his eyes, panting heavily and seeming like he wasn’t entirely there. ‘Interesting,’ Vox thought. He filed that away for later, stepping forward to take hold of Alastor’s wrist before he could land a punch on the poor EMT.
“Alright, Bambi, chill out,” Vox said as he hauled Alastor to his feet.
“Get off me!” thrashed Alastor until Vox let go of him. His legs were unsteady, but he still managed to stand unaided. Alastor’s eyes flew everywhere as if looking for something, his body tense, rigid, like an animal backed into a corner. The mad gaze landed on blue and green. “You,” he growled, clarity suddenly taking over.
Something cold and terrifying ran down Vox’s spine, a primal instinct, long since forgotten in the millennia of evolution, telling him that a predator was about to eat him.
“Oh fuck.” And Vox took off running down the street, plowing through people in a frenzy.
He only made it about 20 yards before he was tackled from behind. Twisting mid air to deliver a punch, the two crashed into the pavement. Vox’s fist made contact with Alastor’s jaw, but the Radio Overlord held fast, two hands bunching up in Vox’s lapels. With a strength fueled by pure adrenaline, Alastor lifted the top half of Vox’s body only to violently slam him down onto the concrete.
The resounding crack of a skull was music to Alastor’s ears, but the knee to his abdomen cut his victory short, all the air forcefully knocked out of his lungs.
The two grown men continued their brawl on the sidewalk, the Strip uncaring and tourists sidestepping them on their way to gamble their life savings away. Some even snapped pictures, uploading them to their Instagram accounts with a quirky ‘OMG Vegas is Cray Cray!!!’ Down the street, two bums were fighting for a pack of cigarettes, so all in all, just another Tuesday in Vegas.
“How does it feel, asshole?! I finally fucking beat you! Haha! I killed the Radio Demon! Me, Vox Populi!” Somehow, Vox had ended up on top of their scuffle and laughed hysterically as his knuckle made a brutal union with Alastor’s eye.
“Oh, please! The bus did all the work!” Alastor dodged the next fist by twisting his neck so that Vox hit the concrete instead. The yell of pain was enough distraction for Alastor to heave his body forward and twist. Now he was the one pinning Vox to the ground, a hand bunched into his gaudy red and black vest.
“You can’t even kill me yourself, can you!? Always needing others to do your dirty work!” Blow after blow, Alastor kept going, fist to face over and over again, relishing the crunch of a nose underneath his bleeding knuckles. His smile was manic, hysteria incarnate.
“Just let me have this, you bitch!” screamed Vox in a rage, a river of blood spurting from his broken nose. And in a truly low blow, he kicked a leg out, catching Alastor right in the radio dials. Vox wasted no time, uppercuting right underneath Alastor’s chin, snapping the head back. He lunged forward with a war cry, trying to wrap his hands around Alastor’s throat, but ended up shouting a plethora of vulgar curses as surprisingly sharp teeth bit down on his hand, drawing blood. “Ow! You fucking bit me, you psycho!”
Next to the fighting demons, an Elmo and Thor mascot sat on a bench, watching them wrestle and grapple for a bit while on their lunch break.
“Do they know it’s legal now?” Asked discount Thor, biting into his baloney sandwich. He winced as Blue Guy screamed, the Red Guy biting into his neck now.
Raggety Elmo shrugged. “Love is love, man. Twenty bucks on Red Guy though.”
“I’ll take that.”
Alastor couldn’t breathe, Vox holding him in a crushing chokehold. Spots began to dance across his vision, sound getting muffled as his brain started to shut down from lack of oxygen. A sudden burst of adrenaline came over him and Alastor renewed his struggle, hands scratching desperately, nails leaving deep gouges in Vox’s arm and face, but the other man did not budge an inch. If anything, Vox tightened his grip.
Feet kicking out weakly, Alastor realized he was rapidly losing consciousness. He writhed in Vox’s grasp, his lungs burning for air that wouldn’t come. His head felt dizzy, stuffed with cotton as the world started to move in slow motion. Fear began to take hold deep in his chest. Oh fuck, he was going to die again. He was going to go back there.
Movement caught his eye. He could see a pond, or perhaps a really small lake, on the other side of the street. Streams of water burst out of the water like geysers, one by one in a choreographed dance. Lights shone on the water with a multitude of colors, lighting up the street in a rainbow spectacle. People gathered around with their phones, snapping pictures and taking video as music blared from speakers, none of them paying any mind to the murder happening just a few yards from them.
Despite the colorful display, something else tore his attention away; red neon glinting on the floor shone in Alastor’s fading vision. A simple shard of clear glass from a broken gin bottle, no bigger than his palm, but pointed at one end. He looked up to follow the light reflecting off the shard.
“Seeserr,” Alastor choked out. His right hand stopped its clawing and reached for the glass, the left pointing toward the fountains.
“What was that?” Vox laughed. “Gotta speak up, Al!” He blinked some blood out of his eyes and wondered at Alastor’s resistance. ‘Jesus, go down already!’ he thought. His arms were beginning to tire and Vox didn’t know how much he had left in him. Everything was sore, and he was pretty sure he had a concussion, judging from the dizziness.
“See-er pal-is,” came the wheezy reply. In a last ditch effort before the darkness claimed him, glass cut into Alastor’s fingers and he thrust the shard into Vox’s side. It wasn’t a deep wound, weak as he was, but the edges of the glass were jagged and sharp. Vox shrieked in pain as Alastor’s eyes finally rolled to the back of his head, hand pointed towards the fountains.
Vox let go immediately and yelled in agony, falling onto his side. With a deep breath, he yanked out the shard and cried out again as it sliced his hand open. Blood gushed from the wound and he clamped a hand down to stem the bleeding. It may have just been surface level, but damn, did that shit hurt! His body trembled from shock and he had to force himself to take deep breaths. Vox shifted, laying on his back, nearly shoulder to shoulder with Alastor. Blood pooled in the back of his throat from the broken nose and he spat out a mouthful to the side.
Alastor suddenly gasped, coughing violently and hacking out blood and bile. His chest heaved, lungs rattling as air made its way into them. “You… you demented… flat faced… freak!” he rasped.
“S-shut up, asshole. You f-fucking stabbed me. Fucking prick.”
They stayed there for a moment, both Sinners catching their breath, adrenaline and exhaustion mixing like a strong cocktail. The sky was dark now, a few lucky stars managing to shine through all the light pollution and watching them as indifferently as the God that made them.
Alastor shifted an arm underneath him, elbow propping himself up. Everything was spinning and it took effort to swallow the rising nausea. A hand rubbed at his bruised throat, wincing at how tender it was and sat up, locking his eyes to the man next to him.
Vox copied the motion, trying his best to blink away the vertigo. When he settled, Alastor was no longer staring at him, instead focusing on the neon red glow in front of them. Vox followed the gaze and blinked tiredly. He fished through his pocket and held up the now crumpled matchbook to the massive sign in the distance. Sure enough, the crimson lettered glow of Caesar’s Palace lit up the Las Vegas skyline.
A sharp pain went up Vox’s nose as he sniffed, blood still dripping down his chin. Oh fuck, everything hurt. Grunting, he dragged his legs underneath himself and stood, his broad shoulders drooping as he swayed in place. He offered a hand to Alastor.
Alastor looked at the hand like it had just insulted his mother. He batted the appendage away and stood by himself, shaking the whole way up. Hell, looked just about ready to pass out. Alastor tried taking a step, but stumbled as his knee gave out.
In a move that surprised both, Vox caught him before he could fall and wrapped Alastor's arm around his shoulders. Even more unbelievable was that Alastor did not break away from the touch. Was it exhaustion? Was it the shock finally getting to him? Or was it the echo of that same touch from a thousand nights ago when Hell was still new and the whisky flowed neat? Alastor didn’t want to know.
Their eyes met and a quiet conversation took place.
Alastor dug his hand into his coat pocket, pulling out a single red casino chip with a gold inlay of a chariot on it. He raised his brow in silent question. Vox stared at the chip and then back at his rival. He shrugged.
Alastor will blame it on the trauma of getting hit by a bus if asked, but some of the tension that had held him hostage all day seemed to slip away to nothing as he leaned more of his weight onto Vox. Good God did he hate this fucking white man, but after coming back from the dead twice today, he was too damn tired to do anything about it anymore. Vox was familiar and Vox was here. It was all the distraction he needed after… that place.
A shudder ran through him as he recalled plunging back into the infinite that was death. It was different this time. There was no burning fire, nor brimstone or stagnant sulfur, only darkness, as immense and unyielding as the night was cold. An oppressive force that nearly drove him to the brink before he was dragged back into the light of an Earthly realm.
Whatever that was, it was not Hell and it was permanent, of that he was certain. If death was not the way home, then they were stuck here. Indefinitely. Panic threatened to overtake Alastor, but he forced the feeling down as he made a conscious effort to keep smiling, the edges stretching ear to ear.
Vox rolled his eyes at the sight and shifted to get a better grip. He nodded and together, they trudged to Caesar’s Palace like two drunks stumbling into the night.
“Aw man,” whined Elmo as he watched them go. “They didn’t even kiss or anything.”
…
The hotel was finally quieting down for the evening. A slow song played on the radio, Alastor’s station queued up through the night. Husk was restocking the bar, Fat Nuggets keeping him company as the cute little demon pig stuffed his adorable pink face with barnuts. He looked down at his newly adopted pet and scratched the back of a floppy pink ear. The pig snorted his pleasure and snuggled up to Husk’s hand. A small smile grew on Husk’s face.
It had been a long day of slinging hooch, a welcome distraction from the spider that usually sat at his bartop. Still, every order of a Harder Daddy had his mood souring bit by bit until he finally took it off the menu. His job sucked and he would rather be literally anywhere else, but Charlie’s puppy dog eyes were the most powerful thing in Hell. That and the damn chain around his neck.
Though something weird had happened earlier that day. One second he was shaking a cocktail for a giraffe themed Sinner and the next, he could feel a crack in the invisible binding of his soul deal. It was like the chain was flickering in and out of existence. For the briefest of moments, he felt his soul breathe freedom. Husk dropped the shaker, but when his hands went up to his neck, the chain was back, weak, though still present and weighing heavy.
Husk shook his thoughts away and gathered Fat Nuggets in his arms, cuddling the pig and wishing it were someone else.
There were few souls left in the lobby, all the new Sinners already registered and given their room keys. Even so, the bar was open late, a sanctuary to any wayward soul in need of a stiff drink after a long and grueling day in Hell.
Or angels that suddenly popped out of portals frantically screaming for Charlie.
“Charlie! Oh my gosh, Charlie where are you, wegottatalkaboutsomethingreallyreallyreally important!!” Emily flitted this way and that, searching behind every piece of furniture and shaking any Sinner still milling about, asking them if they’d seen the princess.
Husk just stared, a hand dragging tiredly down his face. It was too early in the night for this shit. He stuck two fingers in his mouth and blew out a sharp whistle, getting Emily’s attention immediately. The angel whipped her head around and dropped Rooster from her grasp. She flew straight to the bar, eyes panicked and pleading. The feline gambler simply pointed up to the ceiling.
“Penthouse,” he grumbled. “Third door on the right.” He yelped in surprise as Emily gave him a tight hug.
“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!!” she cried. And just like that she was gone, up the stairs and through the elevator doors.
Fat nuggets oinked his displeasure at the rough handling. Husk huffed a soft laugh as he scratched the pigs ear again.
“You said it, Nuggs.”
…
Emily knocked on the door in a frantic two bit, then did it again and again and again, until Vaggi finally opened the door, a sheet wrapped around her and a strained smile on her face.
“Emily,” she ground out. “What are you doing here? In the middle of the night. In our private room, after hours.”
“Is Charlie here? I have something super duper important to talk to her about!” Emily tried to look past Vaggi, but the ex-exterminator laughed nervously and blocked her view.
“Uhh, this isn’t really a good time, Emily, maybe you come back in the morning?”
The angel twisted her hands together anxiously. “Weeeeelllllll, it kinda can’t wait, because there’s been a security breach on Earth by some demons and Heaven is reaaaallllly upset about it.”
“What?!” came the shout from inside the penthouse. Both Vaggi and Emily looked to see Charlie poke her head out from underneath red bed sheets.
It was just then that Emily suddenly noticed with incredible clarity and embarrassment that both of the women had their hair in disarray. Clothes were strewn about the floor and bed, the lighting low and the scent of rose petal candles wafting through the air. Emily’s face turned beet red, her blush spreading rapidly.
“Oh. Oh! OHHH MY GOSHH, I AM SO SORRY!” She quickly covered her eyes and turned away.
Vaggi sighed. “It’s fine, really. Hang on ok, just- just give us a minute.” She closed the door perhaps a bit too forcefully, but honestly she couldn’t care less. The sounds of whispered conversation, quick shuffling, and a yelp were muffled through the door. When it opened again, Vaggi and Charlie were wearing their pajamas and robes.
“You can look now, Emily,” said Charlie. “Come on in.”
The angel looked back in relief, though her mortification was still crystal clear. Thankfully, the other women were much too polite to say anything. She entered the penthouse and followed to a small table with chairs. The three sat and Charlie cleared her throat.
“Ok, so what’s this about a security breach on Earth?”
Emily practically exploded on the spot, speaking faster than the speed of sound.
“Woah, woah, woah!” Vaggi held her hands up, trying to stop the speeding angel. “Gonna need you to slow down hun.”
Emily stopped her explanation and took a deep breath to calm herself. “Ok,” she began. “So, it looks like your friend Alastor is on Earth.”
“Say what now?” said Charlie.
“As a reborn human mortal.”
“Huh?” said Vaggi.
“With the TV Demon, Vox.”
The Managers of the Hazbin Hotel looked at each other, the encounter with Lucifer earlier suddenly making much more sense than it did a minute ago.
“You don’t think-?” asked Vaggi, already dreading the answer.
Charlie’s eyes turned a crimson red, horns growing from her head and a ring of fire appearing around her. “DAAAAAD!”
…
Down the hall, at a duck cluttered work bench, Lucifer, the King of Hell, infamous fallen angel Morningstar paused, a half finished rubber duck in hand. He swallowed the lump of fear in his throat and locked eyes with the duck’s dead stare. “I’m in big trouble, aren’t I?” he asked the duck.
“Not even your God in Heaven can save you now,” replied the duck in a funny voice.
“Gee, thanks,” grumbled the devil.