Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Breaking News! The Annual Extermination has been done away with and replaced with completely random slaughter!”

“That’s right, Katie. Completely random slaughter with little to no warning – much like my orgasms!”

“You truly are a pathetic waste of space, Tom! Stay tuned to learn more about how Lucifer’s lesbian daughter, Chandler Morningstar, and her stupid hotel are the reason for your impending demise!”

The TV clicked off with a distressed whine leaving the residents to stare back at their own dumb reflections.

Alastor thought that their dear Charlie looked particularly deranged; her hair was unkempt - likely from all the pulling at it, hands reaching up to grip at the fluff at her temples – and her right eye was twitching a delightful staccato and oh! now she was making the most irritating of sounds, a high-pitched tea-kettle kind of noise.

“Babe, calm down – we’re gonna figure this out.” Vaggie said as she turned soothing circles across the princess of Hell’s back.

“Yeah –“ Charlie said as she loosened the grip on her hair and looked over their ragtag group.

The atmosphere was perfectly tense.

Charlie took a deep breath and began to nod to herself. She was the perfect picture of someone losing their hold on a situation.

“This … is … fine!” She assured them with little to no evidence. Alastor looked around the room and found the audience to be rather unconvinced.

“Uh-huh,” Angel Dust said as he crossed, uncrossed his long legs – he’d been furiously texting Valentino and Alastor understood his lack of faith in the statement; he still had work to do, after all, had places to be, “and you figure that how?”

“If we just … stick to the plan everything will be fine.”

“Charlie is right,” Vaggie assured them with a nod as she tightened her grip on her spear; she’d taken to sharpening it in the most inappropriate places; one didn’t put a whetstone on an ebony wood table, “we just have to … wait for Lucifer to return from his meeting and … stick to our, uh, plan … and … stay alive!”

“Convincing.” Husk said in an absolute deadpan.

“We’re doomed!” Niffty cackled from somewhere in the wall.

Alastor was fairly certain she wasn’t stuck.

Fairly certain.

“Ugghhh.” Charlie groaned as she covered her face with her hands.

The room went silent as they all stewed in their collective distress.

It was nice but he had things to do.

“Well! I would hate to miss such a delightful little pity party, but I’m afraid I also have a rather important meeting to attend –“

Charlie’s head popped up, her arms spreading in a surprised flail.

“Wait, what!? No – no one leaves the hotel, not alone, not without a partner –“ Charlie bounded over to the giant white board that had taken up residence in the parlor sometime after the second ‘surprise’ extermination; it was a garish thing that didn’t at all fit the theme of the room.

She pointed at her own handwriting, tapped furiously at the red scrawl.

“See!” She said unnecessarily because he did indeed see it.

1. Buddy System! No leaving the hotel without a partner!

As Alastor recalled, it had taken a good hour to convince her away from it being no leaving the hotel.

He himself hadn’t been particularly for or against either iteration; the rules hardly applied to him. He’d been content to watch their chaotic little democracy unfold and doodle on the periphery when no one was paying attention.

His contribution was still there in the upper left corner – a crude drawing of one of those haunting little Furby creatures that had somehow made their way to Hell in the 90s.

Charlie hadn’t the heart to erase it, so delighted was she that he had added anything at all.

“Oh, my dear, I could hardly take an inconnu to a convening of Overlords - “ Alastor brushed non-existent dust from his coat and rose from his chaise, pulled at his lapels.

“But, surely they’d understand, or – or are doing the same –“ Charlie tried to reason, rushed to stand in his way.

She could stop him, if she wanted, but she wouldn’t.

“Absolutely not!” Alastor clucked at the absurdity of it.

He’d only just avoided complete humiliation in front of Zestiel with those egg creatures. He wasn’t about to risk looking – Hell forbid – intimidated by this new angelic threat or worse, in need of protection.

It just wouldn’t stand – not with how precarious things were.

“He’s right. They won’t.” Husk interjected from his place on the sofa, “Would be a show of weakness.”

“Tell that to Val –“ Angel groaned, tone spiteful, “the guy always has a Hellhound with him, sends one to pick me up in that tacky limo of his –“

His comment earned him a few sympathetic glances, ones he likely didn’t want.

Very few of them considered Valentino a bastion of normal Overlord behavior as he seemed to get away with displays of character no other Overlord could.

He’d taken to travelling with armed guards and always sent his personal limo to the hotel to ensure Angel Dust made it to the studio in one piece. It wasn’t in kindness – no, no one was stupid enough to believe that.

Valentino merely protected his assets – it was just about the only positive thing that could be said about the moth demon.

“Ugh, okay, then what about rule two!?” Charlie gestured to the board again and all the heads in the room turned to look.

2. Stay Connected! Keep your phone on you at all times!

Only phone had a line drawn through it and the word radio had been written above it. Charlie did a double take, having only just noticed Alastor’s other ‘contribution’.

“Hmm. Don’t have one.” He patted her head and then picked her up, moved her four inches to the right and out of his way.

She sprung after him like a deranged ankle-biting dog.

“Well, ugh, fine, at least follow number three!”

They must have all been suffering from some collective form of amnesia because they all turned to look once again.

“Guys – seriously? It’s not that hard –“ Charlie grumbled, clearly aware that not a single one of them had committed any of the rules to memory.

3. Safety in Numbers: Take the bus!

“Aha – No.”

“Yeah, that one’s kinda weird –“ Angel folded one pair of arms and gestured with the other, one hand occupied by a martini glass, “ – like, don’t we have a limo driver? And a limo? What happened to that?”

“The point,“ Charlie said with only a touch of mania in her voice, “is to stick together or at least be reachable in case something happens –“

Her voice dropped into something sad and warbly.

“Hon –“ Vaggie saddled up next to her, put a comforting arm around her waist.

“ – and last time you were alone, you – you were almost – “

Almost cleaved in two by a sloppy, pig-headed lout?

“Killed!” Niffty finished helpfully, still within the wall; it was punctuated by a loud thunk, needle meeting the carapace of some poor bug.

Charlie’s lips were quivering as she stared up at him.

Alastor was … moved by the sentiment, of course, but he wasn’t about to alter his day over misplaced tears. Charlie was rather generous with her emotions, tended to throw them all over the place.

“A miscalculation, dear girl, and one I have no intention of making again.” And he didn’t.

Truly.

The wound, the humiliation of it, was bad enough, but having to seek the assistance of Lucifer had been undoubtedly worse than the pain or the sickness that had tried its best to down him with startling speed.

One moment he’d been … okay, he’d been healing, he’d been standing on his own two hooves, and then the next – the next he was sweating into bedsheets and wheezing like a human with consumption, his wound burning its way right through him.

Lucifer had given him a vaguely apathetic look and, with a raised brow, had said, dying, huh?

Before Alastor could do a thing so crass as tell the King of Hell to go fuck himself, the man laid a hand on his chest and pulled. The experience hadn’t lasted long, mere seconds, likely, but it had felt as though someone had set a timer for eternity and then dragged hot coals through his body.

He might have fainted because, after a spate of darkness and spots in his vision, he was opening his eyes to the sight of Lucifer sat in the chair next to his deathbed.

There, Lucifer had said while Alastor laid there, flat on his back, gasping like a fish, don’t scare my daughter like that again.

The wound had burned for weeks after that, still burned on occasion, especially when he overexerted himself, but it was healing.

“Let him go. He’s a big boy.” Husk’s voice floated over from the bar; there was the sharp slap of a glass against counter as he finished downing a shot. Of all of them, Husk had seemed the least concerned when Alastor had taken a turn for the worse.

Alastor believed that to be rather fair.

“He’ll be fine.”

“Quite right! Thank you, Husk, for your vote of confidence.”

Husk grumbled something that sounded a lot like vote of confidence my ass, but Alastor was feeling charitable and rather chuffed by the other’s support, so he happily left him to his drinking and grousing.

“Just … be careful, Alastor.” Vaggie huffed like a warning, understanding the battle was lost and that she would have to deal with Charlie’s fretting for the remainder of the day.

“At least promise me that you’ll –“ Charlie sniffed against her sad, wavering frown, “ – that you’ll listen to number four.”

All heads turned.

4. Be Smart! Don’t start unnecessary fights!

An aggressive smiley face hovered near the word ‘fights’ and ah, he’d done that, hadn’t he?

“Unnecessary? Never. I assure you.” He exclaimed with a good-spirited laugh because what a gas! Alastor had never engaged in a fight he hadn’t thought necessary, and he certainly knew the difference.

He was also less inclined to do so when he still had an aching, slow to heal gash across his torso.

“But –“

“Don’t wait up!” Alastor said with a wave and the quick turn of his heel, lest he be stalled any longer. He was already late in leaving and he certainly wasn’t going to give her a chance to remember her fifth, inane rule.

5. Ask for Help!

How trite, he thought, smile turning amused, then mischievous.

With a twitch of his finger, the board changed:

5. Ask for Help!

It was rather funny, he thought.

The car swerved and Vox swore as the corner of his screen dinged the window.

“Hey!” He scrambled to stabilize the whiskey glass he was holding in front of him, away from the car’s interior because it had cost a fucking fortune thank you very much.

“Watch where the fuck you’re driving!” He shouted at the limo driver, ignored his sputtering and his half-baked excuse, something about there being bodies in the road from the last extermination.

Or whatever.

He made an internal note to fire the idiot because he needed to be able to trust his driver with this kind of thing; you didn’t drive like that when you had crystalware in the vehicle, especially not Waterfords.

He grumbled and swore some more as he smoothed his suit and wiped at the whiskey that was now staining his pants, right at the point of his knee.

“Fucker.” He moved the firing up his to-do list.

Vox then reached up and felt the corner of this screen; it still felt staticky from the blow, but it was all superficial.

No cracks or leaks.

Good.

He couldn’t look anything less than perfect. This was the first meeting since the First Man was killed and – andsince anyone had seen Alastor face-to-face, alive.

Vox wasn’t about to admit that his sole reason for attending was to see whether the old-timey fucker showed up – no! he had Velvette for that.

She’d hardly looked up from her phone when he’d walked into her studio to announce his departure even though it was technically Val’s turn.

Ugh, all dressed up for your boyfriend, then? Velvette had said as she furiously typed her morning Sinstagram post – Vox had had the words no, what? Of course not, fuck off forming when she’d turned away with a dismissive flick of her hand, don’t care, just take notes, and come back with something useful.

Useful.

Right.

They were trying to topple an empire here, climb to the top, trample the competition, all that jazz.

So.

Even if Alastor was to show up –

- and he probably wouldn’t, right? Adam had absolutely thrashed him. Vox replayed the scene in his mind – literally – and grinned because, fuck, it gets better with every watch and there was no way he wasn’t licking his wounds in some dark, creepy hovel or, ya know, dead.

Which …

Which … probably not because he likely would have heard if thousands upon thousands of souls had suddenly come up for sale.

Either way, it wasn’t as though he cared, nope, ha ha ha!

Vox looked out the window. The streets were disgusting, filled with viscera and bone and far too much red for his taste. He sipped at the remainder of his drink and noted they weren’t far from his destination.

He wondered if he would catch the prick walking, arms clasped behind his back, gait bordering on meandering. The thought annoyed him – it wasn’t the roaring twenties or the Dust Bowl or whatever. People had cars and shit.

There was no one on the streets; Pentagram City had gone rather quiet in the past weeks.

Vox put the crystal tumbler in its velvet-cushioned compartment, leaned back, thought.

Even if Alastor was to show up, it wouldn’t change anything.

The Vees were moving up the ladder and –

A flash of red on the street had him turning his neck so quickly he almost slammed his screen into the window again.

“STOP!” He yelled at the soon-to-be-fired-driver who shrieked in surprise and slammed the brakes; Vox only just managed to brace himself to avoid flying across the seats. He glanced at the Waterford set; they were fine, snug in their velvet caches.

“Sir?” The driver asked, voice meek and uncertain.

“I’m walking from here.” Vox said as he patted his pocket, made sure his phone was still on him.

“Uh, sir, I’m not sure –“ Vox could see the smaller sinner gesturing at the empty, gore-covered streets through the limousine partition.

“I don’t pay you to be sure. Actually, I don’t pay you at all. Anymore. You’re fired.” Vox spat, mentally reminded himself to have Velvette send him another car. Worst case he could hitch a ride through the grid but it was an energy-suck and frankly, exhausting, even without the rolling blackouts.

The last thing he wanted was to be ejected from some random electrical pole in the middle of nowhere, all because some imps at some substation were slacking on the job.

That tall, garish shock of red was turning the corner and Vox all but fell out of the limo in his scrambling. As he picked himself up and brushed himself off, he realized he hadn’t much of a plan. Regardless, his legs picked up a punishing pace – predator closing the gap between him and his prey.

Vox caught up to his target, slid to a stop, rather literally, his shoes catching on, what is that, teeth? and tried to seem as though he hadn’t just sprinted out of a vehicle to run through streets of blood to catch up to –

No one.

In the spare second he’d taken to look down at the offending gore that had destabilized his footing, the demon had disappeared.

“Alastor!” Vox pumped as much outraged vitriol into the exclamation as possible. It seemed to echo down the corridor that was the empty street and if any sinner had been thinking of leaving their sad little flats to take a stroll, they certainly weren’t now.

“Show yourself you fucking coward –“

He imagined Alastor sinking into the pavement and shadow travelling the rest of the way to the meeting, popping up like a fucking spring daisy and telling the other Overlords that he’d spotted him on the street having the most intriguing little mental breakdown, or something equally infuriating.

Vox growled in frustration, clenched his fists, thought about what Velvette would say – has said, ugh, he makes you so fucking stupid, you know that? Complete fucking twat.

His shoulders dropped and he again regarded the state of the street, the sidewalks. Gore and trash and filth everywhere – nothing like the cold, clean, techno-sleek environment he preferred. He was wearing Farragamos for fucks sake.

He shouldn’t have fired the limo driver.

Just as was about complete this absolute walk of shame, he felt a tug on his ankle. He looked down and –

“Oh fuck y – “ an inky black tentacle pulled him upward by his leg and yanked him from a standing position. The tentacle tightened its grip, lifted him several feet off the ground.

Complete. Fucking. Twat, Velvette’s voice echoed internally.

The tentacle twisted, turned him around to face the source of its power.

If Alastor was at all surprised or interested or at all fucking moved by his appearance, he didn’t show it which, ugh, annoying.

He just … stood there, hands perched on his microphone, usual smile in place, not so much as a twitch of his ears which, as Vox had learned long ago, were his most revealing tells. The Radio Fucker looked composed, at-ease, not a single hair out of place; he looked as though he hadn’t gone toe to toe with an angel in the recent past.

Which was disappointing.

If it weren’t for the footage stored on his memory drive, Vox could’ve been convinced that he’d imagined the whole thing in a turn of madness.

“Why, Vox!” Just hearing Alastor’s radio-static voice was enough to threaten a full reboot. He was going to fucking blue screen and the day had only just begun.

“What a horrible surprise! You’re looking quite … disheveled.”

Vox didn’t look down – up – at the stain on his knee, tried to ignore the urge to inspect the crimson stains on the leather of his shoes.

With less than a thought he snagged an electric current.

As he parted ways, he made sure the resulting shock was strong enough to hurt. Those tentacles were part of Alastor – kind of, sort of – and he’d learned through some of their more physical battles that electricity was a wonderful deterrent when it came to those horrible, reaching appendages.

Vox landed back on the pavement, gave an indignant huff when he realized he was about three feet from where he’d meant to land. He was closer to Alastor than he’d intended but it wasn’t as though he were about to correct his mistake, no way, as-fucking-if.

“Cheap fucking move, though I guess I shouldn’t be surprised –“ He complained as he straightened his lapels, brushed the developing wrinkles away.

“Like for like, I suppose,” Alastor said easily, looking as though he were oh so disappointed, “assaulting other demons on the street, from behind no less, is so terribly gauche.”

“Assault!? Please.” Vox spit because it was ridiculous – assault, that wasn’t what he’d been trying for, though – what had he been trying for?

He hadn’t really thought about it. His thought process had been something like:

Fire driver – Waterford crystal – Vee Empire – ALASTOR – jump out of vehicle - ?

So, sue him. There hadn’t been a fucking plan.

And now – now that he was standing here, both of them maintaining a cautious distance, it was dawning on him that this was the first time in seven years that they were actually in each other’s presence. Their broadcasted pissing contest had been fun and all, but it hadn’t been this.

No audience to perform for.

No Val or Vel to elbow or throw a chummy arm around when he landed an absolute zinger.

No one at all, actually, the street was really, really dead – a fucking tumbleweed had just rolled on by.

It was just him and Alastor.

He should – he should uh.

He should kill him.

“I should kill you.” Vox said feeling about as smooth as baby shit as he saddled the other demon with a glare, his left eye twitching.

“And violate the truce? What a blatant display of barbarism.” Alastor said easily, pleasantly, and Vox sneered.

The Truce.

What a crock of shit.

The whole thing was an embarrassment to Overlords, a pitiful attempt to halt rivalries and protect assets while the Council scrambled to figure out how to manage this new angelic threat.

It was an ‘enemy of my enemy’ kind of agreement, and it was, frankly, pathetic.

The truce wouldn’t last.

They never did.

Vox needed to correct himself, needed to be more specific.

“I’m going to kill you.”

He was.

He was just waiting for him to react. To shout or growl menacingly or – or let those stupid antlers grow in a show of intimidation while he turned the world green with his creepy as all fuck voodoo-hoodoo bullshit.

To do anything besides stand there and act like seven years hadn’t passed without even a whisper – to act like he wasn’t just some random slob off the street.

Because, what had the antiquated shit said?

I’m gonna make you wish that I’d stayed gone.

Where was that guy – he wanted to talk to him.

“Can it at least wait until after the meeting? I do take my responsibilities rather seriously.” Alastor’s voice lifted as though he were making a genuine request; he blinked lazily and if the jackass had been the type to wear a watch Vox was certain he’d be checking it.

“Pfft – what responsibilities. It’s been seven years since you’ve contributed shit.” Vox crossed his arms, made his own show of looking casual and bored.

Inside – inside he was screaming because they were stood here on the street arguing like – like a couple of fucking assholes, is what. Nothing domestic about it at all.

Seven years, he wanted to yell, what the fuck were you doing for seven years?

“And yet I am still more relevant than any of you Vees.”

And that – that was true, given the whole hotel and extermination and Adam thing. The whole point of this meeting was to discuss the new extermination schedule – namely the fact that there wasn’t one – and how to protect their assets, ie souls. Vox had felt more than a dozen chains snap under the tension of a sudden, brutal demise during the last extermination.

If this kept up, they’d all be in the red, losing souls faster than they could acquire them and that was bad for business.

And Alastor and the princess and that stupid hotel were right at the center of it all.

It made Alastor Overlord-of-the-fucking-hour, if only to extract information and keep an open line with contacts in Heaven. He knew – and Alastor certainly knew – that if the Council perceived him to be more threat than ally, the truce would be off, and it would be open fucking season on the local deer population.

Vox supposed he’d just have to wait it out.

Unless.

“Relevant.” Vox scoffed, thinking of that footage. “Must have felt so relevant when you were getting your ass handed to you by Adam.”

Alastor’s right eye twitched, followed by both ears and oh, had he finally hit a nerve?

Now Vox’s blood was really pumping – whatever was he to do if Alastor struck first? His claws were digging into the meat of his palms in anticipation.

“Or, was it when you tucked tail and ran?”

Vox could sense the slight drop in temperature and the peculiar change in atmospheric pressure that suggested he’d royally pissed off the outdated prick. Any second now the little psycho was going to take the high ground, those tentacles lifting him out of striking range, and Vox – well, he’d electrocute the shit out of him and see what happened from there.

Alastor’s smile tightened into something aggravated, looked almost pained for the scantest moment, and Vox was certain his grip on the microphone had tightened, but it all fell away as soon as it had appeared.

“If you’re quite done with your sad attempt at goading me into fisticuffs –“

“Fisticuffs?” Vox sputtered because what the fuck, as if he’d ever be caught dead – in public, in Farragamos – engaging in something as plebian as a fist fight, and what the fuck.

“ – I really must be going. I do rather hate being late - such terrible manners, you know.”

It took all of Vox’s self-restraint to not allow his jaw to drop, to not surge forward and grab the other demon by the lapels and shake him.

What, were they just going to continue down the street together? Walk together and make idle chat, talk about the fucking weather and soul contracts and that new butcher shop on Slaughter and Main?

Oh, nope, because Alastor was walking past him now, humming as though he hadn’t a care in the world, like a meeting actually mattered more than – more than …

Before he knew what he was really doing, before his inner Velvette could break through and ask, are you fucking mad!? he was reaching forward and grabbing at Alastor’s arm.

“Just wait a fucking minute –“ He started, claws digging into the other sinner’s skinny ass arm, before finding himself a little speechless when the bastard winced.

Vox found himself letting go, allowing Alastor to rip his arm from his grasp looking as enraged as one could with a smile on their face - his ears were pinned back tight against his head.

Alastor took a breath, opened his sharp-toothed mouth to speak and Vox found himself waiting –

– and then, a horn.

Vox looked up.

A Heavenly gate rimmed with fire and holy light opened above them, and out spilled Exterminators.

Chapter Text

“More Breaking News! Heavenly trumpets have sounded, and another angelic portal has opened over Pentagram City!”

“My wife left me for a trumpet-playing swing dancer – he flipped her like a pancake, Katie!”

“And I wish her well, Tom. Check out this live footage of the slobbering scum of the Pride Ring being mowed down by the consequences of the Princess of Hell’s bad decisions!”

There was some kind of irony at play here, wasn’t there?

He had just finished verbally slaughtering Alastor, had done his whole tucked your tail and ran ha ha you pussy speech – something he’d imagined doing with an actual audience and with less blood on his shoes – and now here he was, putting his extrasensory feelers out there looking for an escape.

Vox would fucking die before ever admitting it – the way his half-machine heart raced in his chest, how a healthy dose of fear had gripped him by the fucking balls because listen, it had been a minute since he’d been caught out in one of these things.

He usually spent them with the other two. Safe, well-fed, and entertained in their lofty, well-protected tower. It was a veritable safe house in a safe house in a safe house - a fucking nesting doll of a building.

So, forgive him, or don’t, whatever, but he wasn’t suicidal and the sight of dozens of blood thirsty angels cutting clean lines through the sky to kill his ass for good was worthy of doing a little light running.

Vox took his eyes off the sky for a moment because Alastor – Alastor was less than a foot from him and he had the very normal, very near-death need to look at him and purvey a kind of, can you fucking believe this?

Comrades in arms kind of shit.

And of course, Alastor looked just fine with the new development, his smile no more, no less strained than it had been a moment before, but he did look right back.

And then down because something had just landed between them with a delicate plink.

Now, Vox had heard talk of Heaven bolstering its arms. The last few exterminations had suggested that the Exorcists had learned a thing or two from Hell, that spears and battle axes and swords were oh so Biblical and a tad passé.

They’d likely never needed anything more modern. All of the Pride Ring went into hiding when the Extermination came rolling around and few put up a genuine fight.

But then - then the hotel and Charlie Morningstar and Lucifer and fucking Alastor had gotten involved and suddenly the Exorcists were more heavily armored and wielding things that looked like something Val would bedazzle – there was something to be said about golden Glocks with pearl inlays and crucifix motifs.

He wasn’t sure what but there was something there, for sure.

Blasphemy, probably.

Luckily for them, Hell was rather modern when it came to warfare and Vox knew a grenade when he saw one, even if it did have a happy little golden cross on it and looked more like a bath bomb than a weapon of localized evisceration.

So did Alastor, apparently, because his ears flattened, and his tone dropped into a range Vox seldom heard himself.

“Fuck.”

If Vox hadn’t been absolutely, one hundred percent feeling the sentiment, he would have probably enjoyed it more – enjoyed that the oh me oh my, you’re so crass, Vox, where are your manners, dear fellow, oh ho, quite the scoundrel, schtick had just dissolved right before his eyes.

A couple of things happened in that moment.

First: an unfamiliar voice rent the air, something high and angry and accusatory:

“Fucking die you tacky, murderous, red fuck!”

Which was interesting and left Vox feeling a little left out.

Second: Alastor was about to do something, though Vox couldn’t quite tell what – the world around them had taken on a bit of a green hue and his eyes had gone black, pupils red and pinpoint …

And third: sensing there was no time for whatever Alastor was planning and concerned – certain, he was fucking certain – that Vox and his general safety might not be part of the other sinner’s plan, he again reached for the asshole and yanked.

Pulling a passenger into the electromagnetic current wasn’t something he did often, or ever. It had never seemed like a good idea and surprise! it wasn’t.

If traveling on the wings of electricity normally felt like flying, travelling with Alastor felt like free falling through an endless thicket of fucking tree branches.

They were both currently incorporeal, but he was pretty fucking sure that Alastor was doing the equivalent of thrashing. In fact, he’d just achieved the metaphysical equivalent of kicking Vox in the balls, and nope, he couldn’t maintain this.

They dropped with an unseemly thud –

– right into the living room of some poor, cowering schmuck.

“How dare you, you vile, pathetic –“ Alastor was picking himself off of the coffee table they had destroyed. They must have come in through the television.

Vox slapped Alastor’s arm away as the other demon tried to use his fucking face as leverage; he felt his claws gripping the back of his screen.

“Oh, save it, I just saved your life you ungrateful prick!”

Alastor fixed him with a glare that said die and reached for his microphone. He’d dropped it and as he bent over there was a barely there, miss it if you weren’t looking moment where he winced again, hand coming up to press against his chest.

Vox hoped it hurt, whatever it was.

“I had it well in hand, I assure you,” Alastor said as he regarded his stupid staff, “the only miserable life you saved was your own.”

Well, that confirmed what he’d suspected – the fickle bitch would have let that thing explode in his face.

“Uh-huh, you’re welcome.” Vox said as he glanced out the window. They were in a seedy, run-down flat and, based on the noise coming from outside, they couldn’t be more than two blocks from where they’d started.

“I’d already dealt with it when you dragged me here.”

And, huh, okay. He wasn’t sure he believed him but neither of them had heard the thing go off so sorry, he’d just go ahead and believe that he’d save the ungrateful deer’s hide.

“Oh, don’t worry, won’t happen again. I’m letting your ass get fucking wrecked next time.”

Alastor laughed, actually laughed; it sounded real for once.

“Next time? Oh, my dear Vox, with your technique and skill-set you’ll be lucky to see the next hour!”

“Fuck you! I’m not the one that was called out by a fucking Exorcist! It practically knew your name –“

The sound of a phone camera taking a picture interrupted their terribly productive and stimulating argument.

A small lizard-like sinner was peering over the end of her couch, phone in hand. Her eyes widened when she realized she’d been caught.

“Do you mind?” Alastor turned with a nauseating crack of his spine and gave the terrified sinner a gregarious, murderous smile.

Vox watched, rolled his eyes as Alastor held his hand out. It wasn’t as though any picture of Alastor would be anything more than a grainy, distorted mess.

The sinner obediently handed the phone over, warbled a weak sorry and watched as Alastor crushed the thing with a flourish of his magic; when he opened his hand what looked like soot fell to the floor.

“Thank you.” He said politely, and then, with a sweeping gesture of his arm that almost made them look like business partners and fuck him for that, “I’m sure Vox here will be happy to replace it.”

“Sure.” Vox grumbled, utterly defeated.

And then the wall exploded.

The lizard-sinner screeched and before Vox could worry about his audio processing unit, she was gone, stolen by an inky black shadow.

He had no clue where Alastor had sent her, but he supposed anything was better than here and Satan’s tits what a bleeding fucking heart, what a waste of energy, such a blatant display of weakness – Vox wasn’t turned on or anything, not at fucking all.

The Exorcist from before had found them, was hovering easily outside of the gaping hole that was spilling wreckage onto the street.

“There you are.” It – she said as her mask glitched, the rictus smile turning into an agonized frown for all of a millisecond.

Vox looked between the two, watched as Alastor’s expression turned a little more than feral and what the Hell was going on? The Exorcist hadn’t so much as glanced at Vox, which was probably a good thing and should have been his cue to make an Irish fucking Exit.

“Here I am!” He said as he raised both hands, presenting himself.

His smile sharpened; Vox could see his gums.

Alastor began to back up in what looked like a retreat, his boots scraping over glass and brick and wood. His antlers began to grow as he dipped his head, gaze on the angel that likely had more power in her pinky than the two of them had combined.

Vox looked around for something to swing because it looked like he was sticking around and fuck my life.

He spotted twelve inches of twisted rebar and yeah, that’d work.

“You killed dozens of my sisters –“ The Exorcist was holding an axe that looked a lot like a guitar, which, fine, and lifted it to point in Alastor’s direction.

It looked like she was lining up her next shot, eyes glaring down the neck.

“Well, my dear, they made it so easy.” Alastor’s voice dropped into a low growl, a creature waiting to spring his trap. “They practically threw themselves at me.”

Her mask morphed into an angry scowl, and she made her own advance, her wings beating harder than they likely needed to as she cornered her next victim.

“I’m going to rip your fucking limbs off and feed them to your cunty little friends. Fucking come at me you pus –“

There was flash of blue, and she was gone.

It happened a little too quickly to process, and Vox would have to review the footage later, but he was fairly certain a car had just punched the angel out of the sky. If he had to guess, Alastor had taken full advantage of her rage, how distracted she’d been and had manifested a tentacle at street level and had just … thrown a car at her.

Fuck.

Was he hard right now?

Didn’t matter - he didn’t have time to think about it.

Unfortunately.

Another Exorcist filled the space her comrade had been occupying mere seconds before. This one carried a broadsword. She made a beckoning gesture and another joined her, this one holding a dagger and wearing a belt that held a couple more of those delightful grenades.

Alastor dug his heel into the ground and no, uh-uh.

“Are – are we seriously gonna try and fight these fucking things?” Vox asked incredulously as he adopted his own fighting stance, rebar in hand.

It was no secret – he wasn’t much for a brawl. He preferred to exhaust his opponents by stringing them along, forcing them to play catch while they expended all their power trying to trap him as he slipped through currents.

But he could.

He could fight.

Had won fights.

Continues to win fights.

But this was madness and what the fuck was he doing?

The air buzzed chaotically, the electromagnetic highway thrumming with half-baked promise, and Vox had no doubt that this Extermination would be followed by rolling blackouts, just like they always were. Something about the tendency of Exorcists to dispense massive amounts of holy energy seemed to really do a number on the electric grid.

A quarter of the Vee’s corporate revenue came from offering backup services for the seemingly constant interruption of services in the city in general, and Exterminations were huge money earners. They were probably actively making money right now as businesses scrambled to protect their data.

Disaster capitalism at its absolute finest.

Chef’s kiss.

But Vox wasn’t going to be able to benefit from any of that.

Nope.

Because he was going to die.

All because Alastor wanted to fight angels and because Vox wanted to … watch, help, kill Alastor when the opportunity presented?

He had no clue anymore.

Realizing the odds were more than even, the first Exorcist swooped in and swung at Alastor and okay, was he fucking invisible or something?

A crackle of radio static.

The sword whiffed through the vestiges of a black shadow, curling brimstone-scented smoke as it passed, and landed with all the inertia behind it in a loud crack.

“Oh, you fucker –“ Vox grit as he watched the smoke dissipate – the asshole was probably halfway to his precious little hotel.

The Exorcist yelled out in frustration; movements jerky as she tried once twice thrice to remove the blade from shockingly strong wood.

Vox gripped the rebar in his hand and felt for the current; it was weak and unstable, likely due to all the property damage and Holy energy and fuck, they better be seeing record profits this month.

The other angel looked at him, the only prey in the room and oh, Vox thought with a calm that was bordering on fucking Zen, they do see me.

She lunged toward him with a howl and Vox stumbled, her dagger cutting through the air and nearly meeting his throat. She stopped mid-air with an awkward jerk as a familiar tentacle grabbed her leg, pulled her back outside.

Something exploded outside but Vox wasn’t about to go and look.

No, he was thinking over his escape route and was considering taking the stairs like some kind of pathetic normie when the Exorcist wrenched he weapon free and rounded on Vox.

The Exorcist swung, screamed as she did so, and without thinking, Vox lifted the rebar swatch above his head.

With what was likely luck but Vox was going to call skill, he deflected the sword. He felt every single reverberation, the Heavenly steel dragging across the ridges of the imperfect scrap of metal.

It smarted like a fucking bitch, and he was fairly certain something in his forearm had just cracked, but Vox recognized an opportunity when it was scraping within an inch of his face.

Just before the sword glanced off the rebar and lost contact, he reversed the flow of energy that swirled within him. With a satisfying flash of light, electricity danced out of him, right through the wonderful little conductor he was holding, and into the Exorcist’s sword.

The angel howled as the sword flew out of her hand, landed in a pile of dusty detritus, and Vox found him being spun around and thrown and nice, he was falling out the fucking hole in the wall.

He reached, reached, c’mon, reached and finally, grabbed onto a weak, sparking thread.

Letting himself hit the ground probably would have been kinder than what ended up happening. He let himself be pulled into the grid and was almost immediately spit out when it jolted; he went from non-corporeal to very much corporeal in the span of two seconds.

Vox exited via an electric pole that was falling into the street, its base having been destroyed by the battle that seemed to be unfolding at street level. He hit the ground and so did the pole with an immense bang; the transformer exploded on contact and Vox could feel the way the percussive blast bent the air.

Before he could so much as breathe the angel from before came swooping down on top of him. In a swift, instinctual movement of self defense, Vox threw his hands up, managed to grab her wrist and press his palm against the flat of the blade she was trying to dig into his flesh.

With a gasp he felt the blade break skin somewhere in the meat of his hand - it was a shallow nick but it burned like fucking fire.

They struggled like that for a moment before Vox summoned the strength necessary to send another jolt of electricity into the bitch - she screamed but didn’t let go.

Rather, she loosened her hold. Vox could feel it, the way he gained a little leverage, and with a somewhat desperate show of strength he pushed upward.

The sword buried itself in the Exorcist’s neck.

Golden blood spilled onto his screen while he continued to force the blade upward, unwilling to give her the chance to retaliate.

“F-fucking sinner … cocksucking … fuck …” She sputtered before falling limp, eyes vacant; he’d heard worse as far as last words went.

“Yeah, fuck you, too, bitch.” Vox gasped as he rolled her off of him.

He felt a directive try to kick in, that pesky safe_mode.exe and he grit his teeth because, as if he was going to black out on the street while Exorcists were milling about in all their bloodthirsty glory.

He successfully overrode the command and was left with a burning in his hand and a painful buzzing in his screen. There was a weird visual disturbance that suggested something had cracked. He closed his eyes, groaned as his head began to throb.

He lay there for a short moment fighting his internal fail safes for dominance, until …

Something knocked against his shoe.

“Get up or die.” An unsympathetic but familiar voice urged him, and Vox looked up, sat up, poured all his weight on his elbow, his body boneless and filthy and fuck, the suit was a total loss.

He blinked against his fractured vision; it was like looking through a broken windscreen, one that also spit random whirling bursts of color and blacked his vision out in blocky chunks.

Alastor was standing above him, bloodied and enraged.

Which probably would have been more impressive and awe-inspiring – ie boner inducing but shut up, shut the fuck up about it - if it hadn’t been his own blood.

Vox guessed that he had continued his brawl with the axe-wielding Exorcist after his own far more graceful exit from the building. Though, Vox couldn’t imagine why anyone would do that when they could just leave.

Vox narrowed his eyes, looked closer.

Unless, he couldn’t - hadn’t been able to?

He did look rather fucked up. There was angel blood, of course, golden splatters that added a strange splash of color to the sinner’s overwhelmingly red outfit. The red …He wore a bit too much red for Vox to effectively tell where an injury began or where fabric ended, but there were plenty of slick patches darkening his clothing. He was favoring his left leg and a wet string of blood was dribbling from mouth to chin and down his neck.

His stupid monocle was gone.

Yeah – Alastor looked like shit and Vox loved it. An aching head and shattered screen wasn’t going to stop him from appreciating seeing the usually cool and collected demon looking like he’d been used as an angelic chew toy.

It was a fantastic look.

“Fine. Die, then.” Alastor said with more static than voice – his sentences were startingly clipped for someone who usually didn’t know when to shut the fuck up.

“You w-w-wish.” He glitched over the word and okay, maybe he was a little concussed.

Vox leveraged himself painfully upwards, got to his knees with absolutely zero help from Alastor and blinked as he fought a wave of vertigo. He looked off into the distance as his optics caught up.

The scene behind the other sinner was one of absolute destruction.

The street was near unrecognizable. Pieces of buildings were actively sloughing off, adding to the piles of destruction that littered the road and sidewalks. A dead angel lay in the street and another was picking her half-crushed body out of flaming wreckage not ten feet from them. There were little fires everywhere and electrical poles lay in the street, their wires live and jumping with uncontained current.

There were other sinners, too, of course, ground to a pulp by wreckage or nailed to the ground by angelic spears.

“Get. Up.” Alastor growled and it dawned on Vox that maybe he was actually waiting for him.

He looked at Alastor, resolute in his decision to tell the demon to eat shit, when those big, dumb ears pinned themselves back. Vox watched as his smile became something that looked more like a grimace and his eyes fixed on something behind him.

Before Vox could so much as lift a finger or turn to look, the air crackled with something cacophonous and painful and decidedly holy and he found himself wincing at a sudden heat at his back.

Every demonic cell in his body shivered against the sensation and he had the most startling, un-fucking-fortunate sensation that he should be dead.

He coughed, choked – the air was thick with it, dust and holy energy.

“Holy fucking –“ He bit out inarticulately because holy fucking shit, he was burning, the back of his jacket had to be smoking if not in tatters. His lungs had to be scorched.

A wave of holy energy had just slammed into something behind him when it should have eviscerated him, and that thing was –

Vox hazarded a look.

– a black and green, vèvè-infused shield. A small but quickly cracking dome that encompassed them both.

Intentionally or not, Alastor had just saved his fucking life.

Through the wavering haze of the shield, he could see the Exorcist that had attempted to deal the killing blow. She looked singed, crispy and he figured there must have been some kind of blowback.

Her left arm hung loose at her side, sparked and twitched and may have been on fire. Golden blood streamed from her shoulder, her face. She looked beyond pissed, body a rigid line of pure fury as she regarded them from a safe distance.

The trumpet of retreat sounded.

Vox got to his feet, adrenaline from his near death lending him the requisite energy to express his genuine appreciation for the moment. Never let it be said that he didn’t fucking live in it.

“Ha! That’s right – fuck you,” Vox shouted as he flipped her off with both hands. His left forearm protested but he wasn’t going to let a little thing like a broken bone stop him from letting the cunt know where she stood.

“Suck my fucking d –“

The shield flickered, made a noise that sounded a lot like dying, strangled screams, and then – poof – dissolved around them like a bad dream.

Vox turned around just in time to see Alastor start to sway.

‘Whoah, whoah, no –“ Vox panicked, just a bit, because the air still tasted like metal and just breathing hurt, and Alastor looked like he was actively fucking fainting.

The other demon pitched forward a bit and before he could think better of it, Vox was reaching forward to catch him.

Alastor didn’t go limp as he might have expected. Instead, he went completely rigid, eyes widening as though he realized what was happening. He tried to pull away.

It might have been an effective display of stubborness if the idiot wasn’t gripping his arms like they weren’t the only things keeping him upright.

“Don’t touch me.” The infuriating demon hissed as though they weren’t sitting ducks.

“Seriously?” He complained incredulously but for the most part ignoring him because there was still an angry, injured Exorcist hovering down the street and Vox didn’t think Alastor had another one of those shields in him if she decided to give them a parting gift.

The air was absolutely electric right now and if Vox had any sense about him, he’d snag one of those buzzing, popping, dangerously unstable electromagnetic waves with a two-finger salute and a sayonara, fucker, this was fun but every man for himself.

Because, any second now, the Radio Demon would sink into the shadows with some old-timey insult and a promise to see him at the next one, and that would be that – another weird interaction for their collective book, one he wasn’t sure the other demon even fucking read anymore.

But he didn’t.

He just continued on looking half-dead, chest heaving as he turned his head just enough to look at the Exorcist. His smile was a tense little thing – the Radio Demon was spent.

They both were.

Vox was tired in a way he didn’t usually feel - a fleshy, blood and bones kind of tired. Not the sort of thing you could fix by plugging in.

He was going to sleep – properly, like a meat-bag human – for a week after this.

“Hey, you sinner fucks –“ Vox and Alastor both turned their heads, Vox’s shattered corner clipping one of Alastor’s sagging ears; they were both too exhausted to complain about the other’s blatant lack of special awareness.

The angel that had been pulling her destroyed body from the rubble was pulling at her waist. Her legs were a useless mess of gore, but she was the perfect picture of determination as she plucked the remaining two grenades from her belt, delicate and careful, as though they were ripened fruit.

She pulled what must have been the pins – cross shaped spits of metal – and let them fall from her hand. Her mask was all smiles as it rolled to a stop between them, the distance too small to mean anything for her but death.

For a moment, silence.

Then, both exploded, just about at the same moment that Vox tightened his grip on Alastor and jumped.

The horrible, ear-shattering sound followed them through the current, all the way to the end of the line - a horrific ringing that surrounded them, became them, until -

- for the second time that day, Vox was ejected from the grid.

And with less warning than he’d had before, his system took over.

C:\Users\[VOX]>shutdown /r /f /t 0.

Vox and his passenger landed with a distressing crack, and all was quiet.

Chapter Text

NO SIGNAL

Please contact your cable provider. Or, go fuck yourself.

Despite what was assumed of his abilities, Alastor could not teleport. He could sink into the shadows and weave his way through obstacles and places nigh impassable, and he could slink up the walls or down them, unconfined by gravity, and he could bleed into the ground and wait, bide his time, but – but he could not teleport.

Which was why he could do little to nothing about the falling he was currently doing. Had he been in top form he might have caught himself with his own eldritch tentacles, but he decidedly wasn’t.

The current spit him out with a suddenness he hadn’t been expecting and wasn’t accustomed to, and it did so from the top of a rather tall electrical pole.

As he fell, he spared a thought for complaint – this riding the current business, it was an absolutely barbaric, horrible way to travel. He’d felt deconstructed, ripped apart. There was no elegance to it –

Alastor hit the pavement with a crack.

And then so did Vox.

Right on top of him.

The other demon’s screen smacked into his own face, and he felt his nose crunch with the impact – it sent a sharp bite of pain through him and sparks across his vision. With a growl he could feel reverberating in his throat, but that he couldn’t at all hear, he shoved Vox’s weight off of him.

The motion set his chest on fire, the just-barely-healed wound flaring in protest. He grit his teeth against it, found himself falling back again all while a flash of anger burned through him.

This weakness was grotesque, had overstayed its welcome, had compromised him.

No matter - pain was something he was adept at managing.

He needed to take the upper hand while he still could for their Exorcist inspired demons-in-arms truce was surely at an end and it was just them now. It was just them and his head felt stuffed full of cotton, his magical reserves were low, and his hearing was still overwhelmed by the static and high wine of the electric current – he wasn’t about to let Vox take advantage of such vulnerability, because -

- because it was just them and things tended to devolve when that was the case.

Alastor could never help his bloodlust, his hunger for control, and Vox could never reign in his anger, his sniveling desperation. Vox wanted something Alastor couldn’t, wouldn’t give and Alastor couldn’t yank a leash he didn’t hold, couldn’t manipulate a medium for which he didn’t know the frequency.

It hadn’t always been so volatile; it had been … enjoyable, once.

Amusing.

In the 1950s - as the topside calendar measured - Vox’s anger made him an excellent accomplice despite the garishness of his performance, the obsession with blinding his audience with visuals rather than telling them, trusting them to figure it out. Still, they made a good … team, a pair.

Fast friends was what Vox had called them and Alastor had grimaced.

The 1960s were a delight. War and assassinations and cultural revolutions absolutely everywhere. Their conversations were satisfying and filled with friendly blood shed – Alastor could still remember the tear they had gotten into about which medium best suited news of the moon landing, the assassination of JFK; Vox’s blood had tasted like static, and the pathetic, desperate picture-box had grinned as Alastor licked the crimson from his own fingers.

The 1970s marked a shift, the needle moved by the invisible press of an impatient finger. Vox had grown bold, had learned Hell, and Alastor watched as radio began a geriatric stumble towards decline. It was the era of extreme violence and free love and it seemed as though every sinner that dropped into hell was either a war criminal or sex-obsessed and handsy and lacking in any form of class – Alastor had stood on the sidelines, waiting and disgusted, while Vox infiltrated the movement with glee. Alastor had waited with two empty whiskey glasses and sharpened claws, and Vox had emerged with a rotten, syphilitic moth-demon at his side.

The 1980s were dreadful – the fashion, the music, the impossible, roaring pace of technological advancement. If the 70s were characterized by the hyper-sexualization of everything, the 80s were an endless, all-consuming high, tainted by a wave of substances that made prohibition look silly.

Alastor trapped Vox in a conversation about the burgeoning popularity of musical videos – an absolute insult to music, a distraction from the real purpose of it all – and it had ended, as it often did, in a bloody scrap. Alastor had tasted cocaine-addled blood for the first time that night – it had been bitter and rather foul and worse, had made his heart race, his body numb. Vox had laughed even as he tried to beat his screen in.

He had laughed as he leaned in and tried to –

With energy he didn’t so much have as borrow, Alastor rolled, ears still ringing, and mounted his stunned target. Their fall and subsequent crash had winded the other demon, and it was likely only reflex that had him throwing his arms up to defend himself as Alastor reached for his throat.

Alastor could only just hear the muffled, angry sound of Vox’s protest over the blasted ringing as he scrambled, dug his blue claws into Alastor’s arms. The ingrate sent a weak shock of electricity through him, and he felt his hair stand on end – it settled in the old wound in his chest and shuttered his breathing.

It gave Vox the opening needed to turn and flip Alastor underneath him. His mouth moved but Alastor couldn’t hear anything. He could feel the way one of Vox’s arms shook as he tried to hold him down – tried to strangle him back – and he targeted the weakness, thrust his arm against his, regained the upper hand as Vox folded on top of him.

Alastor brought his knee up right between Vox’s legs, felt him shudder as he hit his target. Vox’s claws drew blood as he reared away, sharp points dragging over the vulnerable flesh of Alastor’s neck.

A pulsing ache reverberated in both his ears as Vox emitted some distressed, high-pitched frequency, similar to Alastor’s own radio static. He was fairly certain one of his ears was bleeding.

They rolled in the filth of the street and the electric pole they had been ejected from popped, exploded with a flash of light and the heat of fire and oh, how lovely! Alastor thought as the brief explosion revealed their intermingling blood painting the street red.

Vox landed a lucky shot to his gut, just below the still sensitive scar on his chest and he felt his breath leave him in a painful, stuttering exhale. Alastor reached for his eldtrich tentacles, tried to bind Vox to the pavement, and was met with only partial success.

One slunk around Vox’s leg, his arm, and then disappeared completely when the other sinner let out another wave of electricity that Alastor felt despite the weak charge, his skin tingling with the snappish shock.

Alastor was on top again, claws raking towards Vox’s face like a desperate, rabid cat.

It was a sloppy affair, not at all becoming of your average sinner, let alone an Overlord, and Alastor knew Vox was to blame. He had delayed them with his ridiculous need to harass him at every turn, had interfered when he’d been perfectly capable of meeting the Angelic threat on his own.

And here they were – reduced to beating each other with their fists for dominance like it was their first day in Hell.

Vox’s left eye swirled as Alastor’s antlers grew and Alastor looked away – both an attempt to avoid what would have been low-grade hypnosis, and an attempt to gore – and, in the same moment that his antler caught Vox’s screen, Vox struck him, hard, just at the base of his left ear.

Alastor spit a rare curse as his vision abandoned him and a sharp pain rung through his skull.

It – the pain, the exhaustion - was enough to have them both reeling away from each other.

They stared at each other for a moment, separated by the long stretch of their legs. They sat across from each other as though taking a brief respite from a bout of friendly grappling.

Alastor watched Vox pant for breath, ears still ringing exquisitely, as he too heaved.

Fuck you, Vox said, or so Alastor assumed based on the movements of his mouth. He fought the urge to try to rub the ringing from his ears as it graduated into a hiss.

“Likewise.” He said, thought he said because it was nothing but a rumble in his throat and a warble in his ears, as he sneered at the other sinner. Vox kicked childishly at his foot before allowing himself to collapse onto his elbows.

It was a horrible display of misplaced trust, to recline like that, but it was the natural end to what had once been practiced, ritualistic squabbling.

In those earlier decades they had often ended up just as they were now – panting and injured and grinning, a bid for the last good word on the tips of both their pointed tongues.

Though, Vox wasn’t grinning and Alastor doubted anything he had to say was worthy of voicing.

Alastor watched the other sinner through a tired glare, his smile closed-mouthed as he waited for his hearing to return. He ignored the renewed sensation of bodily weakness, of limbs that wanted to tremble.

Alastor thought about the bomb that had just gone off in their faces as he tried to will himself to his feet, anything that wasn’t sitting on a wet street.

The world spun a bit and oh dear, it seemed his body was making an infuriating attempt at a faint! No matter, he wasn’t about to allow it – it, this pathetic, dragging exhaustion that had been absolutely dogging him since his battle with Adam, and it, the insidious ache of injuries that weren’t healing fast enough and that infernal ringing.

He’d wait this out, duly collect himself and make his way back to the Hotel – the one he was meant to be protecting. Alastor could visualize with perfect clarity the smarmy look that would be gracing Lucifer’s face upon his return, his sharp grin when he would look up from his stunted position and say, missing in action, again?

Charlie would see the state of him and fret, would attempt to put him on bedrest.

His chest burned at the memories of sick, Angelic infection, and he felt dizzy with it. He leaned back on his right arm, let the other drift up in a self-soothing motion to rub at his chest – he’d forgotten himself completely, the come down from the battle stealing away the former ire in his limbs.

Now he was just tired.

Something smacked his foot, the tip of his boot, and his eyes shot open. He hadn’t realized he’d closed them; the thought was enraging. He schooled his expression, leveled Vox with an unimpressed stare.

Vox’s screen was glitching – and no wonder, it was cracked from upper left corner to center, a spidery vein that was probably uncomfortable, which, good, served him right - but his mouth was moving, and his eyes were drawn into something frustrated and angry.

There was a muffled womp-womp-womp of what he assumed to be Vox’s voice.

He stared back at Vox, deduced the insufferable dolt had been talking to him as they sat there together like refuse in the street, and had assumed he’d been ignoring him.

Alastor would readily admit that he would have ignored him had he heard him in the first place, that had he heard his mindless droning he wouldn’t have allowed Vox to touch him again, he would have ripped his leg off, made a snack of it, and - and this was all a nice thought exercise to avoid the realization that it wasn’t just a bad case of getting his bell rung.

His hearing wasn’t improving – the ringing had mostly faded but had been replaced by a hissing, the high-pitched whine of absence, that pesky frequency that lived between the channels.

“Quit your caterwauling, old chum.” Alastor said, trusting habit and the familiarity one tended to have with oneself for his own words were nothing but strange feeling and a vague noise that reverberated in his bones.

Vox frowned at him, his eyes slanting downward; he always hated when he reassumed the pinnacle of politeness after nearly trying to beat him to death.

Alastor strained, listened - he couldn’t hear the scratch of his claws against pavement, couldn’t hear the crackling of the fire behind him that had kindly lit the scene in an apocalyptic, warm glow.

Vox’s mouth was running again. He could hear it, sort of, though ‘hear’ was a generous use of the word. The sound was strikingly similar to the sound of a TV left to drone in some very, very distant room – he figured he could only perceive it because of the frequency Vox existed within.

“Ugh, you do rather like the sound of your own voice, don’t you, Vox.” He added as he pulled his legs closer to himself – calling one’s self sound or voice was exceedingly trite.

Every line of Vox’s body was a thing of uncontrolled tension, of panic. It was unsightly and made him dizzy.

“And please, calm yourself. There’s no need for such … hysterics.”

Vox was gesturing at the world around them, more hissing and womp-womp-womp as blood ran down his screen, the corners of his mouth, his hands.

Alastor knew it was only a matter of time before Vox cottoned on. He was arrogant and pathetic - Alastor would double die on that hill – but he wasn’t stupid. It pained Alastor to even think it, but there it was.

He’d notice, eventually.

Alastor swallowed, his chest tightening again as he tried to breathe through another wave of vertigo. What had that smug little King said to him? Something along the lines of don’t push it or you’ll die, again, whatever, I’m serious, and the damage from the infection will take a while to heal considering you let it spread through your stupid, stubborn body, along with, if you relapse from sheer stupidity, that’s on you.

Yes - he recalled it quite clearly now that blood was crawling up his throat.

Vox was looking at him, seemed to be awaiting an answer, or a comment, or some pithy reply.

“Hmm. I’m leaving.” Alastor interrupted as the flighty, horrible thrill of his own vulnerability thrummed through him. “It is always such a displeasure seeing you.”

Vox stared at him, screen glitching once again. Incredulity was written all over his face along with that familiar fury; he could make out an angry looking what!? just before he stopped caring enough to try to interpret the movements of the other sinner’s fangy mouth.

Alastor leveraged himself to his feet, looked around, nothing registering as particularly familiar.

Every bit of his stupid, weak body protested. Nausea, a newly familiar, nasty thing rose and his head spun; he’d likely had his ear drums blown out, whether from the grenade or his journey through the current, he couldn’t know.

It had happened to him once before, a veritable lifetime ago when he was human.

He’d been struck so hard in the face his right ear had rung for days; the bruising had lasted a month. His right eye never fully recovered from the blow, and it wasn’t until adulthood that he suspected his father had broken his cheekbone.

It was an unpleasant memory.

Vox made his own scramble to stand, his mouth moving some more and, had it been someone else’s misfortune, Alastor may have made a joke of it – might have told him his efforts were all falling on rather deaf ears.

And, had he been a man more crass, more unrefined, he might have made a crude gesture; instead, he tightened his smile and sunk into the shadows –

– or tried to.

Alastor made it no more than fifteen exhausting feet before the void spit him out, sending him sprawling to his knees.

He should have expected Alastor to jump him like the feral fuck he was.

Vox spit a bloody glob on the ground, frowned, fixed Alastor with a look that he wished could kill. It had been a pathetic brawl, both of them scratching and flailing like territorial cats. He was so glad they appeared to be in the middle of fucking nowhere.

He’d never recover if some footage of him rolling around on the street with a glitching splotch of red got out. Velvette would probably refuse to spin doctor it for him, would ensure it was all over Sinstagram as a punishment for being fucking stupid.

He almost beat you … again, amorcito, Val would have said while Velvette stood on the sidelines, would have interjected with something charming like stop putting your guard down you daft cunt.

And now Vox felt like hammered shit – like gum on the bottom of a shoe that had trudged through the Lower East Side on a Saturday night, collecting filth and dog shit and semen as its wearer tumbled into an alley for a quick fuck.

He would know – he’d once been the one wearing those shoes.

“You’re a real piece of fucking work –“ Vox shouted as his anger built, he put a hand up to the aching corner of his screen – the fucker had gored him.

Even by demonic standards, it was an asshole move.

He shifted, groaned.

Alastor had landed a decent blow against his probably shattered wrist and with a blink and the protesting glitch of a subroutine, he tried to redirect healing directives to the throbbing limb.

His vision blurred as he glitched again, his system fighting the new directives. He reached up as he felt a new tackiness, winced at the way his own light touch sent an electric, nervy pain down his neck.

“I should’ve let that thing blow your fucking face off.” He hissed as he looked at the blood on his hands – he’d have to replace the whole thing, his whole fucking head.

Alastor didn’t say anything in response and had Vox the appropriate energy, he would electrocute him just to get a reaction – he wouldn’t even need to touch the whiny little bitch.

He’d be doing him a kindness.

Vox looked at the trail of blood running from Alastor’s nose and extracted some amount of satisfaction from the sight; he’d broken it when he’d landed on top of the other sinner, faces slamming together.

If only it had been intentional.

“Should have let the fucking Exorcists pick apart whatever was left of you when I –“

Alastor blinked, cut him off, was painfully, aggravatingly, infuriatingly unaffected by his attempt to goad an appropriate reaction from the demon.

“Ugh, you do rather like the sound of your own voice, don’t you, Vox.” Alastor said and ha! wasn’t that rich?

He wasn’t the one who made a proverbial living off jawing away to an unseen, declining audience. He wasn’t the one whose vanity had him throwing up some audio-aesthetic radio filter over his voice.

“What – what the fuck are you even –“ Vox found himself waving his arms in pure aggravation. Alastor made it so easy, so easy to want to kill him. He felt like he was talking to a damn wall.

“And please, calm yourself. There’s no need for such … hysterics.” Alastor looked so collected, so calm and fuck, wasn’t it always that way? Oil and fucking water.

Vox knew he had an anger issue. There had barely been a moment in his life or death where he wasn’t some version of angry. He’d been an angry child and an angry man and an angry nobody of a sinner and was now an angry Overlord.

Alastor had a way of making it all seem so much more obvious, so much worse. He was calm and collected in a way Vox would never be and the contrast made his blood boil. It was hard – very hard – to feel this much, be this impassioned and be met with so much apathy.

And – and … it hadn’t always been that way and perhaps nothing made him angrier than that.

“Are you -are you fucking kidding me? Hysterics!” He felt dizzy and overloaded, like he was going to blow a circuit, the whole damn board, even.

“Hell is under attack, Overlords are losing their power every time a contracted soul bites it, and it’s all connected to your stupid little passion project –“ Vox gestured vaguely at the far off skyline of what was probably the edge of Pentagram City.

The horizon was alight with a thousand private blazes.

Alastor didn’t so much as glance, looked right through him with a half-lidded gaze and a painful looking smile.

“ – and honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were hiding something and wouldn’t that make a good fucking story –“

Vox’s internal mechanisms whirred right along with the fleshy pounding of his pulse. He was officially in the territory of goading, of actively chumming the waters and Alastor didn’t react at all.

The sinner just continued to watch him, his expression vague and lacking any real presence. The only sign that he was listening, let alone alive, was the overactive twitching of his ears. The left one dipped before standing to attention only to resume its chaotic little movements.

Vox had asked to touch them once and yeah, he was still fucking embarrassed about it.

He’d been riding a delightful coke high and his hands had been so numb. He remembered raking them across his face in an attempt to feel something when the fine fur on Alastor’s ears caught the light. They had looked so stupidly soft, and Vox had all but begged the other sinner to allow him to fondle the fucking things.

Alastor had responded as one would expect – with threats against his body and life – but, in a turn of startling vulnerability had offered that they’re rather sensitive, dear fellow.

The memory made his head hurt.

“Breaking News –“ He continued as he homed in, really looked, his mouth running on its own accord, “- old-timey dipshit seems to be on a first name basis with a fucking Exorcist –“

And yeah, there it was – blended with the color of his hair was the slick tell of blood.

Vox had definitely punched him right at the base of one, hard as he could muster at the time, but he doubted he’d inflicted that much damage.

“ – and fucking Lucifer himself –“

Alastor’s claws dug into the ground but it looked more a thing of preparation to move rather than anger and okay, Vox was fully suspicious – where was the repartee, the arguing, the smug 1920s jargon?

A silent Alastor was not one he was accustomed to.

“Hey, Alastor –“ Vox said as he leaned back, just in case. “I fucked your mother.”

No reaction.

None.

Holy shi -

“Hmm. I’m leaving. It is always such a displeasure seeing you.” Alastor said with a suddenness that had Vox flinching in surprise, screen glitching painfully with the sudden movement.

“What? No! Fuck you –“ He said despite the little revelation he’d just had, that Alastor couldn’t hear fucking shit, “ – you don’t get to walk away from me.”

Again, he thought, because Alastor had done that more than once in a day and his ego wouldn’t stand for it.

Vox watched him as he heaved himself up with zero grace and made it to his feet. He scrambled to do the same, bad arm giving out from under him and head aching in a way that was more a warning than just a symptom.

He tripped over his own feet, felt like vomiting – a thing he didn’t really do – as the crack across his screen sent splintery shards of pain through his entire form. His vision blanked for a moment but returned just in time to see Alastor fade into the ground, dipping into the shadows that appeared in the undulations of the flickering flame that was still licking at the electrical pole’s wooden carcass.

I fucking hate you, he thought as his vision continued to flicker in and out.

Getting back to the city would be an absolute cunt, and if there was another ‘extermination’ he’d probably do well to just lay down and –

Alastor reappeared twenty feet away.

For a moment Vox sat in silent shock, watched as Alastor pitched forward and landed on his hands and knees. He’d never seen him do that, or rather, had never seen the shadows do that – spit him out like he tasted particularly bad.

“Ha –“ Vox belted in a slightly deranged, hysterical attempt at a laugh.

It wasn’t really funny, but oh, it absolutely was because it appeared as though they were very much stuck with each other and that they’d be, what, walking back together?

Vox reached for the current and found it weak, disrupted. The skyline of Pentagram City had gone dark – another massive blackout.

He watched as Alastor pushed himself to something a little more upright, sitting back on his heels. He could see the idiot’s frame trembling as he breathed heavily, the sound raspy.

Maybe they would hold fucking hands and reminisce about the old days and get blood and bone ice cream on the way – how fucking fun.

If Vox had the energy – and what the fuck was taking so long and why was he sweating so much - he would get to his feet, march over, and kick a man while he was down.

He would beat the proverbial almost-dead horse, deer – whatever.

But he didn’t, couldn’t – clearly.

Just as Alastor had seemingly reached the end of his reserves, so had Vox. Had he been a more flesh and bone-based being, he likely would be dealing with a very fractured skull and though his arm seemed like it was beginning to mend, the injury pulsed and burned in concert with the ridiculously shallow cut on his hand.

The sound of a horn and a far-off explosion made him flinch and he craned his neck to look over at the city – it was only the light of flames and the vague glow of Pride’s atmosphere that allowed him to see what was happening.

Some building was collapsing to the ground as a portal opened above it.

More Exorcists?

They were too far to worry about it but that didn’t stop his heart from hammering in his chest, didn’t quell the sinner-ingrained fear.

Vox looked to Alastor again who, for all appearances, didn’t seem to notice – his right claw was dug into the pavement, and he looked as though he were going to try to make another go of it, the stubborn fuck.

This was … bad.

“Hey –“ Vox shouted despite the futility of it as he glanced at the distant portal again; his voice cracked as he glitched again. Fuck he felt awful.

Alastor didn’t respond and Vox suddenly worried that he had rallied and was about to make his escape. That Alastor was finding his strength while he wasn’t.

“Hey, you, ugh –“ He looked around for something to throw and came up with fuck all – not even a pebble, which seemed shocking because this was Hell and why were these rural roads so cleanly paved?

The street was slick, though, and with only a teeny, tiny thrill of regret, he sent a weak charge across the pavement.

There was a snap and Alastor’s hand lifted as he was shocked.

Alastor turned his head and fixed him with a pissy glare. He had blood on his mouth now, which, great!

Vox pointed at the horizon, needlessly told him to, “Look, moron.”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed but he complied, gave nothing away as he took in the sight of what seemed to be the second Extermination of the day. When he turned back to look at him, Alastor just looked … tired.

Vox related.

He was also starting to understand that this, the back-to-back exterminations, might be the start of something. That it wasn’t just random anymore. That being injured and alone was a really bad fucking position to be in right now.

Vox clenched his fists hard enough to puncture skin.

He could – they could …

Are you fucking kidding me? Oh, this is so sad, so pathetic, I can’t even look at you, he could hear Velvette say. Her tone would be one of pure disgust and Val, well, he would be Val about it, enemies to situational lovers, there’s a kink for that – don’t spare me any of the bloody, sweaty details with your ciervo rojo.

Before Alastor could look away, he changed what he was displaying on his screen, his face giving way to a painful, scrambling glitch, and then, text:

MAKE A DEAL?

Chapter Text

"Good Morning Denizens of Heaven! I'm Sunny Silverlinings,"

"And I'm Cotton Candee, and we're so glad you could join us!"

"As usual, everything is perfect!"

"That's right! No news to report, but, stay tuned to watch live coverage of this weeks puppy parade sponsored by Pearly Gates Zoo. I don't know about you, Sunny, but I think this will be the best one yet!'"

While Charlie maintained what could only be called polite, pointless conversation with Sera, and while Vaggie did what could only be described as trying to murder Lute’s second in command with her eyes, Lucifer read through the contract in quiet shame.

He’d signed it ages ago, had been in a completely different headspace at the time of its inking, and it showed. There were clauses and subclauses, amendments and addendums that were truly reckless and only highlighted how desperate he had been to keep Charlie safe. His vision had been pin-point then, so narrow that he’d allowed insidious, twistable language to slip in, laying in wait for moments just like this.

Lucifer reached the end of the document, paused to think, but Sera noticed. She cut his daughter off mid-sentence and turned her attention towards him. He could feel the intensity of her cold gaze.

“I trust everything is in order, Lucifer?” Her voice lilted in a way that he’d always hated, had learned to recognize as both disarming and smug.

Lucifer shifted, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his legs in a manner that broadcasted how much he disagreed with the statement, how tiresome he found this display of political bullying. It was so like Heaven to wave contracts around amidst a slaughter.

“I wouldn’t use those words exactly. Sera.”

Sera sighed, collapsed her hands together and squared her shoulders.

“But you did. That is your signature, is it not?” She asked pleasantly, softly, with a sympathetic pinching of her brow.

“Endless Exterminations were not what my father agreed to.” Charlie interjected with a surprising amount of control, her tone even and professional. Had she wanted to, she probably could have been the family arbiter.

And she was right, to a point.

He hadn’t agreed to endless exterminations. But he had allowed some pesky language that created some substantial loopholes and workarounds.

Sera sighed, gave Lucifer another sympathetic look, one that seemed to carry the condescending essence of oh, I’m so sorry that I must do this in front of your child, and flicked her wrist. A piece of the contract rose from the page, its text gleaming gold as it hovered before them.

Notwithstanding any other provision herein, the conditions of DIRECTIVE ONE shall be deemed null and void and shall be immediately overruled in the event that any threats arise that pose a danger to the souls of heaven. This clause shall take precedence over DIRECTIVE ONE and shall be executed without delay or the need for further authorization, ensuring the protection and sanctity of the souls of heaven at all times.

Lucifer briefly covered his mouth with his hand, took a deep breath and shook his head as he watched Charlie read.

“But - “ Charlie shook her head, wrinkled her nose as her eyes took the text in again, “Heaven broke the contract first. Adam broke the contract when he attacked me.”

“That is true.” Sera conceded with a regal nod and Lucifer rolled his eyes, fully aware of what was coming. Sera glanced at him again. She was enjoying this, he could tell.

“However, the rights to retribution were not fulfilled appropriately.”

In the event of a breach of contract, retribution may solely be pursued by an entity borne to Hell, or an entity of equal standing to the party in breach. Any such retribution must adhere to the principles of equity and proportionality. The preferred course of action for addressing the breach shall be the imprisonment of the offending party, provided such imprisonment is feasible. Under no circumstances shall the offending party be subject to lethal retribution as a primary response.

“It was a Sinner who killed Adam, was it not?”

Charlie bit at her lip, looked utterly defeated as she shook her head in denial over how horrible this contract was. Lucifer knew that should she choose to blame him, choose to hate him for this, she’d be right in doing so.

He’d designed his own downfall, his own alienation with the stroke of a quill.

“What do you want, Sera.” He asked, tired of this game of chess. This was why he had come, why he had all but bullied Heaven into allowing him to join in on the meeting that Charlie had managed to set up. He knew they would wave the contract around, weaken her argument with legalize and then -

“As I understand, Hell is quite fond of deals.”

- and then make demands in the guise of a negotiation.

“I will not negotiate the rights of my people.” Charlie said with some small disgust, didn’t hide her suspicion as she regarded the seraphim before her, and oh, Lucifer was proud of her. She held Sera’s gaze as she flexed her wings, relaxed them. It was a tell - Charlie was getting under her feathers.

“I would not ask you to. Criminals, on the other hand -” Sera paused when Lucifer huffed because wasn’t that ridiculous, what was a criminal in Hell?

“This is Hell we’re talking about, Sera.”

“Do not be so quick to dismiss this.” Sera snapped, an uncommon display, all of her eyes opening, flaring. She sighed, collected herself with a sweep of her hands, pushing her hair and feathers back.

“This is greater than the murder of Adam. This impacts your hotel, princess, your cause. One Heaven is willing to invest in should we be able to come to an agreement.”

It was bait, Lucifer was certain.

And so was Charlie if the vague look of trust was anything to go by.

Next to her Vaggie tensed. She looked like she wanted to run, to drag Charlie from the room and Lucifer felt inclined to trust those instincts. One thing they shared was their intimate understanding of how Heaven worked, how it plotted and twisted in rooms of vast opulence, how they gilded their beautiful horrors.

Sera’s right eye twitched.

She likely hadn’t been expecting to meet such stony distrust, such silence.

Sera lifted her chin, steeled herself. She looked like she was about to play a particularly devastating hand. Lucifer didn’t like it.

“Sinners can be redeemed.” She announced and, with a wave of her hand, presented her proof. The image of a familiar looking snake-entity appeared before them.

Beside him Charlie gasped, hands flying to cover her mouth.

Lucifer felt equally awed, even as his stomach flopped with dread. This was very good bait. He couldn’t have imagined this, couldn’t have expected this to be her point of leverage. His head nearly spun with the implications - this changed everything. This was dangerous.

He watched with a tearing ache in his chest as his daughter fought to maintain her composure, her eyes watering and her expression dropping into something so genuine that one could all but read the rising vulnerability on her features.

“Let me see him.” Begging wasn’t the word for it, but it was close. Charlie looked hopeful, too hopeful and Sera’s lips tilted up pleasant and kind. “Please.”

“We will. You will see him, I promise.”

“Is he okay?” Charlie asked with only the slightest waver in her tone. Her hand had snaked under the table to grasp at Vaggie’s own - he could see that it was shaking.

“He is more than okay. He is redeemed.” Sera soothed and no, no this wasn’t good. Lucifer could see the manipulation at hand and he had no clue how to pull them away from it. “Emily has been assigned as his guide. With her assistance he has swiftly found his place here in Heaven.”

Charlie lightened at the mention of Emily, but only slightly. She looked caught between the joy of such news and anxiety over the clear tension lining this meeting.

“And that is what we wish to discuss. Your battle with Adam has revealed some previously unrecognized threats, both to Heaven and the denizens of Hell.”

Sera cleared the image of Sir Pentious while Charlie sat rigid. Her notebook lay before her, abandoned and Lucifer knew that Sera had her claws in her now. He knew that he was powerless to do anything for the time being. For the first time in a long while, he had no idea what Heaven was playing at it.

Another wave of her regal hand and new images floated before them.

Lucifer blinked, because, what.

Charlie looked equally confused, worried.

Multiple images of Sinners carouselled before them, most of whom Lucifer had never seen before, except, well - that one. He was very familiar with that one.

“Alastor?” Charlie questioned, shook her head, unable to make the connection.

Sera didn’t acknowledge the name, didn’t address the particular Sinner, and Lucifer was rather certain she couldn’t distinguish who was who, at least not by name.

“I don’t understand.” She admitted - none of them had come in with a plan, a script for this. Charlie looked to him for a moment, and when it was clear that he didn’t have an answer she returned her attention to Sera.

“These individuals, these Overlords - “ The images changed, morphed into footage of the Sinners caught in various acts of violence.

A moth demon exhaled smoke into the face of a struggling Sinner. A gigantic reptilian biped crushed a demon in the palm of her hand as she laughed, stomped on another. The TV-headed demon Lucifer had seen on the news hypnotized a crowd into handing over wads of cash.

Alastor scooped up a demon in his massive, overgrown hand and popped them into his mouth like he was an easy snack.

“ - they create a grave power imbalance amongst Sinners, engage in vile, predatory behavior, - “

“Like I said. Hell.” Lucifer reminded her, found himself ignored. again.

“ - and collaborate with each other, something I know you are aware of, Princess.”

Charlie didn’t respond to the barb.

“With all due respect, it has always been that way.” She offered, calmly, because it was factually true. “Heaven has never worried about Overlords before.”

“No, I suppose not. But that was before they organized against Heaven.”

Charlie looked sick with guilt. Lucifer knew that they had involved a couple of Overlords, directly and indirectly, to aid the hotel and he had secretly suspected that something liek this could happen. He just hadn’t expected them to be so … direct about it.

“They were organizing to protect our people.”

“Be that as it may, but in doing so they have revealed themselves to be serious threats to the well-being of Heaven, the safety of its people. Commander Lute reported that one Overlord managed to kill dozens of angels in a matter of seconds.”

“He was defending the hotel, defending me.” Charlie raised her voice, seemed beside herself with the need to defend her project, her people.

“And the others? Can you vouch for their loyalty? Their actions?”

Charlie gasped, affronted.

She didn’t see it.

Not yet.

“So you’re punishing Hell for protecting itself? You’re just … killing everyone in hopes of weakening some Overlords?”

Sera sighed, made a show of looking forlorn, regretful.

“These Exterminations, Princess. They’re not a punishment. They’re not retribution.”

“They’re targeted.” Vaggie supplied, tone cold as the pieces came together. Sera’s expression fell into a thing of distaste but she did not argue the term. Lucifer applauded Vaggie for her tact - he would have called it a hunt.

“Overlords have no equivalent in Heaven.”

“Neither do Exorcists.” Lucifer interjected - he wasn’t a fan of Overlords but he knew bullshit when he smelled it.

“Exorcists do not deal in the souls of other angels.” Sera said sharply. It was, unfortunately, a fair point.

“Which leads me to the point. We have discovered through our observations, through our work with your former resident that contracted souls cannot be redeemed.”

The doubt in the room was palpable.

“What? No, that can’t be right - “ Charlie trailed off and Lucifer could practically hear her thoughts. There were contracted souls in her hotel, plural. Actually, if he remembered correctly, all of the current residents and staff were under contract - the bartender, the maid, the spider.

Two of them were contracted to the same Sinner.

“So you’re targeting Overlords in order to, what, open the door to redemption to more Sinners? This is all out of the goodness of your hearts?” Vaggie interrupted with a surprising amount of disgust in her voice; it was clear that she didn’t buy it.

Lute’s second, who until now had stood silent in parade, hands behind her back scoffed drawing the attention of the room.

“You should be glad, traitor. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“The organized extermination of specific individuals in Hell? No, that’s not what I wanted.” Vaggie spat, eyes fiery and livid - Charlie placed a hand on her arm and Vaggie backed down but not before narrowing her eyes at the Exorcist.

Lucifer had a bad feeling about that, about the two of them being in the same room - Vaggie was making enemies. Charlie was making enemies.

Lute’s SIC turned her body to say something to Sera but was silenced when the seraphim raised her hand.

“That’s enough. And, I assure you, Vaggie, that your voice has been heard.”

Vaggie didn’t look convinced.

Charlie didn’t look convinced.

Lucifer sure as hell wasn’t convinced.

“The bottom line is this, the existence of Overlords directly threatens the denizens of Heaven and Hell. In fact, it is worse for your people. These vile … soul contracts completely eliminate any chance at redemption.”

Charlie shook her head unwilling to believe, to agree.

Sera continued.

“Heaven wants to get behind your cause, Princess, but it can’t so long as this dangerous hierarchy, this threat exists.”

Lucifer opened his mouth, ready to filibuster the whole damn thing, but Charlie caught his gaze, silently begged him to stand down. So, he did.

As much as it hurt to stand back and allow Sera to play her games, this was Charlie’s meeting. He’d been invited to look at the contract and Charlie had reminded him of that multiple times before the damn thing had started.

He sat back, watched with clenched teeth.

Charlie inhaled, prepared herself, and asked the question of the hour.

“What do you want from me?”

Sera’s eyes softened as she gave Charlie a disarming, angelic smile.

All of Lucifer’s alarm bells were ringing cacophonous in his head.

“Your collaboration. Your help.”

Before Charlie could so much as react, let alone respond, the doors to the meeting room burst open revealing the bedraggled, bloody form of Lute. She was missing an arm and the joint where it would connect was sparking, bled something silver and oily looking.

She looked ferocious and wild, enraged.

“Excuse my interruption, but we have a fucking problem.”

Chapter Text

“And we’re back, but who knows for how long! We owe tonight’s broadcast to Tom sucking and fucking his way through Substation Six! You sure took one for the team!”

“One? Try sixty, Katie! My body couldn’t physically handle another blackout so let’s hope this reprieve lasts!”

“Well, I’m not crossing my fingers, Tom, but these two has-beens should! Check out this shocking footage of the Radio Demon and Television Demon fighting for their lives in the middle of Pentagram City!”

“Can we show th -”

Sometime in the late eighties, a curse descended upon humanity. It came in the form of a hardcover book and inspired an entire generation of degenerate stockbrokers, seedy middle-managers, and wannabe tycoons. Within twenty-four hours of its Earthly release, it made its way to Hell and suddenly, every Tom, Dick and Harry was an expert dealmaker.

Alastor remembered it fondly, enjoyed feigning interest when some Overlord-hopeful approached him with the promise that they, unlike the rest, were the big thinkers, and that they’d done their market research. They’d claim to know what he wanted, understood his perspective … which made it all the more enjoyable to watch the look on their faces when they realized that he was just playing with his food and that they’d interrupted his lunch hour.

He’d perused it once while leisurely picking the former book owner’s flesh from his teeth with a shard of tibia. It had been laughably simple, devastatingly elementary in its suggestions, and an absolute bore to read.

The only thing he’d agreed with was the title’s claim regarding the nature of dealmaking: it was an art.

Save for one particular deal that Alastor did his best not to think about, he was typically rather good when it came to crafting a satisfying deal. He supposed he had arrived in Hell - hungry and angry and silver-tongued - with a bit of a head start. His human life had entailed quite a bit of what one might call barriers to success, but who was he to complain?

Life was an excellent teacher and Hell was a delightful sandbox.

Point is, Alastor was old hat when it came to the art of the deal.

MAKE A DEAL?

Which was why he knew better than to let himself approach this with anything but a very healthy amount of suspicion.

Vox’s screen glitched again, the text disappearing and giving way to the usual face he displayed.

Logically, Alastor could understand what might have motivated the other Overlord to make such a desperate suggestion. The Exterminations weren’t slowing down, nor were they behaving as expected.

They were both injured.

They were both … weak.

It would make sense to enter into an agreement of cooperation, a more formal truce - not one that had been driven by pure circumstance and had left them only loosely aligned, trusting each other to behave only marginally more civilly than the angels they had been fighting.

Vox’s mouth moved again and he lifted his arms up in frustration, a motion that seemed to ask well? but given that this was Vox, more likely meant are you gonna fucking answer me or what?

Alastor narrowed his eyes.

Vox could be attempting to play him for the fool. He could be less injured than he appeared - though Alastor found it unlikely given their equally pathetic performances moments earlier - or he could be leading him into a trap. It seemed unlikely given the circumstances, but Alastor hadn’t forgotten how Vox had assaulted him on the street, had demanded his attention.

Alastor heaved a dizzying breath, ignoring the way his ribs creaked in protest.

He hated that he believed this may be a genuine attempt at an interpersonal ceasefire. Moreso, he hated that he was entertaining it, that perhaps he wanted it. In a fit of complete madness, he had saved the ingrate’s life and then, in a fit of stupidity, he had somehow allowed Vox to return the favor.

And, why had he done that? Why had he felt compelled to remain at his adversary’s side, to help him? He had no satisfying answer, for anything he came up with suggested that perhaps he was weaker than he’d previously understood, that he had grown soft, that he was sentimental.

Alastor sneered at the thought - he wouldn’t allow Vox to benefit from such a lapse in judgment again. A deal would ensure that.

And, the most important thing. They were on even ground now and the dealmaker in him knew what the mixed-race man of the 1920s did - you never turned down an opportunity that might lead you to the high ground.

Rising to his feet was uniquely difficult - Lucifer’s words were burning in the back of his skull as the old wound in his chest sent old, nervy pain throughout his body - but he wasn’t about to face negotiations on his knees, let alone shake a man’s hand.

Vox, too, rose to his feet, and with no small effort. Alastor doubted it was a play for honor, but rather a refusal to allow an enemy to tower over him. It was a wise decision, even if Alastor would have enjoyed the view.

The hissing in Alastor’s ears increased in pitch as he drew closer and he could feel the appendages twitching at the vague pain of it. There wasn’t much he could do about it. He could try to hold them forward but it would be extremely uncomfortable and wouldn’t last. Not for the first time, Alastor cursed Hell for the animalistic characteristics of his form.

They met in the middle of the street and Alastor rolled his eyes when Vox’s screen flashed.

FIVE FEET YOU JUMPY FUCK.

He supposed his attack upon exiting the current had been a little ... uncalled for.

When Alastor was within the requisite five feet of Vox, the other Overlord straightened his back with a wince - and oh, how wonderful, he’s in such pain! - and then gave him a dubious once over, eyes tracing over his battered form.

YOU LOOK

LIKE SHIT.

Alastor felt his eye twitch in immediate annoyance because was Vox unaware that he currently resembled roadkill, or a sad looking, outdated, useless television someone had left on a curb?

“Pot meet kettle, old chum.” Alastor said dryly, mind only for the deal.

Vox sneered at him, rolled his eyes - the left rather pixelated - and began scrolling text.

GIVEN CIRCUMSTANCES — WOULD BE MUTUALLY BEN–EFICIAL TO —- ENTER FORMAL TRUCE DEAL.

Alastor fought the urge to squint, to close his right eye - it was all moving at an unreasonable pace and without his monocle it looked slightly doubled, was difficult to track. The white and black brightness of it made his eyes hurt.

“Yes, yes, let us get on with it.”

PPROPOSED PPURPOSE, MUTUAL PROTECTION PACT BETWEEN PARTIES

OV

OVERLORDS VOX & ALASTOR.

Alastor nodded, assumed Vox could see him.

TERMS

TERMS: MUTUAL DEFENSE AGG–AINST ATTACKS — OR THRREATS —-- FROM OTHER PARTIES

Alastor did squint this time. The text splintered as it traveled underneath the crack in his screen an the spelling mistakes were distracting, glitching things.

“And sharing information regarding potential threats and strategies that could impact survival of other party -” Alastor added, slipping easily into the parlay of deal making.

For a moment his head felt clear, the rush of a deal to be made lending him a second wind.

CLA

Vox glitched, face appearing for a moment, and even Alastor had to admit that it looked like an unpleasant experience

CLAU

CLAUSES?

“Self preservation -” Alastor replied immediately, took a long breath before continuing; he was doing himself no favours standing at such stubborn attention, his back a hard line in spite of his body's desire to fold in half, “parties acknowledge prioritisation of self preservation and well-being in event of equal endangerment.”

AGREED.

There was a pause, as though Vox were thinking.

PARTIES —----- CANNOT HARM EACHOTHER.

Alastor sighed, unimpressed. Was he still so sore about their pathetic scrapping?

Vox’s face returned and he levelled Alastor with an irritated stare; he’d taken his silence as hesitation, or, perhaps, unwillingness.

“Oh, I suppose.” Alastor said as though he were appeasing a small, stupid child. “Good faith?”

He couldn’t really hear his own voice, it was but a rumble and a vague familiarity, as though he were broadcasting inwards, but he hoped it had come off as condescending as possible.

Vox’s mouth moved and Alastor could read it clear as day, an unimpressed really? When Alastor just continued to grace him with a pleasant smile, Vox rolled his eyes, winced as the crack distorted his eye.

BOTH PARTIES AAAACT IN GOOD FAITH, COMMUNICATE OPENLY, HON —-- ESTLY.

Alastor had always loved good faith clauses - they were delightful exercises in semantics.

TERM

TERM

TERM

Vox glitched again, this time the screen showing bands of colors.

Vox lifted a hand to his own head seemed to be making an attempt to soothe whatever had gone wrong. Vox’s face appeared and his expression was that of genuine discomfort as it flickered between his chosen visage and the white of the text screen.

TERM

TERMIN

Alastor reached forward, intruded upon the five-foot rule and flicked Vox’s screen. The weak electromagnetic shock interrupted his glitching and put a stop to the tedious repetition.

Vox’s face reappeared looking incredibly put out.

“Enough of that, you middling teleprompter.”

Vox made a face that landed vaguely around frustration and disbelief.

TEN FEET.

Alastor didn’t bother.

"This text business is rather tiresome." He complained.

THEN —-- HOW WILL THIS W---ORK, GENIUS?

CHARADES?

Alastor did not believe in showing one’s hands prematurely, but he had to admit that this would be a lot easier if he could hear Vox. He had been able to hear him to some extent when they’d been fighting in the streets like rats.

He believed it to be a consequence of being similarly designed, as it were. They both existed on the electromagnetic spectrum and though they inhabited different wavelengths, there was ample crossover.

It was exceedingly likely that Vox would be able to find a wavelength that allowed him to bypass his biological hearing and transmit more directly to whatever within him acted as a transceiver. It wouldn’t be perfect or particularly loud, but it would be something.

It would also be all he would be able to hear and it was for that reason that he’d allowed this tedious form of communication to persist for so long. The entire concept gave him pause.

Vox would hold a massive advantage over him if we were to cotton on to the implication of such a privilege. Until his hearing returned to him, Vox would be a stand-in. If the trumpets sounded, Alastor would not hear it … but Vox would, and it would be in his hands to relay the information or not.

He supposed the deal would account for it, even if it left him feeling unsettled.

“There is a potential … workaround.”

NOW YOU TELL ME?

“I assume you are aware that we operate on similar frequencies?” His throat tasted like blood; he grimaced against the taste.

Vox looked offended, mouth moving to form an irritated of fucking course I am aware, or something like that, Alastor wasn’t too invested in being precise and his head hurt.

“Splendid. Well, if you were to alter your output to a different frequency, something a little higher, perhaps? I do believe this pesky little problem would have its solution.”

He saw Vox mouth pesky little problem, his face unimpressed.

The ‘conversation’ felt far too pedestrian for the atmosphere - a burning electric pole, a burning city, a wound burning him from the inside out - but such was Hell.

Vox swayed a bit, opened his mouth and then closed it, glanced to his left, gaze lingering for a moment. Alastor’s right ear twitched violently - whatever it was that had grabbed Vox’s attention must have been loud. He didn’t look, kept his eyes on Vox, but it set him on edge, made him feel as vulnerable as he likely was, and that wouldn’t do.

Vox’s mouth moved as he crossed his arms, winced when he accidentally jostled the injured one. His screen seemed to desaturate a bit and Alastor noticed the way his exposed skin seemed to glisten with sweat.

“You doing alright there, old pal?” Alastor blinked lazily as he played the advantage of being the man less likely to faint at the moment. Vox glared at him, didn’t respond.

Alastor sharpened his grin, felt a throbbing pain between his eyes as the motion pulled.

The show of confidence was ruined by the renewed bleeding of his nose. Everything smelled and tasted like his own blood and collapsing into the void seemed an immensely pleasant alternative to whatever this was.

Vox watched him bleed, and Alastor watched him fight a faint and in a moment that Alastor would later deny, they seemed to come to the silent understanding that they needed each other and that their collective paranoia and distrust of each other would have to be retired for the time being.

That this deal needed to commence sooner than later and that this was to be the first test of their intentions.

Vox shook his head and he seemed to be muttering to himself. Alastor cocked his head in a show of strained patience and paid for it when the world tilted a bit.

STANDBY.

Vox’s screen alerted him before reverting back to the familiar display of his face.

Alastor watched as Vox seemed to do … nothing, and he could only assume that he was either having his equivalent of a stroke, or working through the programming required to modulate his frequency.

FInally, Vox opened his mouth, was talking again. The hissing continued but his ears twitched as something scratched against his sensitive, ruined ear drums.

Vox seemed to repeat the same phrase; more hissing.

“Are you quite sure -” you know what you’re doing was what Alastor intended to say but was interrupted by the painfully distorted sound of Vox’s voice.

“CANYOUHEARTHISASSHOLE?”

Alastor flinched, ears pinning despite the fact that it hadn’t really been biological input. It still managed to feel like someone was screaming at the top of their lungs through a broken megaphone, right into his ruined ears.

Vox flinched in return and Alastor assumed his own screeching feedback had been equally cacophonous.

Alastor’s vision whited out for a moment and his head split with an invasive, strange pain - if this was the best the other Overlord could do, he would much prefer to be forced to read Vox’s stuttering, migraine-inducing text.

He blinked against the fading spots in his vision and found Vox staring at him - he was closer, now, violating his own stupid five foot rule.

His mouth moved again and this time his voice was soft, bearable.

“this bet-ter?” It felt like he was listening to a conversation taking place on the other side of a wall, but it was audible.

Alastor swallowed, lifted his smile from the tight line it had settled into.

“It will do.” He said through grit teeth. “The deal. I believe you were about to propose terms of termination?”

His energy was waning and the process had begun to grow tired and dull. His body was thrumming with the physical effort of standing, and with every passing second he became aware of how compromised their position was.

Vox seemed to share the sentiment because he blinked tiredly, didn’t complain about his lack of gratitude, lifted a hand to prod the still weeping wound in his screen.

“right - te-ms of term-tion,” Vox said, his words cutting in and out like a station that couldn’t quite be captured; it was odd to only hear his voice amongst the hiss static in his head, “automatic upon the cessa-ion of the cur-rent ang-lic threat and all asso-iated thr–eats.”

“A bit vague.” Alastor hummed, fought the urge to cough against the sensation; were he a crass man he would have been tempted to spit the taste of his own blood from his mouth, probably onto Vox's fine shoes. “Upon the cessation of the current angelic threat, associated threats, or until agreed upon by both parties.”

“agreed.”

Vox held out his good arm, shifted on his feet arm as a shudder ran through him. Alastor’s chest twinged with an electric pain as he prepared to muster the magic required.

It might have been enjoyable had they been in top form. Alastor had forgotten that Vox was a … decent dealmaker, that when they really got going the whole affair felt a bit like a dance. Had things been different, there may have been wit and subtle manipulations, bloodshed even.

It was a tragic waste, Alastor thought, that this return to form should be so tainted by the pathetic state of their mutual vulnerability.

It didn’t matter.

Needs must, as they say.

He would scratch and scramble his way to high ground if he had to, even if it meant making a humiliating, mutually beneficial deal, tying himself to Vox temporarily.

Perhaps it was the fatigue or the beginnings of a relapsed Holy Infection, but Alastor, in a turn of genuine consideration, thought I suppose there could be worse demons.

Alastor reached out his own hand and with a flash of competing colors - lurid blues and greens and their intermingling yellows - their palms met and the deal was made.

Last of their energy expended, both demons found themselves collapsing forward. Alastor felt his breath leave him with an unflattering oof as his body fell against Vox’s own. He didn’t have the will to feel disturbed or even particularly bothered by it. The deal had formed a connection between them, a long, elastic string that made them feel only slightly less other, slightly more tolerable.

They fell together in an uncontrolled motion, bodies both supporting and tripping over one another. They landed in a graceless heap of exhausted, battered limbs and Alastor vaguely wondered when this parade of indignities would end.

For a moment they just lay there, panting.

It took a moment for Alastor to realize that one of Vox’s arms was laid over his chest. Alastor felt a growl of irritation build in his chest before it died with a whimper. Instead of ripping the limb off, which would have been wonderfully true to his character, he plucked it off his body, gripping the hem of Vox's sleeve with two claws and tossing it back towards its owner.

Vox returned the favor, pushing one of his legs away.

Alastor closed his eyes for a moment, unable to fight the leaden quality of his eyelids and was startled back into opening them when lightning-like bursts of light flashed in the sky around them.

An acid-rain storm - just their luck.

Chapter Text

“Hello, all you beautiful Souls, I’m Sunny Silverlinings!”

“And I’m Cotton Candee, and it’s another beautiful, perfect day in Heaven!”

“It sure is, and its only getting better because Heaven’s Guard is practicing their aerials this week! Have you caught any of the action yet, Candee?”

“Oh, yes. They sure are glorious, Sunny! They work so hard to ensure our safety here in the Kingdom in Heaven!”

“They sure do. They’re also hosting an ice cream social at Sermon Park today. Be sure to stop by!”

Charlie was trying very hard to be the leader she imagined herself to be. She wanted, more than anything - well, perhaps not more than anything, she knew what she wanted more than anything - to be kind and just, to listen and to understand.

She had read as much literature on the topic as possible, had sourced a lot of the material from Earth because, well, Hell sure had a lot on how to rule with the fist of fascism, capitalism, draconianism, but little to say on participatory democracy and things like good will leadership.

She had listened to the songs of Earth and Hell; had tried to pull apart the lyrics that called for equity and forgiveness, passion and love. Hell wasn’t replete of those, but it took a keen ear and patience. Regardless of what one might think there were imps that sang of love, and hellhounds that sang of forgiveness, and sinners that waxed passionately.

She had observed those she admired, that ruled their domains with a soft hand. She took mental notes on the soft, patient speech of Prince Stolas, and the fair and perceptive politics of Asmodeus, the wild empathy of Aunt Bee. She remembered and disregarded the cruelty of Leviathan, the mindless greed of Mammon, the mean apathy of Paimon.

She had both tried to honor and tried to deny her heritage.

She had done all that, had worked on herself, had tried to take it all to heart, had tried to practice what she valued and preached, and still - still found herself floundering.

“ - we’ve got a fucking problem.”

Lute burst into the conference room - the one that they had been promised was secure and would be devoid of interruption - looking as mad as she had the day of the battle, and Charlie felt her heart stutter.

The new Commander of the Exorcists was covered in the red blood of some poor sinner, the golden blood of her own body, and that oily, greasy blood of the machine that replaced her arm.

Lute’s second rushed to her side, hands worrying over the gaping wound.

Charlie thought about forgiveness in the same space that she wished Lute gone. She thought about Sir Pentious and dozens of dead cannibals and how Alastor had almost died in agony and found that she had no idea what to do with her anger.

Beside her, Vaggie stood, hands slamming down on the table.

“What the Hell is she doing here?” Her wings came free and the lines of her body stiffened; she looked ready for battle and Charlie was awed, overwhelmed. One of Vaggie’s fine wings curled around her back, their angelic energy a surprisingly cool balm.

“She’s the Commander of the Exorcists now, cunt, and can do whatever she wants!”

“Th-this is a private meeting.” Charlie said as she raised a hesitant finger, her voice lost to the din of Lute’s anger. It was a useless thing to say, given that Lute’s SIC was already present and given the interjection assumed Lute respected things as pitiful as boundaries.

“Aww, did I interrupt your private meeting? Grow the fuck up -”

Lute turned towards her second, waved her off, and informal dismissal; the SIC’s mask remained unchanged as she left the room.

“Hey, we’re trying to actually solve issues, not beat them into submission.” Vaggie snarled, her wings spreading in a wide arc as she became more incensed.

“Heh - right! Why don’t you, uh, take a seat because you’re, um, bleeding - “ Charlie was trying. She tried to keep her voice professional and light, to assume some control in face of this whirling, violent chaos. Responding in kind rarely worked, she knew that, but that didn’t make it any easier to reign in the anger beginning to burn in her chest.

The last thing she wanted to do was sit across from this horrid woman and attempt meaningful discourse, but she felt as though it was all slipping through her fingers.

“Ugh, does anyone buy this pollyanna act?” Lute rolled her eyes. She punctuated her disgust with a flick of her fingers, blood splattering across the table and onto the pages of Charlie’s open notebook.

Charlie stared down at the mix of red and gold.

“Sera.” Charlie heard her father warn in a low, severe tone; she glanced at him, found that he was still sitting as he’d been before, posture casual but expression humorless and impatient.

The pressure in the room seemed to increase, filled with unspent power.

“I demand civility, Lute.” Sera said with a flare of her eyes, her voice incredibly harsh. It was a shocking change from the honey-laced tone she’d been commanding moments before and it made Charlie’s stomach churn.

It didn’t sound like a demand.

It sounded like a warning, the guarding of some great and terrible secret.

Red and gold.

“Civility!?” Lute shrieked as her own wings flared into a wide, predatory arc. “Civility is for the divine, the ordained. Not for scum and blasphemers, for abominations.”

Charlie felt her heart grow cold and tired, outraged at the angel’s hypocrisy.

“Not for those soul dealing fucks that blew my fucking arm off -”

Her claws dug into the table as she, too, rose, standing shoulder to shoulder with Vaggie. The warm press of her girlfriend was a soothing weight as her own personal outrage tried to grow into something unseemly.

Charlie had realized it from the moment she’d so violently entered the chambers, that there had been another Extermination but her body only just began to fill with a deep and terrible dread as she considered her recently acquired knowledge.

The Overlords had convened that morning and no regular Sinner could have dealt that amount of damage to an Exorcist - not without help, not without training.

She looked from Lute to Sera, sick with it.

“You - you attacked the Overlords?” Charlie felt breathless because oh, they’d been distracting her, them.

This meeting had been scheduled just so, tucked into just the right moment within their very, very busy schedules. Sera had emphasized that more than once - how busy Heaven was these days.

It had been equal parts an attempt to pull them into a new deal and the quiet, uninterrupted beginnings of a campaign.

“No, I did this to myself.” Lute said in the same moment that Sera said:

“It was meant to be reconnaissance. We needed more information.”

Sera had the good sense to look disapproving but it fell short in face of the implications.

“Ha! That’s rich.” Her father interjected with absolute loathing; it was clear that he agreed with her assessment. Charlie felt used, felt as though she would never be able to wash that slimy, treacherous feeling from her skin.

“The blood is really selling ‘reconnaissance’.” Vaggie ground between clenched teeth.

“Oh, are we squeamish now, traitor?”

“Stop, this isn’t -” Charlie put her hands out, between the two and found Lute lurching backwards

“They’ve killed more of our sisters and here you are, fucking Hell’s royalty.” Lute said, her rage a palpable, spitting thing. She all but screeched as she leaned across the table and Charlie felt herself drawn forward, heart racing in her chest.

“Hey, hey, whoah …” Her father warned as he too abandoned his seat. “Sera, control Major Pain, over here …”

“Say that again, hija de puta.”

Vaggie was all but vibrating next to her, a terminal ball of rage.

“Oh, gladly. While you’re bedding the Princess of Hell, Sinners are slaughtering us, feasting on the corpses of God’s chosen ones -”

No one had to die and that’s what hurt, what made all of this so damn painful.

“Our people aren’t just going to lay down and die anymore. This bloodshed can end if you just - ” Charlie felt her breath stutter as her voice cracked with anguish.

Lute slammed a fist down on the table with an enraged growl.

“The bloodshed won’t ever end, not until I have every one of their filthy fucking heads on a spike - ” Lute was all but screaming as she gestured wildly, splattered more of that mixed blood across the conference room table.

She pointed a finger into Charlie’s face, expression murderous, crazed, “- and I’ll start with that tacky, red, murderous fucking smiling creep from your hotel, you stupid bi - ”

“ENOUGH.” Lucifer’s voice reverberated through the room as he called upon his well of power. His form did not change - that wouldn’t do in Heaven, and would be more risk than reward, but still, it was an intimidating thing.

Lights flickered and the room took on a sulfurous odor as brimstone collected like dust on the pristine surfaces, the dark flecks all but radiating demonic energy. The atmosphere was crushing in its intensity and though there were no visible flames, one could still feel the like of Hellfire on their skin.

It had the desired effect.

Lute, though still murderous and vengeful, shook with involuntary tremors. A natural reaction caused by such proximity to the demonic. Her feathers fluffed as though understanding a predator - the predator - was near and she panted against the crushing pressure of his power.

She sneered, glared at the King of Hell before dropping her gaze.

Charlie felt Vaggie stutter beside her, her own breath caught in her chest as her wings held themself painfully stiff. She reached over to grab her hand, gave it a squeeze; no matter how used to Hell and the demonic Vaggie was, she was still Heaven-borne.

Charlie knew her father would be falling over himself with guilt later, that he’d be apologizing well into the next week.

Charlie pulled Vaggie to her seat, joined her and tried to collect herself. She forced herself to fold her hands and place them on the table as the urge to run her fingers through her hair in an anxious tizzy overtook her.

Sera looked unperturbed but Charlie could see the way her mouth formed a tight line, the stiffness in her regal pose.

“Yes, that is quite enough.”

Lucifer cleared his throat and straightened his cuffs before resuming his seat.

“Any further displays of disrespect towards my daughter and I will raze this building to the ground and take the rest of Heaven with it.” Her father meant it, Charlie knew, and it hurt. It hurt to admit that she felt proud and loved and, briefly, wanted it.

Briefly, because that would mean an easy war between Heaven and Hell, and Charlie couldn’t bear it being started over something so mundane as Lute’s disrespect for her.

Sera sighed, spread her arms out as if to clear the air. Charlie watched as she closed her eyes for a moment, was disturbed, impressed to find such incredible confidence in her gaze when she opened them again.

She looked down at her notebook again; red and gold.

“No razing will be necessary. As Commander, Lute will share her concerns with the room, and she will do it calmly.”

Charlie recognized the tone; it was the same she had used when she’d attempted to reign in Adam at their disaster of an assembly.

“Please.” Charlie offered; an olive branch of sorts. The kind of leader she wanted to be would mean it. She meant it. Didn’t she?

“We want to understand.” She added, and that she knew she meant.

Lute sneered at her and Charlie wasn’t sure she’d ever seen anyone look at her with so much hatred before.

‘What we feared is coming to pass.” Lute’s expression twisted again and she looked distorted with her forced impotence. “They’re collaborating, working together in their efforts against Heaven.”

“This again.” Vaggie groaned. “Do you really expect Sinners to just -”

Vaggie scoffed but was cut off.

“Not Sinners. Overlords.” Lute looked up at the still present images, pointed at two of the Overlords in question. “Those two fuckers, specifically.”

Charlie traced the line of her arm, furrowed her brow. Alastor and Vox. Her stomach flip-flopped with no small amount of anxiety. She was trying very hard to not show her growing concern, the dread that was settling at the continued references to Alastor.

There were a couple dozen Overlords these days, and dozens more of hopefuls - those that were trying to build their empire of souls before bigger fish came and swallowed them up - but she’d been hoping that he would have returned to the hotel at the first sign of danger.

But no, Alastor had been caught up in Lute’s ‘reconnaissance’.

“They killed four Exorcists and leveled an entire city block.”

Alastor had fought Lute.

Her mind was racing. Why? Why would he do that? He’d only just begun recovering, really recovering from the wound incurred by Adam. He’d hardly been able to walk a mere two weeks prior. They still hadn’t been able to fix his microphone because Alastor hadn’t yet regained the requisite power to do so. Lucifer had given the thing a once over before hastily returning it to its owner, had looked apologetic when he’d said nope, there’s waaaay too much of his soul attached to that thing for me to mess around.

Charlie knew, logically, that Alastor was alive, that he at the very least survived his encounter with Lute. She wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t. She wouldn’t be wounded if he hadn’t.

That’s what she told herself as she bruised her own hands, her fingers digging into skin, knuckles blanching. She hazarded a look at her father. It was a moment of weakness, a childish thing because, for the moment, she was scared.

When it came to her friends, fear was easy. It rose with only the slightest provocation and gripped her so tightly, escape felt impossible.

Her father gave her a light, awkward smile that didn’t at all reach his eyes, fully aware of how out of place the gesture would be. It seemed impulsive and immediate, not at all what a King should do, but it soothed some of the pain - she just couldn’t stop hurting her friends.

“What do you think would happen if every Overlord and their army of sinners decided they wanted to wage war? You’re naive if you think it would end with Heaven -”

“That’s not what is happening -” Charlie protested because Lute had it wrong. Heaven had it wrong. The idea of it was ridiculous.

She wanted to say something about how Alastor and Vox were known rivals, how she was assessing this incorrectly, but she refused to give them additional information if she didn’t know what they would do with it.

And, Overlords amassing their power to overthrow Heaven? To what end? Overlords historically avoided all things involving Heaven and had always been more effective at killing each other, despite the occasional alliances.

They’d never organized, had never collaborated against Heaven until …

Charlie felt the sick stone of guilt finally settle in her chest and briefly wondered if betrayal of their people was hereditary. She’d be lying if she said the contents of her father’s agreement with Heaven hadn’t been painful to read. She hadn’t quite been ready to face the apathy of its contents - the written proof of her father’s complete lack of kindness towards his own people.

It made her wonder if she was guilty of the same - being unkind. Unkind in her dogged, blind pursuit of justice. Unkind in her well-meaning inattention, her disregard.

For a moment she felt outside of herself, too aware of all those in the room and why they were present. Aware of those hunkered in the rooms of her massive hotel and her wayward Overlord.

Lute scoffed and Charlie realized that she’d been watching her, looking for breaks.

“Give me a fucking break. Why amass power, collect souls? Think Princess.”

“This is ridiculous.” Charlie heard her father mutter. She knew that, had this been his meeting, he would have walked out ages ago.

And then disappeared for a couple decades.

“You don’t understand anything about Hell.” Charlie’s voice was firm as her gaze narrowed, because Lute was so wrong.

“I understand enough to know that power hungry psychos love a throne.”

In a surprising move, Lute didn’t look to Charlie, nor to her father, nor Vaggie when she delivered her final point.

Rather, she looked to Sera.

“And Hell’s has been vacant for a long time.”

While her father rolled his eyes and Vaggie groaned over the dramatics of it all, Charlie forced a deep breath.

It was this. This was the narrative they were selling to all of Heaven, and what a narrative it was becoming.

Adam murdered by a psychotic, contracted Sinner. Another Sinner ascending, redeemed and glory be! but what of the hundred of thousands upon hundreds of thousands of souls doomed to writhe in the depths of Hell for all eternity with no chance of redemption due to soul contracts? Owned and angry and now in the millions, they decide to take Heaven for themselves and when Heaven is razed they turn towards what is left.

Heaven had found itself an easy enemy, an easy excuse, and it wasn’t the royal family.

For a moment the room sat still and then came limp applause.

“Great performance, Flute, really, but get on the same page, maybe?” Lucifer gave Lute his best condescending smile, turned it towards his real target.

“C’mon, Sera. Is it that you want more Sinners to have a chance at redemption, or that we should be worried about the impending threat of Sinners - and HA! I’d like to see them try - overthrowing the thrones of Heaven and Hell?”

“Why not both?”

“Because it’s ridiculous.”

“It is already in motion.”

“What, because two Overlords fought back? I know that one and trust me, don’t read into it. Pretty sure he’s an equal opportunity killer. You’re not special.”

“You’re missing the point, Lucifer.”

“I don’t think I am, Sera.”

Charlie shook her head against the noise of their back and forth, felt her claws cut into the skin of hands.

“You said you wanted our help.” Charlie raised her voice, cutting through what had devolved into squabbling and mincing words.

Sera and her father ceased, turned towards her with tense bodies and ready words. They were looking less and less composed with each passing second and Charlie knew - she knew it would be like this forever.

She wanted to hear Sera’s proposal - what did she believe would break the cycle, that would shatter the wheel that had begun turning millenia ago?

“You said you wanted to support the hotel.”

Sera nodded, head dipping gracefully.

“I do.”

“Then what do you want? What will it take?” Charlie raised her chin, straightened the line of her back, and meant it. It wasn’t a thing made of pretend - wasn’t a reflection of the leaders she’d seen and by whom she’d been awed.

It was her. It was the person inside her that wanted to stop hurting her friends and who wanted all the hurting to stop and who wanted to see her father relieved of his guilt and those harsh lines of stress and self-annihilatory indifference.

For a moment Sera looked as though she were about to launch another long-winded lecture. The lift of her shoulders spoke of a thing haughty, and the way her eyes fell half-lidded suggested pride affronted.

But then, as though tired and drained, she blinked, let her head fall to something that looked open and vulnerable, that was stabling her immense power for a brief moment of equity.

“We want you to assist in the capture or … extermination of Hell’s Overlords thereby restoring balance to the social hierarchies of Hell and reducing Hellacious threats to Heaven -”

The room stilled in the face of the finally revealed point.

“- and in return we will end the yearly Exterminations and fully support the activities of your hotel and any future redemption projects.”

Charlie’s ears may have well been ringing for the silence that followed. It made the sick splat of the sound of blood hitting the table all the more loud, Lute shifting, a cruel grin lifting her features.

The Princess of Hell stared at the bloody blot as her stomach soured, her chest tightening, a painful vice.

Red and gold.

Vox often forgot that the Pride Ring hadn’t always been developed. It was hard to imagine a time in which it was wild and completely untamed, free of infrastructure and boasting wildlife and a native species, of all things.

He’d arrived during an era in which Pentagram City was already standing and had taken on a lot of the qualities of the boroughs of New York City. With the exception of Cannibal Town, which was forever locked in the aesthetic of the American frontier thanks to their illustrious leader, he’d felt right at home upon his arrival, had never really given a thought to what it might have looked like decades earlier, let alone centuries.

He suspected it might be something like this: hunched under the wreckage of a ruined bus shelter, wet with the acidic sting of atmospheric humidity, and feeling absolutely fucking miserable.

Hell could definitely be more hellacious than he’d previously experienced, and damn, if he weren’t glad he was a technology demon and not some old-timey fucker.

Speaking of old-timey fuckers.

Vox pulled at the collar of his suit, undid the bowtie - it suddenly felt like a vice around his neck, the humidity was un-fucking-real - as he side-eyed his current companion.

Alastor was sitting next to him, ears pinned back in a manner that made him look like a miserable, wet cat. The other demon had positioned himself so that he was far enough from Vox that they weren’t touching, but close enough that he wasn’t exposed to the acidic downpour.

Despite the positioning of his ears, he looked remarkably calm, bored. Alastor was staring ahead and didn’t seem particularly bothered by the heat even though the humidity had all but plastered his hair to his skin. The tips were curling with the heat and damp, and Vox cursed the bastard’s inability to be captured by digital means.

It would have been excellent blackmail, or, at the very least, a great Sinstagram post for Velvette’s smear account. He could see it now, the picture of a wet, bedraggled Alastor and the caption Just LIke Us! Miserable, Weak and Pathetic - also, does the Radio Demon straighten his hair?

A ringlet of hair had curled along the other demon’s cheekbone, softened his features, and Vox couldn’t stop staring.

Huh, cute, just fucking adorable, Vox thought before internally punching himself in his own stupid face.

There was nothing cute or even remotely charming about the psychotic freak that had tried to scratch his face off, had gored him - and that still fucking hurt - and had then brushed himself off and parlayed through a deal like he was an actual, proper adult.

Alastor blinked slowly, smile a slight thing, and if Vox didn’t know any better, he’d say he looked tired, which duh, Vox was exhausted and it wasn’t as though either of them were about to take a nice little fucking nap. As if he could relax in this heat - he would happily cut his own limbs off to be in his lovely, air-conditioned penthouse - and deal or no deal, he wasn’t about willingly shut-down in Alastor’s presence.

Vox pulled at his collar again, reached up to undo the top buttons but was stopped by the terrible ache in his injured arm.

It wasn’t healing.

At all.

“Stop fidgeting like a child.” Alastor complained as he tried to shift further away but failed. There wasn’t enough room to move away. Still, Vox fully expected that Alastor would eventually chance it with the rain, would willingly burn his stupid face off to escape close quarters.

“Fuck you.” He said at a frequency higher than necessary and HA, that’s right, bitch he thought when Alastor winced and sneered in his general direction.

He’d be lying if he said being the only thing Alastor could effectively hear didn’t thrill him a bit. He was an Overlord and the power dynamics of it were absolutely off the charts, but that hadn’t been why he had decided to make such an adjustment, to help Alastor out.

Beside the fact that talking to a wall and being ignored for however long sounded immensely frustrating and difficult, the vulnerability of their situation was disturbing. Neither of them seemed to be healing at the expected rate - they were just as bloody, battered, and bruised as they had been in the moments after the battle - and neither of them had sufficient information to understand what had changed to make the Exorcists so dogged in their attempts to kill them.

If Vox could do something to improve his odds, he would, and modulating his frequency was an easy accommodation. It was miles better than trying to feed text to his monitor - that had been an exercise in extreme frustration.

Never let it be said he wasn’t HDA Accessible or whatever.

(If Vox had actually ever bothered to read anything about Hell’s Disability Act, he would know it had one tenant, that being a cheery ‘Pick yourself up by your bootstraps, asshole!’)

Besides, the deal had soothed some of the rougher edges of their relationship. In making it, he’d known it was a likely side-effect, that deals of mutual protection tended to cool tempers and reorganize priorities; that they forced a certain level of civility.

Logically, Vox knew that he should take advantage of Alastor’s current handicap, that he had the Radio Demon in a vulnerable position, but the desire just wasn’t there.

Alastor would have known this as well, had still entered into the agreement willingly, had likely trusted the deal to muffle their shared propensity for violence, manipulation and backstabbing.

Yep, it was all the deal that had them sitting sedate and silent.

Or, perhaps, it was just the, you know, injuries and exhaustion and life-threatening weather.

Thunder clapped above them and the rain advanced towards being a veritable deluge. The ground was steaming and Vox thought about just tearing his shirt and jacket off but the shirt was still salvageable and he wasn’t some kind of plebian beast.

Alastor, the prick, just sat there, seemed to be watching the tendrils of steam rising from the street.

“How aren’t you boiling alive?” Vox asked because hey misery loves fucking company and he wanted to complain about it and make Alastor miserable, too. He desperately needed the distraction, he could feel his inner mechanical workings whirring.

Alastor didn’t say anything in return and for a moment Vox thought that maybe he hadn’t used the right frequency, but nope, he had, the jerk was just ignoring him.

“Typical. You always were a rude asshole.” He said at a lower frequency because fuck everything he just internally patted himself on the back for. That lame, meandering annoyance returned, and he again remembered how easily Alastor got under his skin and wasn’t that sad - all it took was a bit of the old, tired cold shoulder.

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.” He said for good measure and the catharsis of it.

Alastor didn’t react, of course. He just sat there, ears twitching as he coughed quietly into his elbow.

Vox switched tactics. He wanted to commiserate dammit, wanted a reaction, and if poking the deer with a stick would yield results he was going to find something pointy and annoying.

Vox remodulated his frequency, added a bit of sass in the form of a mild univibe - it would make things just slightly annoying to listen to.

“Is it because you’re a Southern boy?” Vox teased, feeling a little delirious and maybe suicidal. It was something he might have said decades ago, a call back to verbal spats and teasing of the past.

Vox would say something that Alastor would call putridly capitalistic or suggest that a lifetime spent in New York had made him uncommonly vapid and uniquely disconnected from reality, and Vox would call Alastor something charming like a backwater bayou beau and suggest the topics were beyond him thanks to his simple Southern upbringing.

Alastor gave him a look that suggested he was immensely unimpressed, rolled his eyes as he perked up a bit.

“Not at all! Some of us just don’t feel the need to say every simple, useless thing that comes to mind.” His voice lilted as it always did when he was trying to be demeaning. Scratch that. There was no trying here.

His filter dropped a couple of times, reducing the impact of how bitchy he was being.

“So, you are boiling alive.” Vox questioned, stated, glad over the idea of Alastor being equally as miserable. Alastor was, of course, quick to disappoint him.

“No.”

Vox was about to call him a liar or say something equally as lame when he caught Alastor’s side-eye, a vaguely mischievous thing.

“I’m not some wilting Yankee.”

Vox couldn’t help the genuine grin that graced his screen. Alastor was referring to something that had happened a long, long time ago. He’d been freshly dead and deeply drunk and wouldn’t shut the absolute fuck up about baseball of all things.

It had devolved into a murderous bar fight because Vox had managed to find a Red Sox fan in Hell, which, yeah, made sense because if there was a hell on Earth it was Boston. Alastor hadn’t helped, at all, but he’d enjoyed the show from the bar, sipping rye and cackling - pure American entertainment he had called it.

Vox imagined Alastor felt very proud of himself right now, delighting in the double meaning. He was weird like that, loved wordplay and puns and old-people humor.

“Calm down.” Vox said as Alastor’s grin sharpened; he wouldn’t let the fucker have the last word. The demon was obsessed with it, always managing to snatch it from his mouth. “You’re not that clever. And you look like a wet cat.”

Alastor hummed, managing to sound deeply uninterested.

“And you look like something plucked from a landfill.”

Vox relinquished the last word. He was too hot to finish what he’d started.

Another wave of heat seemed to hit him in their newly developed silence and Vox wanted to scream, the image of being a wilting Yankee be damned.

He made another desperate attempt at undoing the impossibly tiny buttons. His left arm seized, he could hardly close his hand, and the right burned, the small nick of a cut across his palm throbbing despite its size.

He felt sick, trapped in his own skin.

Vox reared back a bit when his own hands were knocked away from his task, Alastor getting into his space as though he hadn’t just been trying to take an acid bath in order to avoid his presence.

“Say anything lewd and I’ll rip your throat out.” Alastor said with a look of warning. His tone didn’t quite meet the threat but Vox held his tongue because Alastor was touching him, willingly and without acting like the mere act was going to give him an infectious disease.

Alastor pulled the bowtie free and Vox nearly shivered in relief as he felt it slide from around his neck, a noose removed. Had it been Val he would absolutely have said something lewd because fuck, it felt as good as sex.

He lifted his head a bit, leaned back to give Alastor better access to those tiny buttons. Vox focused on the two fluffy ears right in front of his face, perked forward in concentration as their owner undid the top three buttons.

Vox could feel a blush forming and worked very hard to not let it show, his screen glitching for the effort. Alastor didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps he didn’t care, for as soon as he entered his personal space he was out of it.

“There. That should help you cease your complaining.” He said as he dropped the bowtie in his lap, resumed his miserable little stoop, ears resuming their tired drooping.

He could say so much right now, something like let me return the favor, or, wow, who knew you could be so gentle, or, please, please, please keep going, but he wasn’t much for ruining this fragile little peace.

“Thanks.” He muttered, instead, as he basked in the freeing sensation that came from being released from the imprisonment of one’s own fashion choices.

“Don’t mention it. Ever.”

He wouldn’t, mostly because Velvette would never let him hear the end of it, what’s it like being so horny all the time, do you want to kill him or fuck him, make up your bloody mind, she’d exclaim with a tinge of disgust, and Val would want notes for his next big hit, was he tender, amorcito, he’d ask, was it the slowest unbuttoning of your life?

Yes, it was.

And, nope, he’d keep this for himself.

A wild wind moved in and the rain buffeted against their pitiful shelter but seemed to be weakening.

Vox nearly flinched when Alastor shifted next to him, coughed wetly. It was with no small amount of horror that he realized he’d been edging on standby mode; he’d been dozing. If Alastor had noticed, he didn’t show it. He had probably been basking in the silence his inattention had afforded them.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle. How much time had he lost?

He felt sweat slide down his back, a chill taking hold.

“We should devise a plan.” Alastor said as he looked up at the sky, seemed to understand that their ‘reprieve’ was coming to an end and that they should use what was left to prepare.

“Hmm, yeah, I think you know more about this than I do.” Vox said, recalling the Exorcist who had all but singled Alastor out for the kill. “That Exorcist seemed very interested in killing you. Specifically. Though I’m sure that’s most people you know.”

Alastor dismissed him with a vague wave of his hand.

“A pathetic bid for revenge, I’m sure.” He said casually because, well, it was casual in Hell. Revenge was a dish offered on every menu, served at any temperature, and priced at bottom dollar.

It was so common it was boring.

“Right. Your creepy little bug woman killed Adam.” Vox watched as the rain turned into a drizzle, frowned as the humidity decidedly didn’t release its hold. “Hmm.” Alastor hummed, squinted.

Vox waited for him to elaborate but was left wanting. Alastor seemed to be thinking with no intent on sharing, and Vox just barely picked up on the chaotic sound of a radio channel surfing.

Vox had forgotten he did that.

“We need to get somewhere safe.” Vox said lamely to move the conversation along. His head still ached with startling ferocity and he could already feel a series of glitches coming - the minute they got moving again he’d be spending all his spare energy rerouting subroutines, bolstering failsafes, and interrupting false commands.

“Astute observation.” The Radio Demon returned with an equally lame tone; his hand briefly touched at his left thigh and Vox saw it come away tacky with blood. Alastor looked down at his bloodied claws, stared blankly as he clicked two together, blood stringing between them.

“Thanks. I’ve yet to hear any contributions from you that weren't thoughtful humming, so.” Vox said as he watched, half expecting the other demon to lick his fingers.

He didn’t. Alastor let his hand fall back into his lap, let out a tired huff.

“Can you access the current in this condition?” Alastor asked, gaze seeming to linger on the crack across his screen. It didn’t escape Vox’s notice that it likely implied that he couldn’t travel via the shadows, with or without him.

“No.” Vox said, nice and simple, because no.

Well, it was slightly more complicated than that, likely bordered on a maybe but even if he could muster the energy he’d likely eject them at the wrong point. The last thing they needed was to jump from the frying pan and directly into some equally shitty fire.

Alastor didn’t look particularly put out by his answer, had likely expected it. He could feel the other demon looking him up and down again, assessing what he was capable of.

Vox returned the attention, made a show of his own appraisal, his eyes dragging over the tattered plains of Alastor’s form.

They were both silent for a moment, both coming to the understanding that whatever the plan, they’d be walking.

Vox mourned his Farragamos for the third time that day.

“The Hotel is our wisest option. It is markedly closer than our other … options.”

“Vee Tower has more resources.”

“And is in the middle of Pentagram City. The Hotel has the highground, it’s protected.”

“By who? A pornstar and a-a bug, and that ditzy, idiot of a princess -”

“Careful, Vox.” Alastor cut him off with a tone that was surprisingly defensive, and wasn’t that interesting? Vox had been of the mind that the Hotel was one massive ploy, a long-con of sorts, one that rode on the wings of a deep manipulation.

Alastor had sounded like he actually cared about his opinion of the precious little Princess of Hell, and if not his opinion, her honor. The part of him that collected data, the kind that was to be used and leveraged, stowed it away for later.

Alastor continued.

“And don’t tell me you’ve forgotten, I know you were watching. Lucifer now resides at the Hotel.”

Vox blinked. He hadn’t really known that part, that the King of Hell now lived in the same building as Alastor. “Tell me, what does that child and that slimy moth have to offer?”

Vox scoffed because sure compared to the King of Hell, the remaining two-thirds of the Vees had little to offer. It was a ridiculous question and he wasn’t at all bothered by the concept.

No.

Not at all.

“So, your plan is to run home to Daddy Lucifer?” He said, tone flat, as he glanced up at the sky. The rain was a mere drizzle now and the thought of pulling his beaten carcass to its feet sounded like some kind of torture.

Two hours ago, Alastor might have ripped his throat out for a comment like that. Current Alastor sharpened his grin and wrinkled his still broken nose; with the sky lightening some, he could see the other Overlord was developing racoon eyes.

It should have been satisfying, to notice that neither of them seemed to be on the mend, but given the circumstances it was extremely concerning.

Alastor huffed a sarcastic, humorous chuckle and great.

“Is that jealousy I detect?” Alastor asked and Vox sputtered, nearly choked. He couldn’t fight the glitch that whited out his screen this time.

Alastor was full of references to the past today, wasn’t he? Vox knew he had no one but himself to blame. He was the one who had created this atmosphere of some twisted, pathetic form of reckoning, a nostalgia he had never been able to overwrite.

And, also, holy fuck, no - absolutely fucking not. Alastor and Lucifer? He’d eat his own fucking hands if that ever happened. Alastor was fucking with him and Vox was tired.

“No. It’s pity, you narcissist.” Vox sneered. Dick. “Count me out.”

“Goodness, looking to terminate our deal so quickly, Vox?” Alastor said as he lazily held out a hand; a single drop hit his palm and sizzled. “Does the little King truly frighten you so?”

Vox gave his own choked laugh, which turned into a maddening moment of glitching, head aching.

“Ha! As if. And, pfft, you fucking wish.” Did the King of Hell frighten him? Yes. Of course, yes, because he wasn’t a fucking moron and any demon worth their salt knew a threat when they saw one.

Was he going to admit that to Alastor? No.

The rain had stopped.

They could finally get up.

Neither of them did.

Alastor sighed.

“What do you suggest then, Vox?” Alastor said in a clipped tone that sounded more exhausted than annoyed and Vox was hit by a frustrating moment of clarity.

Alastor was trying. He was trying to work with him, trying to honor the boundaries of their deal. The Hotel probably was their best option. He’d been being contrary for the hell of it, it seemed, because traipsing to Vee Tower in this state did seem a bit lacking in sense, given the skyline was nothing but fire and smoke, and was a good deal farther.

It was easy to forget that when Alastor wasn’t being a manipulative sociopath, he was a fairly practical man.

Practical. It was the kind of thing that saw the other Overlord walking everywhere, that had him erring on the side of all things old fashioned. It was what had caused him to stagnate as he continued to devote all his time towards singular ventures.

It was what made him lean into the space of a supposed enemy, helping unbutton a shirt because the positive results of the action outweighed the negative.

Vox considered their options.

“I propose an amendment.” He said adopting a more professional tone. He didn’t need to mention that it was related to the deal. They both lived and breathed deals. Of course it was about the deal.

He was rewarded by the clear line of interest in Alastor’s frame, the way his ears finally pitched forward at attention.

Alastor stared, waiting, and Vox felt that familiar thrill run through him; he loved a captive audience and it looked particularly good on him. “Go on.” He urged, head tilting in that way that made him look way too approachable.

“Allies to either party cannot be utilized or encouraged as aggressors with intent to harm, maim, or kill.”

Alastor squinted at him as he considered the wording, and fuck if he didn’t see right through him. Alastor had always been annoyingly perceptive.

“Lucifer Morningstar is not my ally. You are mistaken if you believe I can encourage him into action or prevent him from doing anything.”

Vox … didn’t like that. It would be foolish of him to expect that Alastor’s presence alone could prevent the King from attacking him, obliterating him, if he so wished. It wasn’t unreasonable to assume that it could be a possibility - he had attempted to infiltrate the Hotel in those nascent weeks, had spied on the Hotel and cheered for its destruction.

Worse, Valentino had made a pass on the Princess and what Valentino did reflected directly on the rest of them. Val had told him about the Princess’ visit and the property damage that had resulted, and he had not failed to regale Vox with the details of how he had dared to taste the length of her arm. How she had cringed.

Vox had laughed because he was a bad fucking guy and anything that made royalty uncomfortable was inherently good in his opinion and it wasn’t as though he’d ever imagined himself in a position in which Lucifer fucking Morningstar and him might share the same fucking room.

Hotel.

Whatever.

“Charlotte Morningstar on the other hand,” Alastor started and wasn’t that a humble-brag, to be able to admit acquaintance with two-thirds of Hell’s Royal Family, “her opinion of you is quite low, old pal, but the poor dear is quite taken with me. ”

Alastor’s smile turned smug but there was something genuine there.

“Yeah, well, bully for you.” Vox wasn’t impressed. The Princess seemed like she could be charmed by a rock.

Vox pulled at his shirt, hot and miserable.

He wasn’t going to give Alastor the satisfaction of pleading or anything so gauche. The fucker would accept or he wouldn’t and they would move on from there. He imagined there was a 50/50 chance they ended up scrapping in the street again in the next ten minutes.

Alastor made a disappointed sound.

“You’re no fun.” Alastor pouted before brushing at his shoulders. “Agreed.” Alastor said in regards to the proposition. They needn’t shake on it - as long as both parties agreed, it became part of the ties that bound it together.

“Great. Fantastic.” Vox said dryly as he himself began to gather his feet.

Alastor wobbled to his feet, straightened his jacket, and coughed again. He turned away, ever the gentleman, to spit a fat, red wad of clotted blood, and continued talking like it was nothing.

“And if you must know, it’s not about protection.” He said. Vox knew he was referencing the Daddy Lucifer comment. He was only slightly satisfied to learn that it had bothered him more than he’d initially shown. “It’s about information.”

Vox rolled his eyes as he made to stand, tried not to stumble and fall on his flat face when the whole thing made him dizzy. It was likely true, the hotel was in a unique position. Alastor was in a unique position.

“Uh-huh. Whatever you say.” Vox said, never one to stroke an ego. He lowered his frequency because who knew how fun making unheard jabs could be. Incredible fucking stress reliever, seriously. “I’m sure Lucifer shows you all kind of information.”

Vox blinked. Val was going to love that. There had to be a market for it.

“You’ll have to speak up.” Alastor said, aware that he’d been left out of his grumbling.

Vox looked up at him, grinned at the irritated twitching of his eye and he must’ve understood, gleamed that it had been something he wouldn’t have wanted to hear anyway, and rolled his eyes.

Vox paused to take a breather. He really was so miserably hot and his limbs were shaking, his knees were digging into the acid-hot ground and he urged himself to move as he felt Alastor loom over him.

“Come on then, old pal. On your feet.” Vox may have been imagining it, but he was certain he felt a soothing wave cross through the lines of their deal.

A clawed hand grasped his elbow, pulled him up with a surprising amount of patience. Vox felt a shock of pain run up his arm but he bit back the groan caught in his throat as he righted himself. Alastor observed him for a moment, smile thin, before stepping back.

“Five feet, was it?” Alastor mocked, knowing full well that Vox had been leaning a little heavier than was strictly becoming of an Overlord.

“Ten.” Vox warbled as his screen chose that minute to shudder over the abuse of being fully upright.

“So dramatic.” Alastor sighed, eyes watching carefully as Vox straightened his back, his ruined jacket.

The movement sent a cool breeze across his chest, his shirt still open and revealing. At some point he’d tucked his bowtie into his pocket. He thought about redoing it, about reclaiming some fucking dignity but decided against it.

The road before them stretched long and aimless, rolled over hills and was barren of any decent means of defense and fuck, Vox hated the countryside.

“Shall we?” Alastor said, giving him a final look before turning away, not bothering to wait. It was subtle but he could just make out the hitch of a limp.

Another explosion sounded in a far off place and Vox didn’t bother to scan the darkened skyline.

Instead he thought about his cushy limo and his Waterford glasses and copious amount of alcohol and tried not to scream.

Chapter Text

“ - I don’t care if it’s confirmed, think of the fucking ratings, you limp-dicked moron -

“We’re live, Katy.”

“Breaking Fucking News! I’m Katy Killjoy -”

“ - and I’m To -”

“ - and I’m here to break the biggest news of the fucking century! Grab your pitchforks you cosplay shits because if the pathetic basement dwelling mouth breathers of Spreddit are correct, and we all know they are, it’s open season on your local Overlord!”

Alastor had always enjoyed walking.

It was a good way to clear one’s mind, to chew on the meal of life’s surprises and disappointments. His mother had always told him that a good walk revealed the grist for the mill and though Alastor agreed, he suspected it was her way of rose-tinting long, necessary walks in Louisiana heat.

He never had and never would regret those heat-tinged pilgrimages of his youth for it was time spent with his mother, but he had learned to resent the easy speed of those shining, rambling Oldsmobiles and Bour-Davis’, just as he’d learned to resent the tolling bells of the Street Cars that warned him off the tracks and deeper into the middle of the neutral ground with the rest of New Orlean’s downtrodden.

He continued to be an avid walker even after he’d found gainful employ as a radio station grunt and could easily afford the fare. He found, like his mother said, that the long walks gave him the requisite time to think.

To think things like what will I do next time he comes to lay his hands on her, and knife or axe, which would be more efficient, require the least cleaning, or, would the deltaic muck of Bayou St. John readily accept offerings of flesh, and on lighter, breezier days, is the muffuletta an exercise in gluttony?

This walk was no different and no less miserable than a midday promenade in August along the levee. In fact, it might actually be marginally worse given his physical state and the strange, impossible company.

Still, it afforded Alastor time to think.

They’d been walking for a while now.

The storm had broken the humidity but had made the road noxious with steam. It made Alastor’s lungs hurt, made him cough in little jags. Vox certainly wasn’t faring any better. Sitting had given him a second wind but, after a while - some of which had been doggedly spent trying to convince Alastor that they were going the wrong way despite the fact that Vox’s GPS was not functioning - he’d begun to flag again.

From there they had exchanged some useless jabs but eventually they both fell silent, focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Vox went back to pulling at his shirt in compulsive, desperate motions, and Alastor dedicated a lot of his own energy to ignoring the blood in his throat.

To say it had been hours felt like an exaggeration but anything less seemed an underestimation; it was hard to track given the indolent nature of Hell’s evenings and nights.

The sky had darkened, but only marginally, and the rural road offered little in terms of real meaning making. If the blood cicadas were buzzing in tune with the croaks of poisonous ichor frogs, Alastor wouldn’t know. How Vox had managed to dump them so far beyond the city limits escaped him.

An unlit billboard loomed over them, was dominated by the image of a Wrathian Pack Horse and promised No Horsin’ Around! Quick, Easy, Sexy Assassinations Topside. Call Us Today!

Charming.

Just as he was about to look away he caught the curious, yellow eyes of an imp; they were sitting on the rafters of the billboard and staring down at them completely unbothered. The imp was swinging their legs, bottle in hand.

These parts boasted a surprisingly large imp population, many of whom were eager to take advantage of their ability to travel between rings, acting as smugglers, mules, and, on occasion, actual bonafide transporters.

They weren’t a threat, not in the traditional sense, but Alastor wasn’t about to let his guard down. Vox seemed to agree, straightened out a bit from the somewhat pained slouch he’d adopted.

“Three o’clock. Fi-ve more.” Vox muttered.

Alastor didn’t look, didn’t need to, but it did highlight what had been preoccupying his thoughts: that, given the passage of time and lack of contact with any resources external to themselves, it was rather likely they were falling behind the news cycle. That the playing field may shift and they’d be caught unawares.

With every passing moment they were out here, out there was becoming more wisened to the day’s events.

Alastor didn’t expect some backwoods imp to have the interest let alone impetus to run to that hideous thing called the internet in order to report the presence of two bloodied Sinners walking in the proverbial moonlight along Hell’s neglected backroads, but he hadn’t survived this long by being dismissive.

In a snap decision Alastor dredged up some energy from his diminishing reserves and sent his previously dormant shades into the woods.

Vox broadcasted a tired chuckle, the only evidence that the unnecessary show of intimidation had been a success. Alastor would have loved to hear their panicked whimpering.

“I thi–ink one pissed -hemselves.” Vox added and it made up for the sluggish, dragging return of his shades and the single bead of blood that ran from his nose.

It was quickly joined by the sensation of blood running down his leg, all the way to his hoof, renewed in its weeping as his slacks pulled at the delicate, ineffective scab that was trying to form over the wound and wasn’t that troubling.

The other thing that he’d been grinding into grist: he, they, weren’t healing.

Every quarter hour or so he had strained his hearing, tried to cut through the hiss and the random, accidental feedback that sometimes spiked between himself and Vox, and still found himself extremely deafened - he couldn’t hear the crunch of the ground beneath his hooves, nor the buzzing ambience of the world around them. The bridge of his nose remained stubbornly broken and, ugh, he was quite through with all the sniffling.

It was only experience that had him forming a theory, one that could likely ascend to proven fact given the evidence.

Alastor hadn’t been in top form to begin with, but it had all become rather dire when that wretch of an angel managed a lucky strike, angelic blade plunging into his thigh as yanked her away from his person with a mighty pull of dark tentacles.

His retaliation and her firm grip had her yanking the knife free with a terrible squelch and, drawn by the sound, his gaze caught the sickly yellow sheen of the blade. The steel was naturally poisonous to demon-kind and given he’d only just begun to recover from his previous holy-injury, the exposure induced a near immediate response.

The line of the scar that ran across his torso burned and though it was nowhere near as painful as it had been when it had been fresh and bleeding, it seemed the tissue’s cellular memory was too strong, too traumatized. Electric shocks of pain had dug deep, had reignited the terrible, wet pleurisy of the original wound and left him coughing blood.

Given what Lucifer had said, warned, this was an expected side-effect of being stabbed, again, with a holy weapon, of straining himself. Do anything stupid, Lucifer had said as he’d turned his hand over to look at his own claws, and a strong wind would blow you over.

The complete inhibition of all healing, however, was not. Even on his near second-deathbed his body had resolved the dark bruising along his spine, an unfortunate consequence of slamming into a wall.

Alastor had seen enough angelic steel, had had enough of it pointed right at his face to know the metal didn’t boast a yellow sheen. He couldn’t begin to guess at the component’s precise composition, but he was rather convinced it was the culprit - that whether it be an anticoagulant or some specifically engineered poison, it was the reason he was still bleeding from his nose and that his deafness was abnormally persistent.

He imagined that he had at least three or so days before he drowned in his own blood, but he had been overachieving as of late.

They continued their slow trek, reached another dark and gloomy patch of road but this one at least boasted the high ground. From here they could see the valley that spilled into the edges of the city, the highway that ringed it. It was shockingly bereft of activity, only an errant headlight here and there.

Alastor cast his gaze toward where Vee Tower should be but found the angle bad, found that the entertainment district was still shrouded in darkness and smoke. Alastor glanced at Vox, hoping to glean information from his reaction, but he was left disappointed; his expression was flat and exhausted and useless.

Alastor looked eastward. His smile turned towards the territory of a grimace when the movement gave him a brief spell of the spins.

The hotel would be in sight with the next incline. It would still be a slog, would still demand they put in some distance and approach from behind the building, but with a little care and discretion, they would be able to make it to the inside of his radio tower without delay or interruption.

Beside him Vox seemed like he was wilting and Alastor felt compelled to offer:

“Two hours.” He said lowly, turning away from the view of the ruined city. Alastor knew the bolstering power of a time-frame and, for now, he was content to provide it.

His rousing two-word peptalk didn’t seem to have legs, however, for after a mere fifteen minutes, Vox stumbled and sent an errant whine of feedback directly into his skull.

He flinched. Who knew having noise broadcasted directly into one’s head could be so migraineous?

It was with some dismay that he found his pity was outweighing his general contempt - it was the likely culprit of his next action: moving to support the other Overlord before he face planted. He did so wordlessly because anything else felt like too much effort. He wasn’t feeling particularly sparring and he had to admit that they were working quite … adequately together.

‘Mmph.” Vox groaned with muffled misery. Alastor held him at the elbow, minding the swelling that extended up his forearm; the heat of his body was alarming, to say the least. He grit his teeth as Vox sank a little lower; it would hardly do for him to collapse.

“Faint and I’m leaving you here.” He warned in a threat he knew to be completely empty. Not only would the deal make it difficult, would send nerve-sensitive twinges of warning along their connection, it would be regretful to lose his only current conversational partner.

His own arm was beginning to shake at the effort of holding him upright and with an internal twist of dismay he submitted and allowed Vox to lean into him.

Alastor huffed a wheezy breath, tasted blood. He grimaced over the way his ears pinned painfully tight against his head, and tried to think as Vox started to go leaden on him. He had two theories regarding Vox, why he’d seemingly taken so readily to fever (and that was the only word Alastor had for it, the strange sweat-inducing heat).

The prevailing thought was that Vox had incurred an angelic injury - and his hand, the one that shook and bled without provocation was the likely culprit - and the combination of whatever component had been slathered on the offending weapon and his body’s unfamiliarity with the rot incurred by angelic steal was causing this overreaction.

The other thought was born more of his own ignorance: that perhaps Vox’s biomechanical makeup was uniquely strained and unable to adapt to the dual onslaught. Alastor couldn’t know which was more accurate, but he figured it didn’t truly matter, at least not now when there wasn’t anything they could do about it.

The deal - a persistent, scratchy thing - pulled at the eaves of his mind, encouraging him to share this information.

Vox’s form shuttered and Alastor pulled again, edges of his vision spotting.

“Jus’ gi’me a second.” Vox transmitted and Alastor couldn’t be sure whether it was the nature of their strange solution, a patch-job of frequencies, or because Vox was actually slurring.

Take your time, he almost said in a horrifying streak of kindness, but didn’t.

As he watched, waited, he was struck with memories of late nights in Pentagram City, hauling Vox around like the drunkard he was - he was a complete lightweight and Alastor had always been left with the demonic wreckage of a man that didn’t know or respect his limits.

This wasn’t all that different and perhaps that was why it was fine.

Vox seemed to rally, pulled away as he gained his footing but Alastor stopped him, gripping his elbow to arrest his movement. Vox looked at him under hooded eyes, suspicious yet waiting.

“Your hand. If you don’t mind.” Alastor requested, his own reaching out, palm up in a disarming request.

“Why? F-feeling peckish?” Vox huffed, seemed to. It was hard to tell, exactly.

It was a testament to how dire their circumstances, how miserable they were that Vox still offered his hand, the sarcastic jab falling flat and tired.

Alsator hummed as he regarded the swollen, festering mess. It was familiar, of course - Alastor would never forget what it meant to truly writhe in agony and burn with such sickness - but it was rather advanced in stage given the time that had elapsed. It was certainly the source of his unusual, ravaging fever.

“Bitch almost cut my head off.” Vox offered in the space of their silence, and Alastor wondered if Vox had ever felt the bite of angelic steel. If he had, he would know this fast festering was odd, especially for an Overlord and a cut so meager; it was just the length of his palm.

“So you caught the blade?” Alastor asked, tone half teasing and half mocking. He supposed he deserved what he got back, the flat, unimpressed reply:

“Yeah. Jus’ like y-ou did with your le-eg.” Vox hadn’t witnessed the blow as he had been laid out in the street like refuse, but Alastor supposed that one did get lucky on occasion with their guessing.

“It’s infected.” Alastor said as he pushed near the edge of the wound, watched as gold-tinted fluid drained from within; Vox hissed, ripped his hand away, began walking again.

‘Really?” Vox spat with a healthy amount of sarcasm. “Thank -ou, Dr. Radio Demon.”

Alastor huffed something equal parts exhausted and irritated and followed. He didn’t want to call what they were doing shuffling, but it was close. Alastor narrowed his eyes at Vox’s tired form, thought deal be damned before the threads pulsed again, demanding.

“Given your propensity for hiding in your garish Tower -” Alastor started with some bite, the urge to verbally maim an overwhelming compulsion.

“Ok, fuck off -” Vox rolled his eyes, waved him off with a swollen gesture. It wasn’t as effective given the dead pixels around the tear in his screen and the sweat beading down his neck and chest.

“ - I assume this is your first holy injury?”

“Hey, not all of us have had the pleasure of having our asses beat by Adam.” Vox must have really found it offensive, must have felt terribly slighted for he had really put some punch behind it.

He came across loud and clear, voice distorting over the first man’s name leaving a ringing in Alastor’s skull. He flinched but didn’t rise to the bait. Exhaustion clung too tightly for him to do more than rely on wit, word, and a healthy backing of arrogance.

The effort left Vox panting which was thankfully not broadcast; he could only tell for the heaving of his chest.

“Hmm, I hardly consider surviving an encounter with the First Man to be a point of shame.” He lied through his aching teeth as he fought the urge to pat uselessly at the noisy, aching scar on his chest.

Vox stumbled a bit again and Alastor halted, certain he was about to have to save the petulant picturebox from a swoon. It was more than mildly irritating that he no longer found Vox’s predicament entertaining, and what a fool, he’d tied his own well-being directly to him. It felt rather like a deal’s version of the golden rule.

Vox recovered and they were moving again, albeit at a pitiful pace.

Vox seemed to be mulling over his response - his face was doing some fascinating things.

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t go bragging -bout yo-ur slop-py firsts.” He said, finally. His tone suggested something on the spectrum of regret, but Alastor had been wrong before.

“Oh please,” He said mindlessly, too mindlessly because he followed up with, “that wasn’t even - what’s that horrible expression? - my first rodeo.”

Vox made a face, reared back a bit as though surprised, stopped in his tracks.

“Really?” He asked flatly, eyes boring into him. “When?”

Fuck.

If he were one to cast blame for his own mindlessness, he would have pinned it on blood loss and building fluid in his lungs, but, alas, he was a mostly honest man and he knew it had been something worse. He’d been lulled into something unguarded and easy by nostalgia.

Perhaps it was the deal, but falling in step with Vox had been easy. Their barbs were sharper and their words more laden with criticism and resentment, but the foundational items were there.

It made it easy to remember that their falling out had indeed been a disappointing affair, had … hurt.

Refusing to think more on that, Alastor continued, passing Vox without a seeming care in Hell. He wished he could hear the way he was likely scrambling to resume his trudging, the only evidence movement in his peripheral.

Alastor knew Vox had long kept up with his whereabouts and that, despite a likely unwillingness to admit it, was curious - read: desperately obsessed - about his seven year absence and the decades that preceded it (volatile, painful, surprising).

Vox wasn’t a moron. If Alastor were feeling generous, honest, he would even say he was rather clever. He hadn’t built an empire from pure luck. Under all that bravado and showmanship, he was a brilliant man, if blinded and made stupid only by his own self-importance.

Point was, he had already connected the dots.

Alastor hadn’t meant to allude to the unfortunate event that had acted as catalyst to the worst decision of his non-life, but he wasn’t about to backtrack, pinwheeling like some thoughtless, mewling fool.

“Alastor.” Vox‘s voice was soft and terribly cloying, seemed to stick to the inside of his skull like honey. It was likely a small, demonic miracle that saw Vox tripping over himself again with a startled fuck, bringing back into focus what Alastor had been trying to say.

Alastor felt the edges of his smile twitch traitorously; the twisting pull of that ugly thing called concern. Vox really did look quite poorly, bent at the waist, hands on his knees

“If you’d let me make my point.”

“Fine.” Vox heaved and Alastor watched his antennae bounce with the movement. “But we’re put-ting a pin in tha’ asshole.”

We shall see, he thought, didn’t say as he stifled a cough. He’d been on the urge of a distasteful coughing fit for the last kilometer or so and knew it was an inevitability.

“I suspect the angelic blades we encountered were … laced … coated with a … poison of sorts.”

Vox merely stared, unspoken questions burning in the space between them. He didn’t appear as though he didn’t believe him, but he didn’t look perfectly convinced. Alastor wasn’t about to share his own horrific experience, so he focused on the evidence before him.

“The progression of your wound is abnormally fast -”

“Said from experience?” Vox pushed, brow turning down and Alastor pivoted.

“ - why, I estimate you’ll be dead by tomorrow evening at this rate.”

Vox scowled, shook his head as he righted himself once again. He opened his mouth and then quickly shut it. Alastor knew that look, was familiar with the hesitation that came with trying to weigh the risk of information given freely.

“My syste- should fi’ter any toxins.” Vox explained and it sounded a bit like a complaint.

“Even those of an angelic nature?” Alastor questioned in genuine, tilted his head as he thought. All feelings of animosity had seemingly drained from him for the time being and there was a cruelty in it; could decades of hurt just wash away in the tides of the familiar and the easy?

Their current troubleshooting was a mere shadow of their former collaboration, but it was a shadow nonetheless.

Vox’s silence suggested that he didn’t know, and why would he? There weren’t many opportunities to experiment with Heaven’s biological weaponry.

“It’s overco-ompensating.”

“What’s that now?”

“My sy- - - is ov — ensating.” Alastor wrinkled his nose at how terribly the quality of Vox’s broadcasting had become; he imagined he had likely tried to exert efforts elsewhere, that he couldn’t both modulate his frequency and troubleshoot in this condition. His screen glitched for a moment before he added, “liike an allerg-ic reaction.”

“Ah.” Alastor said because he had nothing else - wit had died on his lips.

Vox’s screen suffered through a series of glitches and when his visage was present, his gaze was slant downwards. Alastor assumed he was working through whatever jumble of codes and algorithms that made him tick.

More glitching and Alastor took a moment to scan their surroundings. The woody surrounds seemed serene but as … incapacitated as he was, he could only rely on sight. He considered sending his shades out for a perimeter check, a little reconnaissance, but the mere idea sent a chill threw him as the magic required pull at his core; a built in failsafe.

It seemed his shadowy accomplices would only be making an appearance in the more dire of crises. Vox’s current distraction, despite his being the ears of the operation, did not seem to qualify.

Vox’s mouth moved - fuck, it had been, Alastor was rather sure, he had been watching quite closely - just as a an arc of electricity travelled between his antennae.

“Could you perhaps -” Alastor paused, was not confident regarding the vocabulary, “alter the parameters?”

Vox looked up at him, lips pulling into a tired grin.

“Bingo Bam–bi, that’s wh-aat I’m —--” trying to do, Alastor squinted, guessed. He got the impression that he was supposed to feel chuffed, as though he’d aced his exams.

Vox must have not realized that he’d lost control of the modulation, for he continued: “ - kn-ew — we-en’t —- — -etty -a-ce.”

Alastor blinked, decided not to bother.

“Well, do hurry up.” Alastor glanced again at their surroundings, eyes carefully searching for threats; he rather felt like they were being watched, “I am not certain I have the requisite motivation to carry you the rest of the way.”

Vox rolled his eyes.

“Aww, -ou’d c—-y me?” He did his equivalent of wincing as another arc shot between his uneven spits of metal.

“I misspoke. I’d drag you by your antennae.”

Alastor coughed lowly as he stood sentry, hackles raising. He wasn’t exempt from the realities of his animalistic anatomy - he was, much to his chagrin and loathing, designed in the image of an animal of prey and the longer they stood there wallowing in their waning power, exposed, the more that pesky cervid brain complained.

Vox’s voice came in and out as he grumbled to himself, but Alastor paid it no mind. He trusted him to sort it out because the alternative was truly unacceptable if he expected to survive, let alone make it to the hotel. Ignoring the other demon for the moment, he focused on their environment.

His ears were straining, perked forward in desperate attention, eager to capture some semblance of sound. There was nothing, absolutely nothing and Alastor felt warm fury crawling up his throat. He had had quite enough of this hideous vulnerability, was sickened by his own impotence - that past few weeks had been nothing but a demeaning parade of indignities and he had sunk so low as to perpetuate them.

It was bad enough that he’d found himself in the middle of another flash Extermination, but it was nigh unforgivable that he’d responded by clinging to Vox like some hapless story-book maiden, that he was leaning into their alliance.

That, despite its nascence, he found it … satisfying.

The chords of their deal thrummed.

“Got it.” Vox announced, voice coming across startlingly clear. He groaned, looked peaky as he blinked.

“Splendid! Now you can carry your own dead weight.” Alastor had intended for it to cut, to express the vitriol coursing through him like venom, but it fell flat, sounded benign and droll.

Vox huffed, seemed amused. He hunched over a bit, hands on his hips as he caught his breath, waited for whatever he’d done to himself to calibrate. Alastor saw no great difference, though he believed his screen had resaturated to some extent. He still cut a miserable form.

“Says the roadkill.” Vox gave him a pointed side eye, and then to Alastor’s horror frowned, appeared as though he was really looking. He likely hadn’t noticed the extent of how poorly they’d both been doing, given that his own hardware had been trying to bake his CPU to a crisp.

‘I mean it. You look like roadkill. Are you -”

Alastor was about to cut him off, had something caustic and biting at the tip of his tongue, was dizzy with frustration and fatigue and was ready to spend everything to unleash it, when Vox suddenly straightened.

“Company.” He said, eyes tracking something over his shoulder just before he seemingly went mute, mouth moving without sound.

Angel Dust was bored.

He didn’t know how much longer he could binge-watch old episodes of I Married a Millionaire (and Killed Him!), I Fucked Your Murderer, and Housewives from Hell: Lust Ring. They were the only shows someone had recorded on their ancient DVR and given the theme, he assumed they were courtesy of Niffty. He had tucked in with Housewives, having never seen the Lust Ring run, and resigned himself to becoming one with the sofa. He’d started all respectable like, sat up all proper and whatever but had begun to slowly melt into the cushions around hour four.

The day had been a wash, literally; the acid rain storm had wiped, melted away the prospect of any outdoor activities (not that Angel was much for outdoor recreation that didn’t involved standing on a corner) and have effectively imprisoned them inside.

He opened Sinstagram for what had to be the thousandth time, dragged his finger up the screen in hopes it would refresh, and was left disappointed. Their wifi was spotty at best - and thanks for that Alastor, the demon was a walking signal jammer - but the blackout had pitched them back to the dark ages.

Angel hadn’t been able to refresh his feed since that morning. A massive blackout had hit just after Charlie and Vaggie had left for their big important meeting, and they’d been running off generator power ever since.

If he had to see that post about how amazing and sinful and depraved the End of the Fucking World Exorcist Themed Drag Show Rave had been, he was going to lose it. It hovered stubbornly at the top of his feed as he continued to try to push for a refresh.

He let his hand fall limp, phone clattering onto the floor.

He was dying here.

He was also drooling.

“You think Mientra knows Insidia is fuckin’ her brother and her son?” He asked from the sofa, face smooshed into the cushions.

He couldn’t really see the TV anymore, but who cared.

The table in front of him was littered with empty glasses, the wreckage of bad decisions and distractions generously provided by Husk. He had stacked them into an impressive pyramid, playing cards slotted in for stability, and had all but punted Niffty away from his mess claiming it to be a recreational activity and not clutter.

He was gonna get up any minute now and clean it up; Charlie was due back and he was not in the mood for a reprimand from her or Miss Angry Face Shouty Voice.

“I don’t care.” Husk responded from behind the bar, hands worrying a rag over a glass. He could hear the squeak squeak squeak and Angel was beginning to assume it was a compulsion at this point.

Angel Dust heaved his body up, head angling back over the sofa to look at Husk.

“Why you cleanin’ them glasses? They’re already clean.”

Husk put the glass away, made eye contact as he started working on another.

“That stuff’s rotting your brain.”

Angel rolled his eyes. He didn’t know how Husk managed to sound so old when it was he who was the technical elder here, if death dates were anything to go by.

“Ugh, you sound like Smiles.” He complained.

Husk made a sound of complete disgust and Angel Dust smiled, loved how good he looked when he was all pissy and offended; comparing him to Alastor tended to get him there fairly quickly.

He watched him work a beat longer, the scene in front of him far more interesting than anything playing out on their outdated piece of shit television - and that was the only good thing about Vee Tower because some things (his performances) were meant for screens the size of fucking buildings.

“You could help.”

“Help how? Polishin’ polished glass ain’t part of my skill set.”

Angel Dust grinned, waited for the lead.

Husk leveled him with a flat stare.

“Oh c’mon, you’re supposed to ask me about my very special skill set!”

“I ain’t stupid.”

“But you are handsome.”

It was hard to tell with Husk, to see when he was blushing, but Angel Dust could always see the signs. A soft dilation of his pupils, the flare of his whiskers. He smiled, was content to lay stretched over the back of the sofa, long body perfectly suited to lounging in spine breaking, catastrophic positions.

Though Angel Dusts didn’t delight in anyone’s forced labor, he would admit that he liked watching Husk work. He suspected he would enjoy watching Husk do anything really and, for the nth time, he counted himself lucky that the other man was part of this insane venture, strong-armed into it or not.

Husk made this quiet boredom nice - more than that, he distracted him from the anxiety of it.

Becuase, not that he was complaining - really, he wasn’t - but Val had been concerningly silent. His phone hadn’t rung once, despite the fact that he’ missed three shifts and hey, that wasn’t even his fault - his hellhound chauffeur had never showed. He had nary a text from Val nor the seedy little director, not even the assistant he ripped to shreds on a monthly basis.

The blackouts and surprise exterminations had done a number on productivity but the Vees weren’t usually so cowed. Val had had him working the minute after Extermination in the past, had sent lackeys to drag him in by the wrist when he was indisposed, fucked to an inch of his life by some random John or drugged up to all eight of his eyeballs.

Angel Dust felt his chest tighten -

“And of course Insidia knows. She ain’t stupid.”

- and the blinked, hadn’t realized that he’d been dissociating a little.

Angel Dust gasped, thoughts of Val dissolving as Husk watched him from under the concerned line of his fluffy brow.

“I knew you was watching from your little kingdom over there.”

Husk muttered something in a low growl, but it escaped the sinner draped out the sofa. Angel Dust leaned on his second set of arms, chest puffed out; he beckoned with his first set, tried for casual but was likely bordering on desperate.

“C’mon pussy cat,” Husk’s nose wrinkled at the literal pet name but Angel Dust continued right on, “take a load off. The next episode is about to start and I’m gettin’ lonely over here.”

Husk narrowed his eyes, didn’t look like it was going to be a ‘no’.

“I’m busy.” Husk said half-heartedly; he didn’t sound at all convincing let alone busy. This was highlighted by the way he set the glass aside, leaned across the corner as if to say convince me.

Angel Dust smiled; he was wearing him down.

“Pfft. If you’re worried about Lady in Red, don’t. He’s at that fancy Overlord meetin’ -”

“You think I don’t know that?” Husk interrupted, uselessly.

“ - and if Val’s rant last week was anythin’ to go by, Vox is gonna be there -”

“Ugh.” Husk dragged a hand across his face and Angel understood, he really did, because when it came to their respective bosses, nothing made them cuntier than the absoute drama that revolved around Vox.

“ - which means they’re probably either fightin’ and destroying half of downtown right now -”

“ - or, and this is the side I’m on, fuckin’ in a closet somewhere.”

“That’s definitely not what’s happening.”

“Let me dream, Husky.”

“If I come over there, will you shut up about Alastor and Vox?”

“Yep. Definitely, Of course. Alastor and Vox, who?”

Husk trekked across the room, managed to make it look like it took actual effort. He stopped just short of the sofa when the lights above them flickered and the booming sound of the power returning filled the air. The absurd amount of speakers whined for a moment before going silent again.

“Oh, thank Satan.” He said despite the ringing in his ears.

The sound of his phone pinging madly with Sinstagram and Twatter alerts was an absolute symphony. He plucked it from the floor, widened his eyes at the sheer amount that had come through.

Husk collapsed into the sofa, snagged the remote from the crevices of the cushions, and switched over to cable. Angel vaguely registered that he’d turned on the news, the old bastard, as he scrolled.

“Whooah.” He muttered in a slow drag as his mind tried to catch up with the maddening onslaught of news, opinion, rumor, and speculation. A lot had happened while they’d been locked up and idle, apparently.

“There was another Extermination.” Angel Dust said as he thumbed the feed into a furious scroll, caught snatches of text that alluded to major events without actually naming them, things like holy shit, did anyone see that?, and the block down from me was destroyed, and yeah, it was them, they showed footage on the news.

“We just had one …” He muttered more to himself than to Husk, echoing the thoughts of many of the posts on his feed.

“Ah, fuck.” Husk drew out the ‘f’ and landed so sharply on the ‘k’ Angel Dust nearly snapped his neck looking up from his phone. He was leaning forward, spine straight with attention, remote clenched in one tense hand.

“What?” Angel asked needlessly as he turned his attention to the TV.

“Ah, fuck!” He repeated because, fuck.

Though the quality of the footage was especially terrible on their crap TV, it was impossible to mistake the glitching mess of red and black as it, he went head-to-head with the unmistakable form of an Exorcist.

The footage changed to a handcam, the operator clearly some poor Sinner that had got caught up in the mess. An arc of electricity momentarily blinded the view and revealed, of all demons, Vox; he was a blur but the crack in his screen was obvious. The scene changed again, another handcam, and it was Alastor again, shown in a rare moment of exactness and clarity, black tentacle pulling an Exorcist from the sky and impaling her on a piece of rebar.

Angel looked to the corner of the broadcast. It was old footage, a repeat of the morning segment. The timestamp boasted a cheerful 9:42 AM PRT - it had occurred hours ago, not long after their morning meeting had convened.

The scrolling text asked MEDIA DEMON ALLIANCE? followed by SURVIVAL, SEXUAL OR SOMETHING ELSE: GO TO TWATTER TO TAKE OUR POLL and then FLATS DESTROYED, INSURANCE AGENTS: FUCK YOU, OVERLORD RELATED DAMAGE LIKELY YOUR FAULT.

“This was hours ago.” Angel Dust stated as he turned back to look at Husk, his unsaid shouldn’t he be back? hanging in the air.

“Well, he ain’t dead. That much I know.” Husk turned his head but his eyes lingered on the screen for a moment more.

After a moment the footage was replaced with talking heads.

“What’s everyone sayin’ on that thing.” Husk asked, gaze dropping to the phone in Angel’s hand. Alerts had refilled his lock screen, coming in quicker than he could clear them.

“I mean, what doesn’t it say -” His lower set of arms waved in a gesture meant to encompass the impossibility of summarizing the absolute chaos happening across social media.

They both jumped when the shrill voice of Katy Killjoy interrupted the previously repeating broadcast.

“ - I don’t care if it’s confirmed, think of the fucking ratings, you limp-dicked moron - “

The newscaster was screaming at someone off camera and Angel Dust leaned forward.

“We’re live, Katy.”

“Breaking Fucking News! I’m Katy Killjoy -”

“ - and I’m To -”

Katy shoved Tom so violently he disappeared. Angel Dust knew enough about studios to know the man had just collided with very expensive rigging if the sounds of breaking glass and falling metal bits were anything to go by.

“ - and I’m here to break the biggest news of the fucking century! Grab your pitchforks you greasy shits because if the pathetic basement dwelling mouth breathers of Spreddit are correct, and we all know they are, it’s open season on your local Overlord!”

The screen filled with images of every Overlord in the Pride Ring, each allotted a perfect little square in the lineup. A few had massive red x’s over their image and it didn’t take a genius to figure out what it meant.

Angel Dust’s gaze flitted across the only Overlords he really knew. All three of the Vees and Alastor - whose image was actually just his name in bold print - boasted a little question mark at the corner of their image.

“We are opening our phone lines to all you filthy lowlifes and offering generous rewards to anyone who can supply information on the whereabouts of any of these overpowered soul-fuckers -”

Angel Dust glanced at Husk in the same moment that he glanced at Angel Dust. Those who sold their souls tended to think along the same lines when it came to their respective Overlords, and what they were communicating was more of a thing of anticipatory anxiety than a defined sense of … joy.

Angel Dust felt a lot like he was watching the development of a big and horrible storm building momentum on the horizon, one of which was heading his way.

“ - in the meantime, for those of you that like to gamble your miserable afterlives away - and why wouldn’t you - we’ve opened a deadpool online! Come place your bets!”

“Fuck.” Husk said, again, and Angel Dust agreed.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

“And we’re back! As always, I’m Katy Killjoy - ”

“ - and I’m filing for worker’s comp - “

“ - stay out of my fucking lane, Tom - and we are nearly frothing at the mouth with excitement over all the tips and information you unemployed losers have provided over the last few hours - “

“ - just a reminder, I don’t need or want anymore information about who is fucking my wife! ”

“ - before we reveal the current state of the deadpool, some highlights! An angry mob has gathered in front of Vee Tower but hasn’t yet broken through - keep at it, boys! Carmilla Carmine has locked herself away in her factory and has ceased all exports, to which I say, come out and face us you coward! It is rumored that Overlord Zestial is by her side - ”

“ - oh, I’d pay to see that sextape - ”

“ - only you, Tom! The radio tower in the Old Quarter was destroyed by Exorcists and is now a smoldering pile of ash - no fatalities, unfortunately! Finally, Cannibal Town is reportedly operating as usual, so go out there and change that!”

“ - no one touch Café Viande, I met my wife there - ”

“ - you’re such a simp, Tom!”

Vox had mere seconds to warn Alastor before three imps came traipsing out of the woods, their gaits lazy and far too relaxed to be approaching Overlords with such obvious malintent. They were clearly Wrath Imps if the overwhelming amount of ripped denim, bolos, and American Western footwear were anything to go by.

Each carried a weapon, all imp-sized and laughable. One carried a sawed-off shotgun that looked like it had seen better days, and another a six-shooter that looked like it had been plucked from a Roy Rogers film. The last imp - a small snit of a thing, their female-coded horns far too long for their body - was twirling a knife like it was a deranged fidget spinner.

“Company.” Vox warned, making quick eye contact with Alastor before returning his gaze to the small posse before them. Vox caught the surprised lift of Alastor’s brow, the way his ears pinned in the space between his words of warning and the other Overlord spinning around to face their interlopers.

“That’s far enough.” He called out, dropping his frequency to suit the standard range of most of Hell’s denizens. If he stayed on the frequency he’d been using with Alastor he’d be inaudible. Inwardly he cringed. Alastor wouldn’t be able to hear anything he was saying, let alone what they were saying.

Alastor would have to trust him.

The imps stopped several meters away and Vox could see the line of Alastor’s shoulders relax. He was no doubt relieved, had likely been expecting something far worse than a gaggle of gutsy imps.

Even from behind Vox could see that he’d sharpened his grin into something that somehow balanced on both threatening and bored.

“You’re them fellahs from the TV.” The largest of them said as he pointed at them with his shotgun before letting it fall back to rest on his shoulder, vest tassels moving with each movement.

“Uh -” Vox stumbled a bit, not really expecting that. It was an odd opener when approaching two Sinners that looked as though they’d been through a meat grinder. It was even stranger to refer to them as them two fellahs from TV. The rest of Hell cared very little about Overlords but really? his name was on everything.

He quickly recovered, the showman in him offering his best late night smile.

“That’s right. You’ve probably seen my late night show. Always good to meet a fan.” He said in a tone that heavily suggested that it wasn’t at all good, that they should turn around and go back into the woods like the creepy Hills Have Eyes fucks they were.

“Huh?” Six-shooter said dumbly, face scrunching in confusion. He looked like the kind of imp you’d rent for a cowboy-themed birthday party.

“We ain’t fans.” Fidget spinner said with a twist of her blade, spitting on the ground, the absolute picture of charm. She was the one they’d seen watching from the billboard, little snitch.

“They don’t know.” Tassels said with a throaty chuckle, put his claws in his mouth and whistled, loud and shrill. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Well, Vox didn’t love that. Any of it.

Alastor turned before he heard it, the snap of a twig, an excited, manic giggle, the click of hammer being pulled back. He had likely either spotted movement from his peripheral or was so on edge, his naturally high proprioception had been working overtime and clocked them before they broke the treeline and fuck the fucking countryside, he was never coming back.

So, before he heard anything, he saw Alastor snarl, nose wrinkling and ears pinning, the fine fluff lifting and sharpening.

It was strange how human he looked sometimes when other times he looked like this: animalistic, ready to strike, bite and claw.

Vox couldn’t afford to turn away from those in front of them. He would have to rely on Alastor having his literal back just as he currently had his - and given the circumstances it was an exceedingly easy choice - but he did give a backwards glance.

Several imps and Sinners, and at least one hellhound, had stepped up onto the road from both sides of their flank and not a single one of them looked like a fan. His cursory look had been too quick to take count but it seemed Alastor was reading his mind because he muttered lowly, dangerously:

“Ten.”

Vox didn’t say anything back, was concerned that if he spoke, moved his lips without making noise they would make assumptions.

That they would assume that they had the advantage, that they could talk privately and plot and plan without being heard.

That they would assume that they have the disadvantage, that the usually chatty Radio Demon was being unusually silent, content to observe with those dark patches of blood right at the base of his ears.

Vox reached out for the current, found it as weak as himself. He might have corrected his overactive biomechanical firewall, but he hadn’t any time to recover even a fraction of his power, wouldn’t if he immediately used it up.

The holy injury still throbbed, would be agonizingly slow to heal, but it was the strange toxin that was wreaking havoc - with time and luck his unique system would be able to burn through it, but he was horribly short on those.

Time and luck.

He tried once more, never one to give up after the first failure and was left wanting. Running from imps and random Sinners was - would be humiliating, but he had borne so much of that in the past twenty-four hours that it just seemed like it would be but another sad fucking drop in his sad fucking bucket.

“Whatever this is,” He started, voice level and confident. He wondered how convincing it was with the crack across his screen and grotesquely swollen forearm, hand, “I don’t recommend it.”

Vox maintained a casual posture, assumed Alastor was doing the same, but he took the barest of step backwards - a motion of ready defense rather than intimidation. He let electricity he hardly had the energy to conjure crackle in his hand, arcing between his fingers as his forearm burned with the effort.

It didn’t have the usual impact - running and screaming because being fried to a crisp was rarely worth anyone’s effort - but the three imps in front of him glanced at each other warily, an uncertainty passing between them.

Vox felt the vaguest chill at his back, knew from experience that Alastor was gathering his shadows. The iciness travelled underfoot and he glanced down to see the hardly visibly tendril of a shadow passing beneath him, stopping a meter away.

If the continued chattered was anything to go by, no one had noticed.

“What this is is an ambush.” Tassels said as he waved his hand in a gesture that looked like he was calling for a roundup. The posse around them spread themselves out, circling them, giving Vox a better idea of what they were working with.

Though it was rather obvious that this was indeed an ambush, the desire to communicate this to Alastor was a near painful compulsion. He imagined it was partly due to the demands of the deal, and partly for his own benefit.

He didn’t like idea of Alastor being kept in the dark for so long, no matter how apparent the context may be. They couldn’t plan effectively this way, couldn’t make tactical decisions. For a moment he thought about hiding behind a glitch - it would afford him a moment to communicate something to the other demon but it would draw attention to the crack across his face, the blood on his clothing.

It would make him look weak.

“And you like these odds?” Vox said, tried for bored. Added for the benefit of the ignorant, “Two Overlords versus a baker’s dozen of Hell’s rejects?”

That seemed to do something, at least one sharp ihale in the crowd suggesting that this ragtag group had been formed on the basis of smooth talking, rabble rousing and misinformation and hey, those were three of Vox’s favourite techniques.

“Who’re these cunts again?” A Sinner with a distinctly Australian accent said from somewhere off to the side and Vox supposed he really was a prideful little thing because he couldn’t fathom a Sinner not knowing who he was.

Again, his name was on everything.

“That there’s the TV Demon. I mean, look at his head. ‘S a TV, ain’t it?”

“Vox, ya moron. Like, from VoxTech. And Voxtagram. Voxflix. The Vees.”

Ok, and that was more like it.

“Oh, like Velvette.”

Ok, fuck you, he thought, blinked, tried to reign his raging ego in and he took the opportunity of their distraction to take another step back. He was close enough to Alastor to feel static rolling off his body - he could feel how unstable it was, figured that employing the shadows was demanding more than he had.

“And that one?”

“That’s the Radio Demon, innit.”

“Not very chatty for a radio-man.”

Vox looked towards Tassels and noticed that he wasn’t looking. Vox took the opportunity, modulated his frequency, tried to keep his visual movements to a minimum, did the equivalent of talking from the side of his mouth.

“It’s an ambush.” He said quickly, felt unusually relieved when Alastor bit back a “You don’t say”, through clenched teeth, voice missing his usual filter in an effort to keep the pitch low.

The peanut gallery continued with more nonsense that Vox totally wasn’t going to feel vaguely resentful about later.

“Huh. I always imagined he’d look more radio-y.”

“He a cat or summat?”

“Currents dead.” Vox said, trusting Alastor would understand the implication. He extended his range, looked for a powerline, a TV, a phone, something with enough draw to allow him - them - to escape in to without draining him dry. There was nothing but a far off phone that was pinging a local cell tower so frequently, it made him look like a casual user.

“I could try …” Alastor said and Vox could hear the grimace; it was rare that the Radio Demon was uncertain, that he was anything but confident in his powers and his skillset, but Vox knew what the trailing thought and the rapidly destabilizing static rolling off him meant.

“Last resort.” Vox said, because he’d seen Alastor get spit from his own shadow mere hours ago and didn’t like the look of it.

“Angelic weaponry?” He asked as he took stock of what was in his visual range; he didn’t see anything that look Angelic, it all looked like your usual rabble, stuff that would hurt but didn’t do lasting damage, not in the hands of your average Sinner, let alone an imp.

“No.” Alastor answered curtly.

“Me and mine use’ta listen to Midnight Scream. In fact, Lil’ Tee was conceived when we was ruttin’ to it!”

“No foolin’. Should get his auty-graph ‘fore we’s kill ‘em.”

“I ain’t fightin’ no Overlord. You said Sinners.” An imp from Alastor’s neck of the woods complained.

“Tassels.” Vox said, smelling the sweet odor of dissent. He did so love an uninformed audience.

There was some unhappy muttering and errant comment regarding a reward and well, that’s fucking promising. Vox swept his gaze over those he could see, looked for the obvious weak points (of which there were many).

“Good window. Nine o’clock.” He added.

Fidget Spinner was watching him, knife twirling and eyes narrowing.

He heard Alastor hum behind him, felt him shift a bit to gain some semblance of a view. The cold at his back increased and when he glanced down he saw the hardly there tendril of a shadow inching across the divide

Vox felt his expression fall a bit, brow furrowing as Fidget Spinner whispered something in Tassel’s ear.

“All right, now, that’s enough” Tassels addressed the posse, gun trained lazily on Vox. It would be buckshot. With a heavy internal sigh of defeat, he readied himself for the possibility that he was about to eat some lead.

So dramatic, he could all but hear Velvette, whinging over a bee sting, followed by Val moaning demurely, I’ve done worse in our bed.

Tassels continued and Vox tried to quickly figure out how to electrify the ground without hurting Alastor.

“Don’t move.” Vox warned, grounded himself and tightened his stance; every bit of him

“Take a close look, y’all. Them Exorcists whipped ‘em good - ”

Vox didn’t react, managed to keep his expression straight and in control, but internally warning bells were ringing and setting his mind alight. Someone had broadcasted the fight and it had triggered something, something big if random denizens of Hell were taking chances like this.

“ - and I reckon if they coulda done away with us all easy like, they woulda done so by now.”

Vox’s eyes tracked the tendril as it settled under Tassel’s feet, bled right into his own shadow. The imp must have felt something because he started to glance downward

Vox gave a short condescending laugh, pulled his attention back to him, that promising shotgun releveling right at chest level.

“Well, can’t help stupid. Last chance to walk away.” It didn’t feel like a bluff per se, even injured they were more powerful than any present, but it would be nice, really nice if he could walk away from this without taking buckshot to the chest or electrocuting Alastor.

Given this bunch seemed to think they were living in an American western, Vox added, “We’d even be happy to forget your faces. ”

“You givin’ us your word on that?” Tassels said without lowering the gun and Vox felt a thrill of hesitation run up his spine. Alastor must have felt it, felt the sudden change in his own electromagnetic aura, for he sensed him shift, radiostatic bouncing off him like a question.

“Yep.” Vox said with a smile, popping the ‘p’.

Tassels did a shit job at pretending to look like he was thinking about it.

“The Radio Man, too?”

Okay, Vox didn’t like that.

“Uh-huh.” He said as though this was all so very bothersome and boring.

A beat as Tassels nodded.

“Sure, but I’d prefer to hear it from him.”

The seeming collective gaze of the entire posse shifted towards Alastor and Vox could feel the prickly defensive spike of alarm and awareness radiating from the demon as he easily picked up on the atmospheric shift.

“Vox.” Alastor said low, his tone clearly conveying a certain what the fuck did you do and Vox knew they had lost the chance to do anything but fight their way through this.

“Huh. You was -” Tassels started, eyes slanting to Fidget Spinner for the barest, tiniest moment, but it was enough for Vox. It was the best they were going to do because this had gone on long enough and he’d completely lost the upperhand.

“NOW.” He all but shouted across their private frequency, and chaos erupted.

Vox had approximately one second to register the way Tassels screamed as a black tentacle emerged from his own shadow and pulled him up by the ankle, his finger pulling at the trigger in reflex - and yep, ouch, fuck fuck fuck - as he was tossed violently into the treeline.

Another tentacle grabbed at six-shooter who shot at the inky blackness before he, too, was sent flying. A tendril reached for fidget spinner but she’d been too quick to realize, was skirting away with speed only afforded to the young and the digitigrade.

The pain in Vox’s side - not his chest thank fuck - made it easy to discharge the electricity he’d been building for just this occasion but it also made it hard to direct it. It was with some regret and worry - lots of worry - that he let it fly, a bit too wild to avoid Alastor completely.

He heard Alastor’s grunt of complaint, felt a pissy thrill of static - sorry, so fucking sorry, don’t gore me later - but it otherwise had the desired effect, sent the posse running as they yelped, some regrouping and some dropping their weapons as they acted like conductors for the atmospheric electricity.

Without Tassels running the show, the posse attacked with frightening sloppiness. It was a good thing for them, mostly, but it made for some aggressively bizarre tactics.

One of the imps threw their already emptied pistol at him and he blocked it with his bad forearm - it was shockingly stupid how much it hurt and incredibly embarrassing that this little Hellborne had managed to elicit a groan from his clenched teeth.

“Cheap shot, you fuck.” He growled at the imp, sent a burst of electricity towards them. They shuddered as it made contact, smoked a bit on the ground, but still popped back up despite their burnt right side.

The concrete under their feet spit upwards every couple of shots, and thank fuck, they were terrible marksman. This really was an ambush - Tassels must have rounded this bunch up from the local spittoon, promised them a cut of the gold or whatever.

A Sinner that looked like a cross between a mummy and an overgrown house cat slunk in close, tried to tear a claw into his side, but was interrupted by a tentacle, was knocked to the ground but not away.

Vox grabbed at an unraveling scrap of linen, grimaced because gross, and send a charge down the long line as the Sinner tried to escape. He was interrupted the hard hit of a - what the fuck was that, a boomerang? - hitting his screen, knocking his head back and into Alastor's.

The force of it had them both losing their footing as Alastor tried to dodge a speedy, violent attack by Fidget Spinner in the same moment Vox tried to avoid the return of the mummy.

They briefly traded dance partners - Vox clawing at Fidget Spinner in a move that had been completely accidental, the hot flash of black blood hitting his face, while Alastor suddenly found himself goring the throat of cat-mummy in a movement that had also looked not at all intentional.

It must have looked quite insane and, quite possibly, incredibly choreographed. As long as no one had been looking too closely, they probably appeared to be a well-practiced team in the sport of backwoods brawling.

Their momentum seemed to carry, and suddenly Vox was facing the way he had been before he'd been sucked punched by a fucking boomerang. He was never telling anyone about that.

Though the numbers were slowly thinning and the potshots were dwindling, he could feel himself dragging. It all seemed to come to a head when he tried to stun the Hellhound that was circling them, biding their time, and found he'd not done much more than given the Hellborne the equivalent of a warning. 

The effort left him heaving for breath and he knew they were running of time.

Vox was weak, couldn’t manage the kind of voltage required to stun for long, let alone maim or kill. For the second time in 24-hours he was reminded how much of a melee fighter he wasn’t.

He felt Alastor bump into him, fending off an unseen attacker with wild, violent jabs of his tentacles. He could feel, hear, the horribly quick pace of his breathing, the heat of his back as he pushed closer - anything to avoid allowing one close enough to strike - and knew that he was flagging.

Vox sent a charge towards Fidget Spinner - and ugh, he hated this one - as she searched for an opening, knife held too confidently for his comfort, and swallowed his pride. She didn't seem slows by the raking wounds he'd managed across her shoulder.

“We should make a break for it.” He suggested, as he tracked the little imps movements.

Alastor let out a wheezy “Agreed”, which shouldn't have surprised Vox, but did.

He looked for an opening, anything they could drag themselves towards and then grunted when he felt the bite of something sharp in his left calf. He glanced towards the tree-line, spotted a bloodied Six Shooter attempting to take potshots.

Alastor looked back, sensing the spike of his increasingly uncontrolled electromagnetic aura just as his left knee folded.

Vox managed to recover, avoided falling completely just as Alastor made a breathless noise of pain, a pained oof in the same moment that Vox heard a horrible, bone-crunching thump. A Sinner that looked a lot like a dingo with mange had managed to intrude on their little inner circle and had struck Alastor in the ribs with a tire iron.

The blow managed to knock Alastor to the side, right to his knees, threatening his tenuous control of the tentacles that seemed to be holding the now frothing Hellhound at bay a few feet away. The sight of it, the sound of it, made Vox’s blood burn.

Dingo Sinner lifted the weapon high above her head, clearly intending to attempt to brain him and Vox went numb.

Anger was an excellent producer of adrenaline. Vox hardly felt himself move as he all but pounced on the Sinner, claws tucking in like the bolts of a taser, and sent as much electricity as he could spare into her form.

“Fuckin’ bitch.” He spat down at her as she convulsed before going limp. He could have joined her, wanted to slump down on the ground, but didn’t - couldn’t. He wanted to check on Alastor but couldn’t afford the distraction - distraction was what had earned Alastor a tire iron to the side and wow was he going to spiral over that later.

Vox gathered himself, looked up just in time to see Fidget Spinner lunging for his throat.

Hey there, this is Charlie … uh Morningstar, Charlie Morningstar! If you’re hearing this message, I am either away from my phone or busy working on important Hotel related tasks! If you are calling about redemption please, please come down to Hazbin Hotel and ask for me. Don’t leave! Please! Even if the hotelier tells you we’re closed because we’re totally not. We are open for business! Hope to see you soon …. was that okay, Vag -

“I can’t get Charlie on the phone.” Angel Dust huffed as he terminated the call for the tenth time. It was well into night, now, and neither Charlie, Vaggie nor Lucifer had so much as checked in with a one word text - though, he definitely didn’t have the King of Hell’s number, wasn’t even sure he had Vaggie’s.

“Can’t get anyone on the phone ‘cept Cherri and she says it’s weird out there.”

“Weird how?” Husk asked as he cycled through the channels on the TV. With Vee Tower out of commission, the only thing broadcasting was 666 News. It was a darker day in Hell when the only source of information was Katie Killjoy and Tom Trench.

“Didn’t say. Said she was comin’ over, though.”

“Really? With all this?” Husk gestured at the TV and Angel shrugged. Cherri tended to do what she wanted.

“Alastors not answering either.” Niffty said from knee-level and Angel Dust startled, hadn’t been aware that she’d returned from her jaunt into the walls.

He blinked, taking in the information.

“Alastor has a phone?” He asked.

“No.” She smiled, didn’t elaborate and Angel Dust groaned, stress at an all time high here.

“Great, thanks Niff.” He muttered, ignoring her cheerful, you’re welcome as he compulsively checked Sinstagram, Twatter and Spreddit again, scrolling through his feeds once more. He definitely had a problem with social media, was appropriately addicted and all that, but this burning hunger for information, this need for it, felt worse than any self-loathing induced doom-scrolling he’d ever fallen into.

And wasn’t that fucking crazy? He should be jumping for joy, they both should be. This could be an easy way out - a goddamn real-life Deus Ex Machina, solving their biggest problem in one fell swoop.

But they weren’t.

Angel Dust felt nauseous as he flopped between anticipatory relief - the idea of being uncollared was a cruel kind of high, relaxing into it frightening - and absolute dread. He wasn’t about to mourn Val, but he wasn’t exactly rooting for Alastor’s slaughter.

He was an Overlord and could probably bear to be humbled, but Angel Dust didn’t necessarily want the guy perma-dead. He’d been genuinely glad when he’d returned after his absence post-battle, and he’d been genuinely freaked when the asshole had keeled over and tried to die.

That had to mean something, right?

Angel Dust figured that yeah, he’d gotten used to him, but Charlie adored him and the asshole helped make this stupid hotel work. He liked him enough to not want him dead.

But still, Alastor wasn’t the one holding his chain. When they’d recovered from the initial shock of the broadcast, they’d sat there for a moment. Tried to really digest the fucking insanity of it. Angel Dust had been the one to break the silence - to ask what they should do and the conclusion was a decided something.

Neither of them were stupid.

They might be spiteful and bitter, angry over their lapses in judgment and for falling into the kind of company that would buy your Soul, but in the end they both decided that this was capital ‘b’ bad.

In the end, it was Husk who decided that, for now, despite what an absolute bastard the Overlord was, he was a better ally to the hotel alive. That they’d try to track him down.

Which meant, by default, that they were enabling the continued existence of Val and Vox and all the other Overlords. Husk had groaned at the realization, said something Angel Dust wouldn’t forget and had made him want to leap across the divide and hold him, to sooth the haunted look from his face with a soft touch and softer words, “I know war, lived in one for years, and this is how it starts.”

And then, in a clear attempt at redirection, added: “And we owe it to the Princess to try.”

Then they got to work and it was as much about Husk and Charlie as it was about Alastor.

Angel Dust refreshed the hashtag #RadioDemon again, then #Alastor.

Bastard better appreciate this, he thought as he followed a promising link - Radio Demon sighting? it claimed - wanted to scream in frustration when it led him to another Rick Astley video.

“I got nothin’.” He said, as he began to pace a bit, stared down at his screen at a bit of a loss, “You?”

“It’s a lot of hearsay bein’ presented as fact. Could be somethin’. Could be nothin’.” Husk mutely shook his head. “Nothin’ on Alastor.”

“Vox?” Angel Dust asked, though he had no reason to think they would actually stick together; their rivalry was infamous, had inspired the launch of a thousand horny fanfics and dozens of hashtags.

“Nah.”

Husk made a ponderous sound and then stood, crossed the parlor, Angel Dust on his heels, to flip on the small cathedral radio Alastor had stubbornly placed in every single room. Angel Dust looked up from his phone every couple of seconds as Husk scrolled through the stations.

When Husk paused and rolled the dial back and forth, face stony and serious and dedicated. Angel Dust leaned in, tried to hear whatever had captured his attention.

“What’re you listenin’ for?”

“Him.” Husk mumbled, ears twitching.

“Whaddya mean?” He leaned his second set of arms on the able and he crossed his first, phone hanging limp in his grasp and he strained to hear any hint of Alastor’s radiostatic voice.

“He gives off a … frequency. Thought I heard it for a second.”

“What’s it sound like?” Angel Dust asked, vaguely fascinated; Hell really was a weird fucking place.

“Hard to explain.” Husk said before he let the channel go, scrolled through the rest before moving to turn it off.

“Wait.” Angel Dust grabbed at his wrist, tried to work through a thought. Husk looked at him, patient and waiting.

“Can Freaky Face, like, hear the radio? Like any radio? The signal and all that?”

“I mean, yeah, as far as I know.”

“So like, if we broadcast loud enough, he can hear us, no matter where he is?” Angel Dust knew nothing, absolute fucking squat about radios and the question came out uncertain, as though it were a trial.

He’d listened to some radio shows as a kid but once puberty hit, any and all interest he had in gunslingers and soap operas died and suddenly all his attention was on the boys down the street.

Besides, he’d been completely scarred by the whole War of the Worlds debacle. It was a shame Alastor had died in the 30’s because he would have loved the fear it had induced across America - now that he thought about it, the poor bastard had missed the golden years of radio. Ha, what a cryin’ shame.

Anyway, he was trying.

Husk nodded hesitantly, looked a lot like he was picking up what Angel was putting down but was also lacking in some requisite and arcane knowledge regarding a) radio, or b) Alastor.

“Theoretically.”

“Are his antlers antennas?” Angel Dust scrunched his face over the runaway thought, feeling as though he’d just connected dots that had been sitting miles apart.

“Focus.” Husk sighed. “You suggestin’ we try to … broadcast a message?”

“Yeah, like a Lassie come home! kinda thing.”

“Think he would’ve already if he could’ve.” Husk said and Angel felt his shoulders drop in disappointment. He was probably right. Who knew what rocks Alastor crawled under when things got rough. Husk had said he’d disappeared for seven years once …

“Well, I dunno!” Angel Dust said, felt frustrated and slightly irritated at being shot down so fast, but still relented, his tone turning petulant. “Fine, it’s a dumb idea.”

“No, no. It’s not … dumb.” Husk said with a wave of his hands, grasping Angel Dust’s flailing ones gently. He gave Husk a smile as he squeezed his hands.

Husk dragged a hand across his face; he did that a lot.

Angel found it terribly charming.

“We can’t just … yell his name, ask him to … come home.” Husk waved, hand slapping his thigh as it came down, exasperated.

“Why not?”

“What if someone else hears it?” Husk asked, more of a theoretical inquiry as he clearly knew the answer. “If we are broadcasting, someone will hear it.”

“So … we fake a broadcast.”

Between the three of them they would come up with something. They could do something like a podcast, a round table or some shit, talk about alpha-male culture and how Sinstagram was rotting everyone’s brains or whatever. They’d slip something in about cannibalism to peak Alastor’s interest and badda-bing-badda-boom, he’d get the message.

“And that sounds easy, does it?”

It was talking with an invisible audience, it couldn’t be that bad.

“It’s fine. We’ll figure it out.”

Husk let out another world-weary sigh, sounded as though he was bearing the weight of Hell on his furry shoulders. Husk put his hands on his hips and dipped his head.

“He’s gonna kill us for touching his equipment.” Husk warned.

Angel Dust blew a raspberry, rolled his eyes.

“Well, he can’t kill us if he’s dead, so.”

“Fine. Niff - ” Husk said, was clearly unsurprised to find she had been lingering, was underfoot in seconds, “ - you’re comin’ with. He’s less likely to kill us if you’re there when he shows.”

“That’s not true.” She growled menacingly, cackled. “I’d help him, you know.”

“Great! Thanks, Niff.” Angel Dust said as they collectively began to make their way towards the Radio Tower.

The moment they left the parlor anxiety began to twist and churn in his gut.

As they shuffled their way upwards - taking the stairs because there had been rolling blackouts and they were not doing the stuck in the elevator thing - Angel Dust stewed in his personal disbelief over the day’s events. Here they were, the three of them, owned and Soulless, marching up to help find an Overlord in the name of the right thing.

If this weren’t grounds for redemption, then he didn’t know what was.

They made quick work of the walk, their pace cutting a quick path through the hotel.

The group stopped in front of the iron stairs that led to the hatch - the paranoid bastard had changed it from Charlie’s design, one that boasted a perfectly normal entrance - and Angel Dust put a finger to his non-existent nose.

The whole area radiated with an energy that Angel Dust wanted nothing to do with.

“Not it.” He claimed.

Niffty was quick to copy, climbing up him and shoving her finger into his face like she didn’t know how the game worked. He knew she did, the little freak.

“Not it!” She cackled even as he tried to flinch away; it was pointless, he couldn’t escape her grubby little finger.

“Wh- this was your idea, ugh, you know what, nevermind, whatever.” Husk growled as he wasted no time and aggressively stomped up the stairwell. Maybe it was his nerves but Angel Dust couldn’t help himself; he wolf-whistled as Husk climbed higher.

“Shut it.” Husk spat down at him and, to his credit, only hesitated for a second before pushing the hatch door upwards. He called down to them, “C’mon, you cowards.”

Angel climbed upwards, his height putting him inside the surprisingly small space in seconds, and as he took a cursory glance around, he was struck with a certain awe. It wasn’t at all what he’d been expecting, but he shouldn’t be surprised because the thing about Smiles was that, in between terrifying voodaic imagery and general sense of bloodied dread, Alastor evoked a certain sense of nostalgia.

He would never say that, he rather fucking die, but it was a total thing.

Angel liked modern, preferred modern - he was up to speed and proud of it because few demons did keep up, seemed forever locked in the time they’d died and brought their nasty, old-time morals with them. But, he and Alastor, they’d had some crossover in life, had lived in a common time. He would have been an ankle-biter while Alastor would have been in his thirties, but, sometimes when the bastard wasn’t being outdated to the point of pain, he evoked a sense of familiarity.

This space felt like that: familiar.

Large, boxy microphones stood on heavy iron stands, their intricate designs hinting at a time when craftsmanship was paramount. One microphone stood out from the rest, sat front and center, ready for use. The mixing console was massive, its myriad of knobs and switches were overwhelming in their sheer amount - there had to be redundancies.

Angel Dust tried to imagine the same Alastor that laughed psychotic and gleeful while picking apart his prey, sat here quiet and thoughtful, hands turning knobs and flicking switches as he soothed the masses of the Pride Ring with easy gossip and cunty little jabs at his chosen targets.

“Alright, Radio Demon Junior. Showtime.” Husk snapped him out of his thoughts, gestured to the microphone as he pushed some buttons, flipped some switches and he would have to ask about that later, his familiarity with the mixing desk, and what the fuck did he just say?

“Whoah, whoah, why me?” He held all four hands up in surrender, a refusal to approach the mic, let alone hold it.

“You’re a natural … performer.” Husk grinned mean spiritedly.

Niffty jumped into Alastor’s chair, was vibrating with excitement as she gripped the edge of the table.

“Perform! Sir will love it.” He grinned, turned vicious and hungry.

They happily ignored her.

“Why can’t you do it?” He asked desperately and Husk shrugged.

“Can’t.” As if reading his mind, Husk added, “And neither can she.”

“Ugh, fuck -” Angel Dust swore, shook the tension from his shoulders, flubbed his lips, “fine, fine. Okay. Fine.”

Husk shooed Niffty from Alastor’s chair, gave a small bow as he pulled it out, and offered it to Angel Dust. Husk stuck his hand out and Angel took it. He hated that he loved it, that things were so fucked and this wasn’t just some playful, flirtatious thing they were doing, that Hell was literally falling apart all around them.

Still, ever the performer, he took Husk’s hand, placed a charmed hand to his chest and settled into the seat demurely, the soft leather creaking under his weight. Husks hand lingered, he was sure of it, just before he stepped back, pulled an invisible zipper across his lips and reached over to press a singular button.

He pointed at the big, blaring red lights that announced On Air.

“Testing, testing - “ He must have done something wrong - and wasn’t that what you did? That’s what people did! - because Husk’s gentle, trusting smile turned into a cringing thing as he slapped a palm over his face.

Angel Dust cleared his throat, tried to remember the snatches of Alastor’s radio show, of that transatlantic cheer.

“Good Evening Hell, and what an evening it is!” He glanced at Husk, was waved onward, head bobbing with encouragement.

“The weather is balmy and horrible and uh, jeez, what about that traffic, folks? Huh? The night air is filled with the screams of angry mobs and uh, real low-lifes doin’, who knows, low-life shit! We’ve all been there, I know I have, and have you seen the news lately? Wow, how ‘bout them apples -”

He petered off a bit and fuck this was hard! He didn’t know how Alastor did it and that was saying a lot because he knew how to talk; he just hadn’t realized how hard it was to talk aimless and smooth when the topic wasn’t cocks and fucking.

Husk made lifted his hand, breathed in, and then lowered it as he breathed out - a signal to breathe and chill the fuck out.

Angel Dust nodded, took a breath.

“ - anyway, if you’re not out there in all that craziness tonight, get nice and cozy, put aside your woes and all that, because I gotta show that’s gonna put a real smile on your face.”

Despite the chill that had taken residence deep in his chest and the competing flash heat that had settled in his limbs, Alastor appraised his current performance as fine, maybe even adequate.

None of their opponents boasted anything greater in power than what Alastor would call middling but one couldn’t discount the power inherent to abject stupidity when combined with an aggressive amount of persistence.

He hadn’t been able to hear the inane chatter that had so obviously coloured the expressions and moved into motion the lips of their attackers. He had been forced to trust Vox to be their voice - and it had been going all so delightfully well until they’d all turned to look at him like he was the lynchpin - but he knew this to be a reflection of something far larger than, and excuse the language, ballsy attempt on their lives.

There was some humiliation to be experienced, perhaps at a later date and when an angry Hellhound wasn’t trying to rip his throat up and oh, how he loathed dogs, but for now he focused on directing his shades as finely as he could.

There was a slight wildness to them, an unreliability as he quaked, strained and exhausted. It was taking more than he had to manifest them, let alone having them work in an orchestrated manner - he’d missed his target multiple times as his vision blurred and his chest stuttered.

Still, he hit the targets he needed to and, aside from the awkward 360 he and Vox had done in that wild, flailing dance, it was all going fine -

- until he felt the sharp stab of Vox’s electromagnetism brush against his like a whip. He’d been doing a smart job of covering his back and it was with a thrill of concern, an emotion that was usually so very distant to him, that had him turning around to look.

He’d rend the throat of the shooter at the first chance, would drink from them as he watched the life bleed from their eyes, even if imp blood tasted like bitter grinds.

Something hard struck his left side and all the air in his lungs escaped with a painful wheeze as his vision blacked out. His antlers, which had grown during the battle despite his lack of magical resrves, shrunk to their normal size almost immediatley.

He hadn’t heard the attacker approach, of course he hadn’t; in his moment of concern he’d forgotten his handicap, had forgotten how fully he’d been relying on sight and the kinetic movement around him.

The Sinner had slipped all notice and had gotten him to his knees.

With a gasp he tried to refocus, remembering the Hellhound that was struggling against the hold of his tentacles. She was huge, taller than him by at least a foot and was putting up a very decent fight.

When the pain had hit he’d almost let go, would have likely had his throat torn for how she was gnashing them in rage and no he thought, sick and frightened for a moment, don’t go there.

With an effort that felt as physical as anything else, he urged the tentacle to fling her as far as he could manage and it was with extreme relief that he saw he’d managed to toss her over the treeline.

Alastor coughed, forced a hard blink to clear his vision. They had dispatched enough to leave the rest hesitant and fearful, leaving them a natural boundary, and Alastor figured this was the moment to make haste and run.

He turned to Vox, ready to drag him into the woods if that’s what it took, when the little imp from the billboard, the one who’d been sitting so bored and innocent, lunged at Vox’s unprotected throat.

Alastor didn’t really want to know what noise of alarm he made as he leapt forward; it was but a keening feeling in his throat that wasn’t at all formed carefully by his lips. He imagined it to be a startled whimper, a thing meant to be shock and warning, but he would never ask.

It was only luck - a rare gift given the day they were having - that had him catching the blade moments before it landed in Vox’s throat.

It was terrible fucking luck - the cursed kind that would have had his mother surrounding their tiny abode with hot foot powder and locking him inside - that had him catching the knife by allowing it to impale his hand.

It wasn’t what he’d been going for but, c’est la vie.

The hilt met palm and Alastor used the opportunity to seize the momentum, twisting into a very uncharacteristic roll - save for his embarrassing scrap with Vox, he wasn’t one for wrestling in the dirt - trapping the little imp underneath him, pinning her to the ground.

She was a ferocious little thing, reminded him a bit of Niffty and given better circumstances, might have made her a good companion. It was a shame - he was probably going to have to kill her.

He lifted a claw, ready to tear her throat, a fitting end given her own intentions, when Vox stopped him.

“Al, hold it -” He sounded absolutely wrecked.

Alastor froze, but only because of the moniker. He didn’t have the energy to complain but he did fix Vox with a look that was both meant to function as a complaint and a question. Vox gestured at him to give him some room.

He reared back a bit but kept her pinned, one knee in her lower back and a hand - the one without the knife - at her shoulders. Before Vox paid her any mind, however, he gestured, eyes dropping toward his impaled hand.

Alastor understood, held it out and hardly flinched when Vox tore the blade from his palm, Vox’s own blood painting the handle as he gripped it and reeled back to throw it down the road. Alastor could admit that it felt very good to have the thing extracted.

Vox patted him on the shoulder and Alastor thought nothing of it - and then suddenly did. Well isn’t this chummy? he thought, realized he was pleased.

Battle tended to do that and bloodthirst always made him fond and nostalgic, sometimes drunk with it. Vox then moved in, sat flush next to him as he leaned over the imp, kept her head from moving with a tight grip on one long horn.

Alastor looked over his back, around them, watched for any sign of attack coming from the frightened leftovers. They looked appropriately cowed, despite their fidgeting. Not a single one was left with a long range weapon and he supposed that was the primary reason for their sudden timidness. Alastor let his shadows spill from him, couldn’t do much about the wheeze the effort punched from him, nor the blood that dripped from his mouth.

He glanced at Vox tiredly, urging him to hurry.

Though Alastor could only see the back of his screen - cracked, scratched, ports deformed and leaking - he knew he was likely trying to extract information. Alastor knew his hypnotic abilities had been deeply hindered by the crack he himself had cut across his screen, right over his left eyes, but at this range he supposed the other demon had deemed it worth the try.

The imp beneath him squirmed, face twisting and mouth pressed into a firm but wavering line. Her gaze softened, would become glazed and drunk looking for mere seconds before returning her usual ire, suggesting Vox wasn’t having a lot of luck.

Anything she said, Alastor couldn’t hear, knew Vox would relay later, so he focused on watching both their backs. He was starting to feel a bit like a guard dog on a very short leash.

A gutsy imp tried their luck and with a snarl Alastor flicked them backwards with a mean swat of a tentacle. He felt it go intangible for a moment and felt his chest burn, coughed and struggled through a wave of dizziness.

Vox needed to let him rip this imp’s throat out so they could be done with it.

He fought the bodily need to slump over, dragged his tired eyes over the treeline and then froze when he noticed the barest sign of movement, the metallic glint of a gun’s barrel. He’d whipped the pathetic ringleader into the woods hard enough to kill him - had been counting on the trees to do the work for him, their rough bark turning him into bloody gore or at the very least breaking his back.

Clearly, it hadn’t been enough.

Alastor needn’t wait for the pesky threads of the deal to thrum; he made the decision before it could sense his own awareness of the danger and make its demands.

It was a terrible idea, absolutely miserable.

He had never made a habit of taking on passengers, had never deemed anyone worthy of the pleasure and privilege - he fully expected to collapse in a heap at the end of the journey.

The level of trust he’d be required to place with Vox was heinous, but their options had run too thin and he wasn’t willing to gamble when the odds were so poor. Better he risk killing himself in the process rather than letting some imp kill him, why his reputation would never survive it!

If the gun went off, he wouldn’t remember - wouldn’t be able to recall the flash off the muzzle - for he quickly grabbed at Vox and released the imp, untangled himself from her both physically and metaphysically, and pulled.

He was distantly aware of Vox’s shocked yelp, a curse, before he dragged him into the shadows.

The Void was colder than it ought to be. When he wasn’t writhing miserably from his wounds and the relentless hold of a lingering, reactive infection, the Void was a cradle. It was soothing touches and rocking arms and ferried him towards his destination with the atomic exactness of the Universe itself.

Perhaps it was the passenger - that he’d brought this strange being that lived on a lower frequency along for the ride - or maybe it was the torn state of his body - could it sense his slow unraveling? - but the Void was static and freezing with anger, muffled his vision rather than enhanced it, obscuring his path.

Alastor was doing the metaphysical version of running blind, which was especially demeaning given he was already, currently, deaf. He was also fairly certain he was doing the metaphysical version of dying and that his corporeal body wasn’t too far behind.

He had no idea what would happen to Vox - a surprisingly quiet passenger, still and patient, though Alastor attributed that to pure shock - if he were to expire in this form, and it would be for good given the angelic toxins in his blood.

It didn’t sit well with him, the idea of harming Vox in such a manner when he’d pulled him into this cold, dark place without his consent. It was ungentlemanly, uncouth.

It sat even more lowly when he considered how … well things had been going.

Alastor felt his awareness wavering, his hold on this form failing. The world ripped around them and he nearly dropped them out prematurely as he made a mad dash for the Hotel. One moment he’d be lost in the black, inky nothing, and the next his mind would be filled with the image of trees moving swiftly past, the ground earthy and undulating, difficult to climb. He was losing his sense of direction, was as likely to land them in a heap of acidic dirt as he was to send them scratching across the pavement of that horrid road.

He searched for landmarks, signals, things he knew. He reached out for his old radio tower, the one he still kept broadcasting - a tired, unassuming signal on the airwaves that hummed and clicked all hours of the night and day, an impromptu beacon thats was so innocuous no one would bother to investigate, let alone notice - and found it’s familiar warmth absent.

His mind filled with the disorienting screams of that which lay deep within the Void and he wondered if he was merely going anba dlo. He’d never really figured out what The Void was - whether it was part of Hell or part of the sacred practice, that which was apart of him and that he’d brought with him everywhere, even after death - but he’d always known something to lie below the surface, the one he usually skirted across as smooth as shadow.

With an incorporeal thrill of panic, genuine and human and ancient, he realized he was losing his way. He was too weak, too sickly and too dying. With Hell sick and tainted with the ozone of angelic power, and the airwaves brought to their knees by rolling blackouts, without his staff, there was nothing to guide him, to pull him.

Alastor tried to loosen his incorporeal hold on Vox - and it would be a rather rude thing, to spit him from the dark like a wad of chewing gum - but his formless fingers had turned into metaphysical claws.

He tried again.

And again.

Until he forgot what he was even doing. Alastor had only the vaguest sense of himself and the passenger as he diverted all his desperate, dying attention, now a thing made mostly of instinct and raw will, to find something, anything to latch on to.

There was nothing.

In a moment of clarity, born of genuine regret, Alastor communicated an apology, I really am sorry, old chum.

And then.

And then.

From the dark.

A signal.

Chapter Text

TELEGRAM POSTAL TELEGRAPH COMPANY.

To STANDARD FRUIT Co., New Orleans, La. September 20 1909

BE ADVISED.

HURRICANE STRENGTHENING IN GULF.

WESTWARD MOVEMENT.

SEVERE WINDS. 100 KN.

LANDFALL GRAND ISLE EXPECTED.

MOVE SHIPS INLAND.

TAKE SHELTER.

GOD BE WITH YOU.

From National Weather Service 3 42 pm

Alastor.

Alastor …

When Alastor was nine-years-old, a storm ripped through New Orleans, the remnants of a Hurricane that had made landfall on a barrier island at the mouth of Barataria Bay. Even in death, he remembered the way he’d clutched at the hem of his mother’s dress while they stood in the dirt road and listened to Abraham Cooke, one of the only literate men in their quarter, read off the copied prose of a telegram he’d taken from the trash of his employer’s office.

As he told it, his boss, an unforgiving man, had given him the day off after reading it and, given the man hadn’t a kind bone in his body, especially not for coloured folk, his gesture had raised suspicion. He’d felt compelled to look, and it was a good thing he had. Nobody came to warn them.

They had mere hours to prepare, but the sky had darkened so quickly, and the wind had picked up so suddenly, that only the lightest preparation could be achieved. Windows were shuttered and secured with nails Alastor had found in the ashes of a burnt down shotgun, dry goods were placed on high shelves, and the chicken coop was left open, and then the storm came.

The noise was unbelievable and the pressure was so intense he could feel it in his ears, his head. He could hear the roof trying to come apart, could hear things knocking against their tiny shack of a home. The wind went over and under their abode and, for a terrifying moment, the floorboards rattled and lifted. It wouldn’t be heard of, for a home to be carried away as though God’s hand had picked it up, much like a toy.

A window blew inward, showered them with rain and glass and twiggy things, and there was no escaping the assault. There was no dry corner. There was no reprieve.

Alastor had been sure they would be carried away, had felt doubly sure when he heard his mother cry a begging Lord have mercy over and over again. Mercy did come, would come, but not for hours, and by storm’s end Alastor had developed a fever for the stress of it.

Alastor, his mother had said as they sat shaking on the floor amongst the wreckage of their home. She said his name again and again in the same tone she’d said mercy mercy mercy.

Word was, hundreds had died to the south, and even young he knew it easily could have been them.It had been his first lesson in survival, and possibly his most valuable, because there had been no choice in it. He’d been forced to simply endure, to call upon his child’s will to keep breathing and anchor his mind until that inevitable light broke through the clouds, piercing through the darkness of a dying storm.

His life would be full of that, enduring. Even when he became the thing to be feared at night, by day he was still a mixed-race man in the city that care forgot. Regardless, his will was stubborn and words like endure and survive became dirty, passive words.

The Void, once an accomplice, had taken on all the qualities of that ear-ringing storm of 1909. A painful pressure that beat against the tight quarters of his skull, noise that transmitted into his bones, wind that buffeted from all directions.

He was doing the metaphysical equivalent of clawing his way up a wall, claws dug deep, limbs shaking as he tried to bear his and his passenger’s weight as he grasped for the light in all that dark.

Alastor slipped, felt the cold embrace of the Void tighten its grip and for a moment he was nine again, fingers clinging to cloth that smelled like old jasmine and woodsmoke, listening to her soft voice begging.

Mercy mercy mercy, she’d said.

He was scratching at the surface but unable to break the film. His claws skirted against reality and he would have sworn that he could smell the wood and leather and cattail-sweetness of his radio tower.

Scratch and claw and scratch and claw - was that the sum of it all?

As the Void destabilized, his regret echoed.

He was drowning, he realized, as the Void pulled.

He had survived the storm and surge of 1909, and persevered again in 1927 when the Great Flood had stranded him atop his childhood home with nothing but bootleg liquor to keep him company as he waited for the waters to recede.

He remembered thinking that drowning wasn’t really in the cards for him (no, Alastor was promised to a bullet and a pack of emaciated hounds).

But here he was, reaching and reaching for a surface that brushed the tips of his claws.

I really am sorry, old chum, seemed to play on repeat, a unique torture that gnawed at his claws and urged him to just let go. His body and mind started to fail him again - the strength of this second wind dissipating as he struggled - and his memories mushed together, a confusing slurry that created one foul monster from the ugly components that were the hurricane, and the flood, and the Void.

Alastor, a voice said and it was both his mother and someone else.

Alastor, it said again, not his mother, not at all, nudging him towards the radio signal he’d forgotten despite its screaming and beckoning.

Alastor.

It was just about then, when Sera continued to allow her Head Exorcist to bleed onto the conference room table while she fixed his daughter with what he would call a murderous stare, that Lucifer decided he needed to intervene.

Really intervene.

He wasn’t about to just sit there and watch Heaven dangle his daughter’s redemption project over her head, one generous hand offering an olive branch while the other fetid hand asked for a knife with which to commit genocide.

Charlie had asked him to let her handle it. To just be there, dad, please, but there had been times - were times, still - in which he wallowed, wishing that someone had intervened. That his own father, at any point - any damn point - would have intervened.

Now, Lucifer wasn’t overly concerned that Charlie was going to take this egregious bait. Her constitution wouldn’t allow it. But, would they hold her there, wear her down with hours of flowery talk of redemption, leverage her poor snake-ish friend while they forced her to witness the depravity of the Overlords, of Alastor, until she signed a facsimile?

Why wouldn’t they?

They’d done so with him.

Despite what Hell may think, what his daughter might think, he hadn’t cheerfully taken a quill and set it to paper with a chipper, looks like everything is in order, slaughter away! No, he’d talked and talked and talked until he could no longer take being the sole defendant of the entire population of his domain, of a people he hardly liked, and suddenly found the terms agreeable because they were better than the original proposition.

He was watching history repeat itself and he would not let them make her like him.

Lucifer cleared his throat, attracting the collective gaze of the room.

“We would have to see the contract before we make a decision, Sera.”

“Wh - Dad.” Charlie looked toward him, a most hesitant look on her face and he tried, tried, to silently beg trust me. His brow upturned a little, desperation biting at his heart because he couldn’t bear even a second of her assuming he had betrayed her.

Charlie’s brows pinched together but her mouth snapped shut.

Sera didn’t seem to notice, too pleased was she with the forward momentum. She leaned forward eagerly, head tilting, questioning.

“We?”

“Charlie. Myself. Patrons of the hotel.” He waved a claw around as though it were obvious and unimportant.

“It’s all very plain, Lucifer.”

“Like I said, we’d have to see the contract before we agree to anything.”

“Of course.” Sera nodded her head, presented the contract with the turn of her wrist. It shone before them, gold and beautiful until it suddenly transitioned into the physical realm and slammed down on the table with a thump.

Lucifer blinked, reached for the thing, lifted it and weighed it in his hands.

“That’s uh … thi-ick.” He said, letting the ‘k’ really click as he dropped it back onto the table. The second thump was no less ridiculous.

“No use in leaving room for ambiguity.”

“No. The answer is no.” That was Vaggie, his daughter’s wonderful girlfriend who hadn’t seen his begging look, or hadn’t understood it.

Charlie placed a hand on her girlfriend’s arm - looked caught between two titanic things and right, Vaggie had her own issues with Heaven, had her traumas, too.

She grit her teeth and directed her ire at that horrible, bloody angel.

“This is … you’re just trading one genocide for another.”

“Oh, please, there’s like thirty of them. Hardly a genocide.” The mean little thing he could have destroyed with a snap of his fingers scoffed with deep condescension.

Lucifer sneered.

“Can she be dismissed? I think she should be dismissed.”

Sera sighed as though she didn’t help create that monster.

“Yes. Lute. Please.”

There was a tense moment where it seemed that Lute might not go peacefully, but after fixing Sera with a look that bordered on insubordination she gave Vaggie a parting sneer, turned heel with a distasteful fuck this and left.

Lucifer could nearly feel the tension drain from Vaggie as the fallen angel watched Lute’s departure. He figured a jab couldn’t hurt.

“Is having anger management issues a requirement for the position or -”

“This is serious, Lucifer.”

“A serious waste of time.”

“Stop. Just stop -”

Lucifer’s heart might as well have stopped for how those words seized him, her voice. His heart broke a little, unseen. Any sacred language they may have once spoken had died in the hands of his neglect.

He looked down at his lap, his listless hands, before looking up into her pained gaze.

“Dad, you can’t possibly think we should entertain this.”

“Honey, as far as Heaven goes, it’s not the worst … deal.” He said it through his teeth, tried to keep his tone light.

“What. Dad, I don’t -” She shook her head and in a moment that made her look like his child grabbed at her hair before throwing her arms out, her voice coming out in a frustrated growl, “ - everything that’s happening, that has happened is because of the deal you made.”

Lucifer’s mouth went dry as the words slammed into him like bricks.

Lucifer didn’t look but he could feel Sera watching, her presence a solid, cold thing that gave the impression of frightening scrutiny.

Charlie continued.

“Don’t you see that? Another deal isn’t going to change anything.”

Lucifer swallowed, throat bobbing as he stared speechless at his child. Her brow pinched minutely, a flash of … something crossing her face.

Sera broke the silence he couldn’t

“Heaven and Hell avoided war because of the deal your father made.” Sera said sternly, her many eyes opening to stare through her as though she were a particularly ill-behaved child.

“Don’t talk to her like that.” He bit out, angry.

Charlie ignored him, they both ignored him.

“I’m not going to agree to this. I’m not sacrificing anyone for the cause. That’s not how we redeem anyone.”

“Oh, Princess.” The saccharine, kind quality of Sera’s voice seemed to vanish as her voice dipped low. “There is no greater path to redemption. You of all people must know this.”

Charlie made a huffy, affronted sound and Lucifer closed his eyes for a brief moment.

This was how it had been with him.

Just as they had used Lillith, they were using the Risen Sinner. Just as they had leveraged his destruction of her, his mutilation, they were leveraging Charlie’s call to arms, the Sinner’s death-song.

The first nail had been placed and neatly nailed down.

“Sera,” Lucifer said with no animosity for the first time in centuries; might as well if he was going to ask for something, “can you give us time to look this over?”

“Of course.”

Of course he mocked in nasally tone in his head.

“A week, maybe?”

“Three days.”

Oh well, he thought with a heavy dose of ennui, beggars, choosers, and all that jazz.

“Great. Three days.” He said with sarcastic appreciation and a tight, meaningless smile. He could tell Charlie was looking at him; could feel her eyes boring in, begging his attention. He looked at her, gave her a tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He wasn’t about to punish her for speaking her mind - for thinking him the monster he was, even if it hurt.

Sera continued when he didn’t say anything else.

“And upon your return, we will reunite you with the product of your hard work.”

Lucifer knew that the sound Charlie made had been involuntary. Knew without looking that her eyes had gone watery. The second nail.

“Today. I’d like to see him today.” Charlie asked with a calm that seemed to bely her previous outrage.

And, suddenly, just like that, civility was restored.

Lucifer felt sick and bitter.

“I’m sorry. That’s just not possible.” Sera sounded oh so sorry, Lucifer thought as he considered that tome of a contract sitting before him.

They’d have to pick it apart, word by word. Three days was hardly enough. He had no doubt Sera was counting on Charlie being distracted by the promise of seeing her redeemed Sinner again, hoped that her own runaway hope would soothe the more jagged, genocidal language hidden within the text.

“Well. I think we’re done here.” Lucifer said over the silence that had settled heavy and stagnant. “Unless you have any more horrible requests for us to mull over?”

Sera sighed as though he were being difficult and shook her head.

“No. That is all. If you’ll allow me to see you out -”

Charlie sniffed and, in a low murmur, as though finally exhausted, interrupted with a soft plea.

“Would you uh - would you mind giving us a second? My dad and Vaggie and I?”

Sera nodded her head, looked appropriately saddened by this clear division of father and daughter. Lucifer wanted to shake her until every feather fell from her head.

“Of course. You know where to find me.”

Sera awarded them a stately bow, eyes closing serenely; it looked performative, as though she were rewarding them for good behavior.

“Three days, Lucifer.”

She reminded him before she let the door open and close behind her without so much as a click.

Lucifer waited a long beat, one that Charlie and Vaggie seemed to abide, before thinking a ward into place - something to ensure they wouldn't be heard - and sucking in a deep, painful breath.

“Charlie, honey, forget everything you just heard me say, I was acting, acting, and okay I’m a bit rusty, but - wha -”

He said, word-vomited, high pitched and hysterical in the same moment that she gushed,

“Ohh my God, dad, I am so, so, soo sorry, I didn’t mean any of that, I just, I knew she wouldn’t believe me if I - uh ”

They stopped talking at nearly the same moment.

Lucifer squinted as he tried to process what she’d said.

Charlie looked as though she were doing the same.

Another beat.

“Wait. What?

“Huh?”

A third beat.

“I think … you two were … both acting?” Vaggie said, her voice lilting upwards with all the world-weariness of someone who understood what it meant to love a Morningstar.

Lucifer blinked stupidly and maybe Charlie did, too.

“And … you both thought the other knew … and then … realized they didn’t?” Vaggie’s tone fell into something flat and unimpressed as she herself seemed to process the ridiculous nature of their miscommunication that had - fortunately - worked out quite well for them.

If Lucifer thought he knew relief until this moment, he was mistaken.

Perhaps it was his nature, that of a terminally anxious, depressed man with enough trauma to fill the Rings of Hell ten time over, but his mind had sowed the doubt of her trust in him so quickly that he probably should beg forgiveness, like, immediately, but he was too fucking relieved to do anything but heave a massive sigh and pull her into a bone crushing hug.

Then he reached blindly with one arm and grabbed at Vaggie because yeah, maybe he was feeling a little vulnerable and sentimental.

“Oh, that’s not - uh - “ She protested a little awkwardly but pulled her in anyway.

Charlie said something, or rather squeaked something and he let go.

“Sorry, Char-Char, I’m just - I am so proud of you.” And he was - it had been no small agony when he’d thought her assessment of him nothing but ire, when he’d thought that she’d thought that maybe he was championing another genocide, but in the light of Vaggie’s revelation that she had graciously shared, and quickly - thank all that was unholy for that - he was left with a burning sense of pride.

“Dad, what, no - I said horrible things -” Charlie shook her head, looked at him with an expression of disbelief.

They didn’t really have time for this, the clock already ticking down on their three days, but Lucifer had long suffered the consequences of waiting to make himself clear. He figured the Hotel and that disastrous deer could wait a moment more.

“What did I say about taking shit from other demons?”

Charlie hesitated before giving him a light smirk.

“Not to?”

“Yep. Uh-huh. That’s right. And that includes me. Charlie, you were right - are right. All of this is my fault.”

It felt good to say it, to admit what he had long felt but had never voiced to anyone. Maybe when all this was settled he’d tell Charlie that - that maybe he was onto something and maybe it was something her program could use.

“Dad, I didn’t -”

“No, it’s true. When I … made that deal, I thought Heaven was listening, and that I was getting what I wanted. But I wasn’t. Heaven was and I was just too … tired … to see it.“

Charlie’s face went all wibbly with that empathy of hers going into overdrive. It had been a hell of a day.

“If I ever wanted to make a deal like that again, I - well - it means everything to me to know that you’d stop me.”

He was fully aware that his voice had cracked on that final word. Me. He’d been waiting a long time for someone to - to see him for the flawed thing he was, to hold him accountable and still find the will, the desire to stay.

He’d always thought it would be his wife, that Lillith would circle back because what was a couple of decades in the span of thousands? Lucifer had never really expected that it would be his estranged daughter whom would help crack his stubborn, fucked up shell.

She was still his daughter, and he wouldn't place the full burden of him and his issues on her, but to have her love, her understanding - it was more than enough. 

“We’re going to figure this out.” She promised as she swiped at her eyes with her sleeve, sighed a little wetly when Vaggie reached up to swipe at a missed tear. “Together”

“That’s right.” Lucifer smiled; his face hurt for how much he meant it.

“So," Vaggie asked, delicately shifting their attention towards action, "what are we doing?” 

“Right.” He said with a clap of his hands feeling invigorated, more ready than before to tackle the matter at hand.

“So, we can pretty much expect that whatever they are planning on doing they have already done.”

Vaggie scoffed, nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Lute took advantage of this meeting, whether Sera knew it or not,” Lucifer nodded, listening, agreeing. Vaggie had excellent insight into the mindset of the Exterminators - they were exceedingly lucky that she was with them.

She continued, head shaking, “whatever they were doing down there, it wasn’t your … run of the mill Extermination and it sure as Hell wasn’t recon.”

“She fought Alastor.” Charlie said, worry bleeding into her expression again.

“And lost, by the looks of it.” Lucifer said in an attempt at reassurance. He had no idea what had happened, or where the Overlord might be, but he wasn’t about to let his daughter begin to mourn the asshole if he was alive and well and out there … fomenting, or whatever he did.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do. We are gonna take this -”

He lifted the hefty contract from the table, its cursive script glowing with a certain haughtiness.

“ - and we are going to study it -”

He shook it like it was particularly offensive, which it was - no reading required, really.

“ - and work on a plan that will help save your sketchy as fuck bellhop, who really better appreciate this, by the way, and honey, what were you thinking -”

“Okay, dad -”

Right, he had gotten off track.

“ - right, right, sorry - and then we will, well, we’ll figure it out.”

It was a weak end but c’mon they hadn’t read the damn thing yet. He was operating on very little, here.

Charlie didn’t seem to mind, was probably used to thriving in the ambiguity of being the first to do something, to be a pioneer and oh, I am so fucking proud, take that Heaven!

“We’ll figure it out.” She said, gaze impassioned and completely certain, and Lucifer knew that she could do anything, time constraints be damned.

Three days.

It would be enough.

It had to be.

I really am sorry, old chum, the voice said as a thrill of something electric went up his spine.

Everything was dark and -

And -

When Vox was twelve-years-old and not called Vox, his father took him to his first Yankees game -

MEMORY CORRUPTED.

When Vox was twenty-two-years-old and not called Vox, he went to bed with a man and found that -

MEMORY CORRUPTED.

When Vox was five-years-old and not called Vox, the stock market crashed -

MEMORY CORRUPTED.

Vox fought with his overburdened bio-mechanical mind as he descended into this formless, freezing void.

His brain, the one that actually lived in his chest cavity, remembered being in the woods, bent over an imp, while his mechanical brain latched onto unrelated memories, sifting through in some chaotic attempt at sense-making.

He couldn’t retrieve any visual data, or at least he didn’t think he could. It was completely possible that he had been blinded. It was also possible that there was nothing to see and where the fuck was he.

He tried to grasp for something, anything, but his consciousness kept sleeping the deeper they went.

Deeper and deeper.

When Vox was nine-years-old and not called Vox, a storm ripped through New Orleans -

ERROR.

Vox shivered, bone cold and confused.

That wasn’t right.

That wasn’t -

When Vox was twenty-seven-years-old and not called Vox, he sat on the roof of his childhood home with a bottle of hooch and a picture frame that held a picture of his mother and waited for the floor waters to recede -

ERROR.

The dark, this void, was screaming, shrieking and Vox felt afraid.

It wasn’t something he felt often.

Was it?

When Vox was thirty-three-years old and not called Vox, he was promised to a bullet and a pack of dogs -

ERROR.

That wasn’t right.

His head hurt - everything hurt. He was being taken apart piece by piece and put back together wrong. The cold was seeping into his bones.

He was dying, he was sure of it.

I really am sorry, old chum, the voice echoed, cut through the dark and he was certain he felt a pressure against his side, something close to an embrace and something that was trying to transmit a sense of genuine regret.

When Vox was ten-years-dead and called Vox, a demon with large red ears and a terrifying smile bought him a drink, the first anyone had bought him since he’d arrived -

MEMORY CORRUPTED.

Pain laced down his frame, he hurt where he shouldn’t and he couldn’t reach the light.

He was dying, he was sure -

He was.

I really am sorry, old chum.

When Vox was fifteen-years-dead and called Vox, he got into a bar fight and had his light punched out, he awoke in the Radio Demon’s home -

MEMORY CORRUPTED.

He can’t reach the light and he was very sorry and he was dying -

Alastor was dying.

Alastor.

Vox did the metaphysical equivalent of blinking, gasping - the world around him was dark and cold and electromagnetic so he poured what he could into the being that was attached to him, holding on to his side and pouring regret through him.

Alastor, he said, shouted, voiceless in the Void.

A sting of recognition bled into his side.

Alastor.

It had been two hours and Husk was beginning to think this had been a wasted effort. So screw him, he was a pessimist and everyone knew it. And he wasn’t exactly jumping for joy over the idea of his Boss leaping from the shadows like a nightmare, twisted grin on his face but that was the thing, wasn’t it?

Husk scratched at the back of his neck, waited for the nagging pressure of impatient tugging, the burning prickle that came if he so much as thought of refusing. He had a certain nack for this kind of thing - finding trouble, leaning into it, living to tell the tale.

In the first few months of the war they’d called him Lucky, and a few years after that they - a new cast of characters because he had outlived them all - started calling him Norman Nine Lives. He couldn’t seem to die if he tried, was the kind of guy that could tour the whole damn jungle without a scratch.

Dying of liver cirrhosis should have been downright peaceful compared to what could have been, but, somehow, it was worse. Had given him an excuse to gamble it all away and, worse, plenty of time to think.

Husk pushed one of the mixer’s output slides upward, enhancing the volume of the caller who sounded like he was talking through a mouthful of glass.

Here he was again - leaning in, stepping directly in the proverbial shit.

He glanced up just as Angel Dust winked at him, a light smirk playing on his features. Under better circumstances, Husk might have smiled back.

Unfortunately, anticipation and a vague sense of dread had him in a chokehold.

“Ah, that’s better and what’re ya doin’, callin’ in from a warzone?” Angel continued.

“Yeah. Payphone.”

“Multitaskin’ king!”

Deciding to take callers had been his idea.

Angel Dust was an immense talent and could charm a rock, but he wasn’t used to the lack of back and forth. Husk had watched Alastor at work enough to know that there was an art to it; that it was equal parts method and time and talent. You had to know where to pause for effect, when to pull and throw your linguistic punches, had to anticipate the reactions of the audience, imagine them leaning in closer and closer to the speaker, keep them engaged.

Angel had been doing well but had started to flag a bit as he started to run out of topics that didn’t lead him into innuendos, or that wouldn’t feed the toxic gossip train that seemed to be fueling the internet’s manic Overlord hunt.

So, during a quick commercial break - some pre-recorded advertisement that Alastor had done himself - they had decided on relationship advice.

Alastor was going to skin him alive.

“ - and ya know … Hank, was it?” Angel asked the caller.

“Uh, Brian. The Demon.”

“Right. Brian. Brian the Demon. Ya know what I think, Brian the Demon?”

Husk rolled his eyes as Angel Dust caught his gaze, and this time he couldn’t hold back the light quirk of his lips as Angel batted his eyes at him. He looked away and shook his head, turned his attention back to the mixer.

Hearing him dish out relationship advice to Hell’s lowlifes was surprisingly entertaining. If he didn’t think Alastor would rip his throat out, he’d suggest he offer Angel a spot. It wasn’t as though Alastor had cornered this particular market. The last time a caller had begged relationship advice from the Radio Demon, it resulted in an arson spree that Alastor had found deeply entertaining.

If the Sinner had found any catharsis, he hadn’t a clue.

“ - if he’s not willing to recognize what ya bring to the relationship, then I think ya need to evaluate whether it’s got legs.”

“I delivered an ultimatum, though! Me or his body pillows! It’s - it’s getting ridiculous.”

“Ultimatums don’t get anyone anywhere, babe. Have ya considered, I dunno, a bigger bed?”

“He’ll just buy more, and lemme tell ya -”

The volume suddenly kicked up, the caller’s voice loud and distorted. The noise caused Angel Dust to flinch, to pull the headphones - the one’s Alastor rarely wore - away from his head with a hiss.

It was followed by an ear piercing shriek of feedback, the kind that you could feel under your skin. Husk’s eyes watered and as abruptly as the sound had started, it stopped.

Angel looked towards him and Husk put his arms up, claiming hey, wasn’t me, don’t look at me like that. Angel waited a beat, blinked and hesitantly placed the headphones back on.

“Sorry about that folks, uh technical difficulties, I uh - I guess -” Angel Dust’s brow furrowed as he stared at something in front of him and Husk just barely caught the object of his attention.

His breath had condensed as he spoke, had formed little puffs of vapor. Husk blew a short breath, as though he were exhaling smoke after a long drag from a cigarette, watched the curl of his breath. It shouldn’t have been possible. 

“What the - “ Angel Dust said as he rubbed his arms, bottom limbs trying to warm his body as a shocking thrill of cold ran through the room.

It took Husk a moment to feel it, his thick fur offering additional protection, but when he did he felt a chill run up his back. it was frigid, it was electric - it felt like the kind of cold you couldn’t escape, that settled bone deep.

“Hell-ll-ooo?” The caller asked, his voice distorted and strange, and Husk reached over to mute the input and output audio just as feedback began to burn through the speakers once again. The noise filtered in and out, was replaced with a low-grade hum that lived on a frequency so low, it felt ominous, demonic.

The space filled with it, rattled one’s bones.

Husk glanced at the desk - they were completely muted but they were still broadcasting, still sending out a signal.

Dead air - that wouldn’t do.

Husk quickly switched over to the pre-recorded advertisements but it was quickly swallowed by that terrible humming. There was the brief stutter of the false start of some chipper reminder of some local event until it slowed into something menacing, as though someone had unplugged a record mid-spin, and then nothing.

The fur on Husk’s scruff lifted as the pressure in the room built, as that horrible hum continued - if anxiety, if anticipatory terror had a sound, this would be it.

“The fuck is that?” Angel Dust yelled as he flung the headphones off, gripped the mixing desk with his lower limbs and clamped his hands over his head with his upper set.

As the hum built and that horrific feedback returned, the mixing desk sparked. Husk flinched away before reaching across the divide to pull Angel - chair and all - closer to him. The ground below them shook and the lights around them flickered. The pen Angel Dust had previously been flicking between his fingers shook off the mixing desk and clattered to the floor before disappearing swiftly into a shadow.

“Back up, back up -” He pulled at Angel Dust, dragged him out of the chair, as the shadow that started as a pinpoint in the center of the wooden floor began to spread, sickly and encroaching. Its edges shuddered, grew and shrunk; it looked as though it could explode outwards or collapse inwards at any moment, the perfect picture of instability.

From the void came whispering, horrible, desperate whispering. It was inhuman, ancient.

The On Air sign popped with a spark, the red light failing and succumbing to the encroaching dark. It crawled up the walls, shattered or dimmed the light it managed to roll over like a wave. It splintered wood, sending shrapnel up in gunshot pops.

“Husk?” Angel Dust was gripping his hand, voice panicky as he looked between him and the undulating nightmare before them. Husk had opened his wings to their full length, had wrapped one around Angel Dust even as they stood pinned to the wall.

“I think the plan worked.” Husk growled as his ears popped.

Angel shot him a look of disbelief because this wasn’t the usual Eldritchian nightmare most of the hotel’s denizens were accustomed to. They were used to the void opening and tentacled, all to the tune of Alastor’s delighted laughter. They were used to him appearing in quick, well-formed shadows and a certain sense of control, the dark boundaried and limited by Alastor’s will.

Husk knew the Void was more than it appeared, that it was the kind of thing he’d stay the fuck away from if he had the choice, but he didn’t and he was semi-used to it by now.

However, something was decidedly off.

The entire building seemed to groan and the windows shook; the metal encasing the windows made their loud complaints as the pressure being exerted built. It sounded the way a Huey did when it crashed and burned - all groaning metal and pops and bangs as unseen things exploded - and Husk wondered with a heart-racing thrill if they could be sucked into all that black.

That - that’s what he was fucking talking about.

That was off.

Something skittered across the floor and he only barely grabbed Niffty’s wrist as she tried to jump gleefully into the black mass, just as Alastor’s chair was consumed.

“Niff, for Christ’s sake!” Angel shouted, his tone suggesting she’d nearly given him a heart attack. They watched collectively as the tray of sandwiches she’d apparently brought with her after her unseen return slid into the void

There was a certain horror to it, watching the food disappear as the chair remained caught in a state of what looked like an incomplete rendering. It appeared half here and half there and then appeared to fold in half without a sound and disappear.

Husk had no clue what would happen if the center of this thing made it to them and he felt his ears pin back as his heart continued to hammer in his chest. The window to their left cracked, the loud crunch sounded like fracturing bones.

The room darkened to something so pitch, even Husk, with his keen, feline eyes, struggled to pick out the features of the room. The pink glow of Angel Dust’s eyes - his form growing demonic out of pure anticipation - and the vague sigils, the toxic green vevè that seemed to burn into the walls, the floor offered a strange contrast to that yawning black.

Just as he was about to make a break for the window, Angel Dust and Niffty in tow and yeah he could probably take their weight, even if his wings would burn for days, the aching screech of feedback reached a crescendo.

Many things happened at once but fuck if Husk knew which came first.

There was a thunderclap and a blinding light, a greenish explosion that burned shapes into his retinas, and the cacophonous roar of inhuman things - growls and static and an atomic shuddering - that had his ears ringing.

He winced and looked away, tightened his grip on Angel Dust and Niffty, wings closing tight and painful around their forms.

The glass continued to splinter and it was instinct that had him pulling Angel down with him with a breathy, “down, down, get down.”

There was - he was sure, he dreamed enough of the noise to know - the clap of gunfire and the thunk thunk thunk of shrapnel hitting wood; it landed behind them, above them, all nonsensical in its trajectory.

If any of it struck him, he couldn’t tell. He didn’t give a flying fuck, as long as none of it caught Angel or Niffty. His mind, stressed and over-fucking-stimulated dredged up a ghost from the past, a voice that shouted over war-din to exclaim holy smokes, Norman Nine Lives does it again!

It was all followed by the loud thump of something hitting the unforgiving plane of the floor, just beyond the mixing table.

With a shriek, the windows shattered outwards just as the blackness retreated inwards, popping into nothingness as though into a vacuum. This final act occurred in pure, unnatural silence. An absence so severe, it hurt. It was as though all sound had been sucked from the room and Husk realized with a turn of dread that it had.

The Void, in all its terrific power, had stolen the very sound from the room.

All of it, every bit had happened in a mere moment, and when the sound returned it was with a crash - the thunk thunk thunk and the thump and the shriek and the fine tinkling of shattered glass all at once, as though everything were being dropped from a great height.

Husk felt the fine burn of wounds catching open air, the thin skin of his wings having taken the full brunt of the windows shattering. It took him a moment to reconcile the sudden calm and he latently recognized that he’d been terrified. There had been too much happening to recognise it in the moment, but that’s what he had been feeling as his pulse had quickened and his grip on Niffty and Angel Dust had tightened to the point of bruising.

He could feel Angel’s heart thumping under his palm; he’d been gripping the other demon’s chest, arm wrapped around his stick thin frame in a desperate attempt to keep him close and shield him.

For a moment he thought he was going to vomit.

If something had happened to Angel, he wasn’t sure he would have survived it - nine lives or not.

Husk realized his wings were still tightly curled around them. Like a child looking through his fingers he pulled one wing away, fanned the feathers just enough to reveal the side of the mixing board. He had ushered them into the furthest corner in his attempt to pull them from the reach of the Void

The lights that hadn’t shattered - and they were sparing - flickered to life with a whine, and the mixing board sparked. In an impossible play of metaphysics, Alastor’s chair was half embedded into its frame. There wasn’t a scratch on it - it was as though it had been phased neatly into the board in a moment of intangibility.

Niffty shifted in his hold, said: “it’s okay. Sir is here.”

He allowed her to squirm from his grasp, distantly listened to the tap of her feet as she scuttled away, too shocked and shaky to really take in what she’d said.

Husk let out a breath he didn’t know what he was holding as he was left pressed close to Angel, neither of them moving. Husk realized that Angel, too, was breathing in a painfully quick staccato.

“You good?” He said, looking into Angel’s eyes, pulled his wings back a bit to give the taller demon room to stretch. Angel blinked as though startled, looked down at him, eyes wide and wondrous.

“I uh - I honestly don’t know.”

Angel flinched when something came unmoored, fell with a clatter.

From what Husk could see, it looked like they’d had a warzone dropped on top of them.

“Fuck.” Husk heaved a breath, meant for it to be both a response and agreement.

For a moment they remained as they were, crouched in his cocoon of feathers. Husk would have much preferred to sit there on the floor with Angel, to enjoy his wide-eyed sincerity and blown pupils a little longer, but Niffty was quick to remind them of the matter at hand.

“Sir brought another bad boy with him.” Niffty said pleasantly from the other side of the mixing table. Husk blinked and Angel mirrored him as they both processed the words.

Another bad boy …

They both stood in a painful rush of limbs.

“Holy shit.” Angel Dust wheezed, his voice wavering.

It was appropriate, Husk figured, because the scene before them was more than shocking.

In the center of the room, where the Void had initially appeared, lay a bloodied, beaten and unconscious Alastor. He looked terrible and if it weren’t for his shallow, wheezy breathing, one could easily mistake him for dead.

Niffty was already at his side, tugged lightly at his shoulder.

“Holy shit.” Angel Dust repeated and Husk figured the second expletive had something to do with the fact that the Radio Demon had brought along a passenger, one that was still wrapped in Alastor’s one armed embrace, his red tipped claws gripping at his side.

Husk swallowed, hackles rising.

“Vox?” Husk asked, tone incredulous and disbelieving.

The Overlord in question was shaking, shivering, as his screen glitched multiple times in a row before revealing his usual visage. He was conscious - looked conscious - but seemed deeply out of it, eyes appearing unfocussed as electricity arced between his antennae.

Husk had known Alastor a long time - too long, really - and was struggling to come up with the circumstances that had landed him in this position, claws gripping Vox like a lifeline. It was possible that Vox had done something, had attacked Alastor, had hurt him, but he couldn’t imagine how he’d entered the Void and come out alive if not for Alastor’s will.

In a surprise move, the demon pushed himself to his elbow, hissed as it pulled at one of his many wounds. The movement dislodged Alastor’s hold, his bloodied claws falling limp with a thud.

The sound made Vox look back at the other Overlord on the floor. Husk couldn’t see his expression. He watched, tense, as Vox reached forward to grip at that limp claw.

“‘L-st-or?” Vox said in an incomprehensible garble. He looked as though he were a mere strong wind from being knocked unconscious, but Husk saw something flash where his own hand was meeting Alastor’s.

Husk growled.

“Hey, back off.”

Vox flinched as though he was noticing them for the first time, which he likely was.

With surprising speed, the Overlord whirled himself around, screen glitching chaotically. He was covered in blood, looked all the more insane when he bared his teeth.

“Don’t move, stay right there -” Husk warned in a flash of aggression in the same moment that Angel played his opposite, stepping forward, arms coming to hover in front of him as though attempting to quiet some rogue animal, as he offered a warbly, “Hee-eey …”

Vox blinked, one eye at a time, continued to shiver, his teeth chattering as he sucked in a breath.

He was looking through them more than at them until his brow - or whatever passed for it - furrowed and a weak arc of electricity passed between his antennae. He sat up more fully, grimaced, looked as though he were laying eyes on an enemy.

Given his current state, Husk imagined that, Overlord or not, it wouldn’t be much of a fight, but he wasn’t one to give a free pass based on appearances.

Suddenly, with the look of a man who had remembered something important, and with due urgency, he lurched forward, swiped at them in the same motion that had him falling to his knees.

Angel squealed as he stepped back, almost tripped on splintered wood, as he let out a frantic, “whoah, whoah, whoa -”

“Ss-tay ba-ack.” Vox growled, voice wavering with distortion, the kind that reminded Husk of miserable hot days spent in miserable rooms, his own fist banging on the box that transmitted miserable news.

“Hey, cut that shit out -” Husk snarled as he pulled Angel closer, fanned the claws of his free hand in a gesture that promised equal violence if Vox chose to be so stupid. Husk’s gaze darted over toward Alastor who continued to silently bleed on the floor, crimson finding the grooves of the ragged lines of vèvè that had been burned into the wood.

He hated himself for feeling that twist in his gut.

Had Vox grabbed onto him when he’d dropped into the Void? Was this the tail-end of one of their ugly brawls? Husk had no clue, but assuming would do him no good. Alastor was an unpredictable fucker.

“ -the f’ck - away f’rm ‘em.” The distortion worsened and the room crackled with a growing charge. Husk felt his fur begin to stand on end as the room grew static and dry.

Vox flinched as some component in his head made a snapping noise, his claws digging into the wood as electricity arced and popped under his hands.

Husk’s ears flicked over the noise of Alastor’s hitched breathing. A clawed hand twitched and it sent Niffty running, muttering about blood and bandages and bad boys with no apparent concern for the Television Demon that she all but vaulted over.

The disturbance seemed to clear some of the haze and Vox blinked heavily, slurred something incomprehensible as he glitched.

“Easy, easy, big guy -” Angel said as he gave Husk’s arm a gentle squeeze. He made a hesitant step forward again, both sets of arms raised in a motion of peace.

“Careful.” Husk warned as Angel sidled around the Overlord, made for Alastor’s side. He froze when Vox flinched.

The Overlord glitched again, hands snapping with electricity and Husk tensed, ready to pull Angel away at the slightest hint of attack. The Overlord blinked lazily at them as his body shuddered with another chill.

“Angel … Dust?” Vox asked as he squinted and before either of them could say anything, the Overlord began to laugh. It started low and huffy and devolved into something manic.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s right.” Angel nodded, and managed to smile a bit. Husk could see the way his throat bobbed, the anxiety that was fighting his desire to help. Husk wasn’t so trusting, felt the tension in his shoulders start to ache as he awaited an attack.

“You and Al had a rough day, huh?” Angel asked carefully. “Understatement, I know.”

Vox didn’t answer; hadn’t really seemed to process the statement. He merely watched as Angel Dust dropped down next to Alastor, his expression caught between disarming and grimacing as he reached towards the downed Overlord’s forehead.

Husk snarled as Vox’s hand shot out, arresting Angel’s attempt.

Electricity arced and there was a snapping sound and the muggy, burnt smell of something electronic burning, and Vox’s expression darkened.

“To-uchhh ‘em and I’ll r-p y’r arm offf.” He growled as his face pixelated and glitched and did a bunch of complicated shit that Husk was to damn angry to interpret or give a damn about.

“Let him go.” Husk barrelled forward, grabbed at the man’s lapels, found that he was absolutely radiating heat and something on his person was making the sound of an overstressed fan, all clicking and whirring.

For a moment his entire screen went blue.

Vox let go, hand falling to his side, just as his ‘face’ returned. He looked terribly lost for a man who’d just threatened them with bodily harm.

“Fuck,” Angel mumbled to himself, clearly trying to keep from provoking the Overlord hitc-hiker - lagniappe is what Alastor would have called him, something extra.

“He’s in bad shape. Y’ see my phone anywhere?” Angel asked, looking around even though it seemed pointless.They had both tried to contact Charlie throughout the day and had come up wanting; there was no reason to think they’d be successful now, but Angel was probably panicking.

Sill, Husk glanced around, mindful of the catatonic Overlord in his grasp.

To his surprise he spotted it. It was embedded in the floor, just like the chair - half in, half out - an impossibility of physics as he knew it. Its screen was glitching as badly as the demon before him.

“There ya go.” He nodded at it and Angel Dust looked up, over and cursed.

“Aww, the fuck, Al -” Angel complained before turning his attention back to the demon in question. Husk flinched as Angel tore a piece of Alastor’s jacket into a strip, an easy feat given the tattered state of the hem, and balled it up and shoved it into a gaping leg wound with a squelch.

“Al?” The Overlord in his grasp slurred, expression lifting towards confused as he squinted at Husk.

“No. What happened?” Husk asked, giving the man an unkind shake.

“We’re … heh … out?” Vox sounded a little hysterical, looking the part as his shaking worsened. Now that things had ‘calmed’ a bit, now that he was nearly on top of them, Husk could see the steam rising from both Vox and Alastor - wherever they had been, it had been unnaturally cold.

“Huh?” Husk asked inelegantly; he was completely done with this shit.

“Y-Yeah, you’re out.” Angel offered from the side, one of his hands palpating a pulse point on Alastor’s wrist, face drawn into a frown.

Oh, right, Husk thought with only middling sympathy. It wasn’t exactly easy to forget that they’d popped off that nightmare of undulating black, but hey, he was a little distracted by the presence of the Overlord that had made a hobby out of trying to kill and maim his boss.

Whatever Vox had experienced in the Void, it had been unpleasant and Angel, unable to do anything but tap into that deep-rooted kindness, had recognized the behavior for what it was.

Vox was a fucking prick, that was for sure, but he wasn’t all there right now, not that that meant much under most circumstances in Hell. Husk didn’t care how disoriented the guy looked - he would still try to claw his throat out if he tried anything again.

“Hmph.” Vox’s shoulders lifted as a huffed an amused noise, his head lolling a bit.

“Hey, uh, stay with me.” Husk grumbled as he felt Vox begin to lose his legs - he’d pulled him up to his knees, hadn’t risked hoisting him to his feet due to their height difference, and was now struggling to keep his uncoordinated weight.

“We’re ou-ut.” He repeated with an exceedingly creepy giggle, and Husk couldn’t help but think of old, long-dead friends who had cracked in the war, of Don and Smokey who started laughing one day and didn’t stop.

“Yeah, man.” Husk said lowly, disturbed.

He needed a drink.

Husk felt the Overload pull away and he let him go, let him slide sideways in a collapsed twist of limbs, his arm ghosting around his side as though his hurts were only just making themselves known. The glitching had gotten worse and he was laughing again, a full bodied thing that made it hard to discern mirth from shivering.

“He did it. He uh - ha - he …”

That haze of confusion seemed to darken Vox’s gaze once more as his body shook randomly with tremors.

Angel glanced at Husk and Husk nodded. They needed to peel Alastor off the floor and see the extent of the damage, do something more than plug a hole or two. They both looked like hammered shit but Alastor was far too quiet and whatever Angel had learned through his quick assessment, he hadn’t liked.

“He - uh - sure did.” Husk said in his own form of placation that probably fell flat. He didn’t know what Vox was alluding to - it could have been a complaint, a confession, an accusation.

Husk gave Vox an uncertain look before deciding the Overlord could be trusted to sit still for one fucking second, and moved to help Vox when he was stopped by the sudden needle tipped grip of one of Vox’s claws.

It felt like someone had clapped hot irons over his wrist.

“He apologized.” Vox said so quietly that Husk found his ears perking forward. He had said it like it was a question, like he was so abjectly broken that he didn’t even know what he was saying; his features glitched again, “To me.”

Husk wrinkled his nose, stared down at the Overlord.

“Come again?” Angel Dust asked as he leaned forward in preparation to pick Alastor from off the ground. Husk could see the hesitation, blinked again, eyes shuttering with the threat of a faint, and huh he almost sounded concerned. Husk wrinkled his nose. He didn’t trust any of this.

Before Husk could say anything of any real meaning, Vox was glitching again.

He was listing forward.

Fuck.

Husk, the fool he was, leaned in.

When they returned to Hell it was to a city on fire and one-hundred-and-fifty-four text messages between them.

It was Vaggie who first noticed the busted husk of the Radio Tower, smoking and shattered, a blemish on the otherwise intact hotel, but it was Charlie who reacted, a terrified gasp renting the air.

It was Lucifer who opened the portal to another reminder of how badly they needed to fix his mistakes.

And it was Lillith who watched from afar.

Chapter Text

“Good-fucking-Morning Hell! I’m Katy Killjoy -”

“ - and I’m coming after whoever reported me for insider trading!”

“ - it was me, Tom. Die mad about it just like the Overlords who didn’t make it through the night, those fucking pussies - “

“ - all of Hell sure has shown up for this once in an afterlife event, Katy, you bitch! Even my ex-wife is participating, if her Sinstagram is to be believed - honey, please come home, preferably with some cash - “

“ - that’s right, Tom. Sinners and Hellborne from all over Hell have taken to the Pride Ring to join the hunt and are making our station filthy fucking rich by joining in the betting pool - thanks for that you slobs!”

“ - I just need those loan sharks off my back, there’s like, so many of them, this power vacuum is completely unsustainable - “

“ - your whining is unsustainable. Now, for some juicy, blood-soaked updates! Vee Tower continues to make its stand - and come on you lowlifes, put your backs into it - but in the meantime, you’re hitting where it hurts! Their wallets. VoxTech stock is falling faster than Lucifer, and most retail locations have been looted straight down to the brick!”

“ - I put too much money on the Vees, please, someone, do something - “

“ - Overlords Magma and Citrix are the latest to be confirmed dead, and no surprise there considering they reached status only months ago - ouch! Cannibal Town has erected impressive defense measures and continues to offer generous compensation for flesh - Sinner or otherwise - and the Town’s Head Honcho, Overlord Rosie, has instituted a stimulus program for her residents. This is Hell, you liberal cuck!”

“ - do you have to be an actual resident, or - “

“ - and finally, we will be sending our most expendable reporter out to investigate the slaughter that reportedly happened this morning in the Pine Barrens! Now, let’s revisit the deadpool and see who fucked around and found out!”

For one short moment, Lucifer Morningstar, King of Hell, First of the Rings, Sower of Hell’s first seeds, had no clue what he was looking at.

He’d only set foot in the Radio Tower once and that had been to help build it. He’d grumbled the whole time, complained about building something so fine and structurally impressive for Hell’s biggest asshole, and had been downright irritated when Charlie had politely asked if he could make the interior a little less apples and circuses, and a little more antlers and dereliction.

He’d officially given up when she’d mentioned swamp moss, figured he could do that himself if he ever returned and cursed them with his presence again.

Still, he’d been proud - shocker - of the end result and he was fairly certain this was not how he’d left it, Alastor’s tragic interior decorating notwithstanding.

This - this was a nightmare masquerading as a Radio Tower.

Materials had become senselessly entangled, seamlessly married in efforts of quantum physics that should not be possible to so casually observe, not without the intervention of himself or, you know, God.

The smell was what immediately stuck out to him, despite the insanity of the visuals and hold on, he was getting to that. It was hard to miss, and he wasn’t referring to the overwhelming metallic sting of blood, or that bucolic soil and pine combination. It was the burnt, gunpowder smell of chemical reactions - the catastrophic collision of minerals and metals made one by solar heat, of the combining of atoms and entropy.

It was the smell of creation - of time and space.

The presence of this ancient bouquet was only further highlighted by the absolute eyefuck before them.

No one would notice it - not even Alastor, despite his familiarity with his own space - but the Tower was now one inch smaller on the outside than it was on the inside. Lucifer could sense it, see it, and it made his skin crawl.

Nearly every window had been blown either inwards or outwards - metaphysical disagreements realized - and the floor had been badly warped, some floor boards bending upwards and others dipping into little valleys.

Anything wooden featured pockmarks or burns or the brands of ancient symbols that Lucifer only recognized because his knowledge was essentially complete when it came to magic and the arcane.

Were he to have time with them, he would be able to read them like a story, would be able to understand the caster’s intentions as though they were his own. For now, his sweeping gaze could only gleam a general sense and it spoke of desperation and a startling amount of will, the kind he could begrudgingly respect.

But he didn’t have time - time to pour over those wild, Earthy sigils, or marvel at the desk-console nightmare combo, or tear his hair out over what this meant for the structural integrity of the adjacent wall, because in the center of the room was the worst welcome wagon in the history of Heaven, Hell, and Earth.

Their arrival had been just as unexpected as the absolute war-like state of the Tower, complete with casualties - plural - and the effect had them all staring in a brief, stupid state of shock.

Husk was supporting the weight of one of the Overlords he’d seen during Sera’s little presentation, had been part of the carousel of misdirected blame, and looked extremely unhappy about it.

And Angel Dust, he was wide-eyed, comically so, and hunched over the very Overlord he was pretty sure he had just told to take it easy and not do anything to aggravate his wounds so he wouldn’t bleed out on the floor of the Radio Tower he so kindly built in his absence and fuck fuck fuck -

And then, they were all talking, moving at once.

“Oh, thank fuck - ”

“Al! No, no, no, what happened?”

“It’s about time! I’ve been callin’ youse all day! I think Al ‘s fuckin’ dyin’ again!”

“Is that Vox!?”

“Dad! Give us a hand -”

Right, he blinked, jolted into action.

He had fully been expecting to return to a general sense of calm, to an atmosphere conducive to their pressing scholarly tasks - this was a giant bitch of a wrench, a serious one if the lingering scent of Holy was anything to go by.

Lucifer tripped on something as he lurched forward to assist his daughter. She’d joined Angel at Alastor’s side, hand lightly tapping at his cheek and calling his name as she tried to rouse him.

He looked down.

A glitching phone was half-in, half-out of the floor.

He was going to have to talk to Alastor about that when he wasn’t bleeding out on the floor, because that was something he shouldn’t be able to do, wasn’t a power Sinners should have access to.

Lucifer arrived at Alastor’s side and plunked down onto his knees with a squish, warm blood soaking into his very white pants. He was worse off than he’d looked from across the room, and Lucifer felt his gut drop over the amount of holy energy pouring off of him.

Though - Lucifer frowned for a moment, furrowed his brow.

He could feel it coming off both of them - Alastor and the Overlord Husk and Vaggie were arguing about. Great, he thought as he reached out to touch Alastor’s forehead, two holy infections to deal with, assuming they weren’t throwing that one to the curb.

He wasn’t much worried about Alastor waking or trying to bite his hand off or something so predictable - he didn’t need to touch him, let alone look at him to know how poorly he was.

“He just … showed up like this, but somethin’ was wrong, the shadows, it was like, I dunno, toots, it was freaky and not normal freaky - “ Angel was talking to Charlie, answering a question he’d missed.

Freaky was one word for it.

Alastor’s skin was hot to the touch, which, no surprise there and he was breathing in a way that looked and sounded downright uncomfortable. A thrill of pity ran through him. No one could say that the Overlord hadn’t been through the wringer lately.

Lucifer closed his eyes, reached out to get a sense of what was going on with the hotel mascot. He immediately found himself gripping at a thread of holiness that had settled into the old but still healing wound - it was like trying to hold on to the slimy form of an eel, one that ate the tissue surrounding it whenever you gripped too tightly.

He sucked in a breath, shocked by the amount of damage Alastor had managed to absorb in such a short period of time. He was a mess of contusions and scrapes, fractured bones and light internal hemorrhaging.

No big deal.

This fucking guy - there wasn’t a moment’s peace with him.

“Dad?” Charlie asked, worried to shreds, contract sitting abandoned next to her; its Heavenly pages protected from the blood and grime of the floor. He could feel the very blood trying to leave the Sinner’s body, most of it through the pesky hole in his leg, and the rest through his lungs - he was surprised he was breathing at all, but the hyperventilating made sense now.

“Gimme a minute, sweetie.” He grimaced, wondered how he was going to manage to move the Overlord while maintaining his liminal grip on this twisting, slithering holiness.

Voices behind him - Vaggie, Husk - were arguing, bringing the room to a boiling point; the cumulative stress of the five conscious people in the room was rather magnificent. He could feel Charlie's nervous energy; she was all but vibrating and when he opened his eyes to look at her, he found she looked green. Her lips were locked in a tight line and her hands were clenched in tight fists in her lap.

Her eyes were locked on Alastor, but he could tell that the conversation happening to her left was distracting her to near madness. He wasn’t listening too closely, they sounded conflicted and confused about what to do with this wayward Overlord, and he was a little too distracted to offer his own opinion or criticism or whatever.

“Help the others?” He suggested, because she desperately needed something to do and he didn’t think it fair to just have her sit and watch her friend actively try to die in front of her, again, the bastard.

He felt a guilty slice of anger at the Overlord for putting her through this twice, which quickly transformed into a little self-loathing because wasn’t this just another far-reaching consequence of decisions he’d made ages before?

“Right. Yes. Right.” She seemed to shake herself from her fugue, body moving, eager to do something useful. Charlie said something over her shoulder before placing a grounding hand on his forearm.

“Can you open a portal to one of the guest rooms?”

He did so without much thought, could hear the tell tale whoosh of the fabric of time and space bending to his will.

“Be careful.” He muttered as he tried to simultaneously reel in a stubborn sliver of errant holy energy that was making a beeline for Alastor’s lungs.

Charlie hesitated for a moment, clearly not wanting to leave having likely sensed just how bad the Overlord’s condition was and then gave Alastor’s shoulder a squeeze along with a quiet ‘be right back, Al’.

She sounded shell-shocked and he couldn’t blame her. They’d left that horrible meeting and walked right into the embodiment of what the contract was proposing.

When they were all through the portal he closed it and the Tower was left in a startling, eerie silence.

“Anythin’ I can do?” Angel asked and Lucifer almost flinched because holy Hell he’d forgotten the guy was sitting across from him on Alastor’s other side. He glanced up, was surprised to see the usually distractible Sinner’s attention so fully directed.

He would have expected him to follow Husk and remove himself from this nightmare at the first opportunity.

“I’m gonna open a portal in a moment. I’lll need your help moving him. Just gotta - ” He trailed off as he concentrated.

Gotta stem the bleeding a little. The leg wound was Angelic in nature, would need stitching unlike the scrapes and cuts that littered Alastor’s form. If he set to healing those pesky little wounds, maybe a fracture or two, he could focus on what really mattered, so he reached for those little biological components that would induce clotting and -

- hit a brick fucking wall.

Beneath him Alastor stiffened, his small smile wavering as he clenched his jaw, his brow knitting into something pained. He didn’t wake but he did make a short, keening noise in his throat that might have made Lucifer feel a little bad for the guy if he wasn’t so confused.

He was really glad Charlie hadn’t witnessed that, whatever it was, because it would have likely broken the fragile veneer of control she’d clearly only just been managing. It wasn’t fair - she was far too young for any of this.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Good question, Angel Dust, he thought as he closed his eyes, tried to find the problem, felt another thrill of frustration, how much time do you have?

The holy energy he was mentally grappling with continued to attempt to rebel against the boundaries of its containment - and how fun, he’d have to extract it the old fashioned way - but something in Alastor’s blood had reacted to his magic.

He tried again, nudging this time rather than commanding, and cursed when blood sprung and oozed sluggish beyond the cloth someone had shoved into the leg wound. Alastor made that noise again, more whimpering this time, and Lucifer did feel bad about it.

“Shit, shit, shit -” Lucifer opened his eyes just in time to see Alastor lurch, exhale a wheezy breath, a string of blood making its way out of his mouth.

“What’d ya do?” Angel Dust complained - and wasn’t that refreshing, not many people would take that tone with the King of Hell - as he slapped all four of his hands over the wound.

There was something there, Lucifer had felt it, something that had targeted the complicated network of enzymes and proteins that allowed Sinner’s to regenerate tissue or reknit bone, to regrow limbs like starfish on steroids.

Lucifer had never encountered anything like it, but he had an idea, one that darkened his thinking and made that dirty little contract feel all the more insidious.

“I didn’t do anything,” He finally answered, anger building because, oh, there was no end to Heaven’s depravity, “there’s something in his blood, something preventing his body from healing.”

Angel Dust looked at him, blinked, face wrinkling into a snarl.

“ … poison?”

“Something like that.” Lucifer muttered as he thought a portal into existence. Alastor’s room was waiting on the other side and Lucifer nearly did a double take; there was a slew of medical paraphernalia waiting on the bedside table, a basin, clean, white cloths.

The bed was turned down.

“Niffty.” Angel supplied, and Lucifer huffed a little disbelieving laugh because fuck Heaven - there was plenty good happening in the walls of the Hotel, likely all over Hell, even if the efforts were small, and they were trying to do anything, everything to destroy it.

The yearly Exterminations had been a lot, but it had been easy to look away for one day, to forget about them.

Adam’s egregious attack on the Hotel had been unacceptable, had seen him unleashing in a way he hadn’t in centuries, but they’d survived it. He’d assumed they would be cowed by it - would be humbled by such a disgraceful breach of contract.

But, he’d been wrong, of course. They’d merely dug their heels in and had decided to use his realm as a den for sandbox slaughter. They’d graduated from steel to bioweaponry, and Lucifer knew he couldn’t ensure Charlie’s safety anymore.

He was in it now, he realized.

It wasn’t war, but it was close.

“Help me move him.” Lucifer said, hating the Radio Demon a little less as the holiness within him writhed.

It was 2017.

Twenty-fucking-seventeen.

It had been twenty-seven years and the fucker had the gall to reach out to him, and by fucking telegram, mind you. He hadn’t even known they were still doing that in Hell. An old-timey looking imp had shown up, clicked his stupid little hooves, and handed him a fucking telegram in twenty-seventeen.

It had been seven words, a number and a letter.

Meet me at the café.

Tomorrow morning.

8.

A

Initially, Vox had crumpled the horrible scrap of paper and tossed it into the bin next to his desk.

He had been fuming, had threatened to literally kill the messenger all while he mentally Voogled the telegram company for the sole purpose of acquiring it and then burning it to the ground.

He’d muttered to himself for twenty minutes while he tried to work, tried to focus on the contracts before him that required old-fashioned ink on old-fashioned paper. His secretary had squeaked when the pen burst in his hand, and he’d nearly bitten her head off when she’d offered him a new one.

Vox had tried to work for another hour, but his gaze kept straying to the bin - the neat typeset seemed to mock him. Perfect, inky black words on pristine white. It had been done on an actual typewriter.

Eventually, the paper won.

Whatever, he’d always been weak for the old-fashioned.

The second read had been no less arresting, but instead of anger, he’d felt …

He’d refused to think it, to name it, this crushing vice in his chest and the dropping like a stone sensation in his stomach, the distant numbness, even as the back of his mind - the fleshy brain, not the logical supercomputer - whispered … heartbreak.

It was a moment of weakness, of desperation that had him rising in the morning with a plastic smile and lies on his lips.

“A meeting with a potential investor. Wants to talk commercials.” He lied as he straightened his bowtie.

His hands were shaking.

Why so early, amorcito? Our bed will be so cold, Val complained as he got ready, despite the fact that he’d invited some random Sinner into their bed the night before, one who was still there.

You better not come back completely pissed like last time, Velvette warned from the sofa as he strode for the door, her voice a bored monotone, fingers typing at an impossible speed, we have a board meeting at three.

He said something in response, must have, but when he came back to himself again he was in the café, the one he and Alastor used to frequent in the old days. The one that had stood the test of time and had somehow made it through multiple recessions, not to mention territory disputes.

Vox was sitting in the booth - their booth - trying not to go mad.

While he waited he imagined all the things Alastor might say, might do.

Maybe it was a trap.

Maybe he had lured him here to deliver the final blow, to cut through him with his sharp claws and sharper tongue. To finally cut the throat of the horse they’d both been beating for too long. Vox wouldn’t go down without a fight, of course, and his half-flesh heart beat a rapid tune in his chest in anticipation.

Or, maybe he had changed his mind.

Would he walk through that door, ears hung low in shame as the door’s bell jingled above him, giving him the appearance of a court jester as he shuffled piteously to beg Vox to restore him and his dying medium to their former glory?

Vox would say yes, but first he would say no. He would make him grovel until Vox’s anger transformed into genuine pity, the easiest therapy of his life. Make me feel something other than anger, he would tease, but would mean it - he would mean it so completely.

Alastor missed the eight-o-clock rendez-vous, which was quite unlike him, but Vox stayed anyway. He sipped at coffee, noshed on a scone, tried not give in to the churning of his gut as he stared towards the entrance of the cafe, mind crafting fantasy.

Maybe Alastor hadn’t sent the telegram.

Maybe one of his many rivals, enemies, was playing at manipulation. Someone could have dug something up that allowed them to put the pieces together, to find a weak spot that would reduce him to a pathetic, shaking mess. The kind of secret that would see him willingly sit in a decades old booth at an ancient café for hours.

Vox would kill them. Rip them to shreds, allow them to regenerate, and do it all again.

Vox ordered lunch, just so he’d have something to do.

Maybe he wanted to make amends.

What if he wanted what they’d had back? What if he walked through that door, ears attentive and proud as the door’s bell jingled above like a song, heralding the coming of a new age between them? Alastor might cross the space, sit down and fold his hands, smile for real as they talked and expressed regret.

He would stay at the café all day, all night, meeting be damned, and they’d talk and express regret and say things like:

I really am sorry, old chum.

He should go.

He would go.

Vox would go back to Vee tower, shaking with unnamed emotions and lie to Valentino and Velvette, make empty apologies for having missed the three pm meeting, and stew for seven years.

He moved to stand, but.

The door’s bell jingled and Vox looked up -

ERROR

- to see Lucifer Morningstar himself. The King of Hell made short work of the space between the door and booth and, as though he belonged there -

ERROR

- he slid into the opposite bench.

Vox sat, slack-jawed and stupid as he watched His Majesty look around the little café as though it were a point of interest, before directing his gaze at him. Lucifer Morningstar gave him a vaguely apologetic look.

“Sorry, sorry. Rude, I know.” He didn’t sound that sorry; if anything he sounded tired, like he did this all the time and was a little sick of it. “But I need you awake for this.”

Vox blinked, eyes sliding away for a moment to glance at the other patrons; no one seemed to notice their humble ruler.

“P - Pardon?” Vox stuttered; his head hurt.

ERROR

“I’ve never healed a … television before. Don’t want to - uh - scramble your brain. Brains.” Lucifer offered as though it were a perfectly sensible explanation.

“Healed …” He repeated, his own voice sounding distorted.

“Oh, and, sorry in advance. This might hurt.”

Before Vox could form another half-worded response, Lucifer reached forward and flicked the top of his screen, his forehead.

Wake up.

Vox woke up with a painful gasp, body jerking in response to the unnatural command.

“There we are.” A voice said above him - it sounded like the Lucifer from his dreams, his memories?

Vox blinked - thought he did.

He couldn’t see.

Someone was talking again. The words, the fact that they were words and perfectly structured sentences registered, but they didn’t make sense. He couldn’t grasp them long enough, finely enough to understand.

What the fuck is happening? He asked, maybe slurred, perhaps didn’t say at all, before a terrible pain gripped him.

He arched his back against it, this intense burning, nervy pain that was dragging through his veins and collecting in the palm of his right hand. It was the kind of pain you begged away from, the kind you were sure would be your undoing, a two staged kind of thing - thinking you were dying and wishing you were.

Distantly, he knew he was being held down. Pinpoint pressure nailed him down at the biceps and an inch above his knees, and the claustrophobia of it, the vulnerability of it, made him thrash.

He tried to build a charge, even a weak shock would satisfy, but found that whatever was happening to him, it had completely neutralized his power.

Every hurt in his body - and there were many - made itself known, screamed in alarm as something dragged across his raw nerves. It felt as though someone was roughly extracting barbed wire from his circulatory system.

There were voices above him and the pain that had been all muddy water before, was now a magnifying glass. He caught only snatches, but they rang loud in his head, a feeble sorry was paired nicely with an urgent stop moving; he very much wanted to tell them to fuck off because he was on fire.

He was panting. He knew it not by his breath or the sensation of his chest rising and falling, but for the burning in his throat as he pulled air in raggedly, doggedly. He was hot, sweating as though he were standing open and under the New Orleans - New York sun.

He was weakening. The pressure on his limbs no longer required so much of their bruising weight, and for a moment he wondered where Valentino and Velvette were, why they’d left him to this.

Then he wondered where Alastor was.

He felt a thrill of terror run through him, right along the edges of that horrible, pulling pain, as his mind supplied images of Alastor on the road, deaf and exhausted, and Alastor in the woods, hunched and bleeding, and Alastor in the - the black, the darkness, dying.

Of Alastor on a wooden floor, dead.

Vox tried to recover the memory, doubted it could be true, refused it - but it was like looking through frosted glass.

He tried to invoke the voices for information, the owners of those gripping hands, and though he felt the rumble in his throat, he could not be certain whether he had formed the words carefully enough to be understood.

He inhaled against another sharp twinge of shredding pain, its claws pointed and terrible, until, with all the suddenness of thunderclap, it was gone - it was just gone.

And then so was he.

So was he.

Lucifer all but fell into the well worn chesterfield armchair - and who knew the bastard would own something so comfortable, even if it was a blinding Oxford red - and heaved the heaviest sigh he could manage.

He was exhausted.

He was disturbed.

He was very much so done with this.

“How is he?” Charlie asked from her place at Alastor’s bedside.

They’d dragged the salon chair next to the bed for whomever was on Overlord-sitting duty - Charlie, currently, though Wrathian horses couldn’t drag her away - and Lucifer had commandeered the old chesterfield, had pointed it in the vague direction of the disaster laying there limp and quiet.

“Unconscious, but he’ll survive.”

His hands itched. They were covered in dried blood and he hadn’t the requisite energy to care, let alone magic it away.

“Did he … say anything?” She asked as she pulled her attention from Alastor for a moment. It looked as though it was hard for her, to do anything but watch the Overlord breathe, wheezy and shitty as it was.

Vox - he was pretty sure that’s what everyone had called him - had said plenty, but none of it had been in a state of real lucidity or particularly useful to their current situation. Charlie wanted to know if he’d said anything about what had happened to the two Overlords, what had led them to this point.

He hadn’t.

On that matter, he was no more enlightened than he’d previously been.

Angel Dust had seemed shockingly optimistic, had informed them with complete certainty that Vox had been trying to protect Alastor from them, but Husk, who’d apparently witnessed his fair share of tiffs between the two, was less certain.

Master manipulator, he’d called the Television Demon, and greeeaat, Lucifer had thought, there’s two of them.

Niffty had informed him, with complete confidence and a sharp, creepy grin, that Vox was his spurned lover, really spurned.

After some light arguing, it had been decided that until they could figure out why Alastor’s … friend, archnemesis, spurned lover, whatever … had been brought to the hotel, Vaggie would stand watch and the Overlord would remain chained to the bed.

Lucifer had done the binding himself, had even been gentle about it. Still, gentle or not, there would be no way for Vox to escape those chains, even at full power and not looking like he’d fought a bulldozer.

“Uh, no. Sorry, sweetie.”

There was something, though. Something he had kept to himself when they’d been in the thick of the chaos. Something you didn’t discuss or treat like water-cooler gossip.

Vox and Alastor were connected by the threads of a deal. He couldn’t know the details of it, not without gross invasion of their privacy and the recruitment of some of his more impressive resources, but he had traced the lines of it, witnessed its form, and had found it shockingly beneficent.

Unlike most deals, there was a surprising amount of equity. Even more intriguing were the soft planes of collaboration, of agreement and care. It was a pact of mutual protection, rare and unlikely in Hell, and Lucifer wondered if the two had realized how kindly they had weaved it.

The concept of kind didn’t belong anywhere near the Radio Demon - and he doubted the Television Demon was much better - so he assumed they hadn’t a clue what they’d built.

Lucifer wasn’t a fool - it didn’t make him feel any better about the other Overlord’s presence at the hotel - but given what they knew from Husk and Angel and what they’d learned from the news reports, and what they’d learned in Heaven, Vox was more likely to be an ally than an enemy.

At least for now.

It was something Charlie needed to know, though it would stay between them. He said as much and found that it put a little hope back in her eyes.

“They made a deal of some kind. Now, I don’t know the specifics but I think whatever happened out there, they were helping each other.”

Given Heaven’s concerns, it was rather significant information.

“Really? Oh, Al -” She sounded so hopeful, so pleased and proud. Personally, Lucifer imagined it to be a deal made between two predators that knew they were cornered, whereas his daughter was likely taking it as a display of empathy.

Lucifer could be wrong, of course, but he wasn’t sure empathy was something Alastor did.

“That’s - “ Any salve the information had offered seemed to wear off as she thought. Lucifer’s heart ached for her - she’d come to the conclusion quickly, “ - that’s what Heaven is afraid of.”

Lucifer nodded.

He could feel the bags under his eyes and it was almost untenable, knowing this wasn’t going to end any time soon.

“It makes them a target.” Charlie’s shoulders slumped as she turned her head to regard Alastor; one hand squeezing his limp, dusky claw.

A bigger target, Lucifer knew.

Husk and Angel Dust had switched on the TV, had explained things while they waited for the hourly deadpool report. He didn’t know how they’d caught wind, who had leaked Heaven’s intentions, but their plan was in full swing and they’d hardly had to do anything.

The leak was accurate, too, because it was only half an hour earlier that saw Angel Dust announcing that the news was now reporting a temporary, seventy-hour ceasefire.

They had so much fucking work to do.

Lucifer let his head fall back against the back of the chair and closed his eyes for a moment, swallowed against his own exhaustion before asking:

“How’s our hotelier doing?”

He didn’t really need to ask considering he already knew, the answer being bad, but hey, it was possible he’d rallied a bit in his absence.

“The same.” Like he’d said, bad.

Lucifer sighed again, the fatigue really settling. He’d extracted the holy remnants, just like he had last time, while Angel Dust - a surprising talent with a needle and thread - sewed up the wounds that they couldn’t leave open. The leg wound, a jagged laceration on his side, a nick in his ear - how that had happened, he couldn’t imagine.

The shallows scrapes and scratches, the bruises, they left alone. The Overlord was covered in scars and would be covered in more when this was done.

His lungs were a concern. Lucifer didn’t like how they sounded, how wet his breathing was and how it hadn’t much improved even without the holiness ravaging his body. He’d done his best to drain the blood - had had Angel help him flip the Sinner on his side while he drew blood from his mouth. It had helped but there was still a lot of inflammation. He’d likely be coughing blood for weeks at this rate.

There was little he could do for the fractured ribs, save for help to bind them. He’d only just been freed of the constrictive bandaging and Lucifer imagined he’d be pissed to find his torso wrapped again. Like the ribs, he couldn’t do much for the Sinner’s face - he’d broken his nose but it didn’t need setting, so he’d have to wait it out along with the raccoon eyes.

Wait it out like a human or a particularly weak Sinner because of the cruel little toxin that was coursing through his bloodstream and preventing him from healing at anything faster than a snail’s pace.

He’d tried to poke at it - to get an idea of what it was, but every time he did, the toxin seemed to bear down. Lucifer hadn’t been willing to risk accidentally killing Alastor, so he’d backed off.

After he’d been sure that Alastor would make it an hour without his presence, he moved on to the Overlord. He was a lucky bastard, that was for certain, because though they didn’t trust him, they had voted to help him, to heal what could be healed.

Lucifer wasn’t sure if it was his familiarity with Alastor - and wow, that was a thing he never thought he’d say, think - but Vox had been harder. One touch and he knew that he was out of his element. The Sinner had two immune systems, two brains, a biomechanical heart, and all sorts of components that seemed like they belonged in some high-tech, electronic doodad. He’d needed him awake, needed to see what came to life when the Sinner was conscious and what was inert.

Intruding on someone’s mind was rude as fuck, but it had been necessary.

He’d been surprised to find him pleasantly settled in a memory and not, you know, dreaming of Hellish domination or capitalism or whatever Overlord’s dreamt about. He’d been even more surprised to find the memory Alastor-coded; another piece of evidence that made him err on the side of friend or spurned lover.

He doubted the deal had done that.

From there extracting the holiness hadn’t been any more difficult than it had been with Alastor, but he’d been genuinely upset to find that Vox had the same toxin running through his hybrid blood, even if his body was doing a better job at filtering it out. They patched him up, set his forearm, casted it - and wasn’t that rich, an Overlord in a cast - and crossed their fingers, hoping his screen, his face would heal because Lucifer hadn’t a clue what to do with that.

He expected Vox to wake up in a couple hours.

He expected Alastor to wake up before their three days were up because he had to.

Charlie cleared her throat; he’d been silent too long.

“How are you doing, Dad?”

“Me?” He asked, surprise coloring his tone, because he was still getting used to being asked.

How was he doing?

It was a good question, and one to which he didn’t have an answer.

The weight of the deadline sat heavier on his shoulders with every passing moment, two Overlords had tried to die on him - one of whom was a dear friend of his daughter and still trying to die, the prick - he’d just found out that Heaven had started engaging in some casual biological warfare - no biggie there, ha ha ha - someone was leaking information to the worst of Hell - and if it wasn’t Heaven, Lucifer would eat his own hat - and they’d lost half a day without so much as glancing at the contract.

Oh! and the residue of time and space and ancient shit no one should have access to was stinking up the Radio Tower he’d just rebuilt and he had no idea how stable that side of the hotel was.

He should say he was fine, right?

That’s what normal, societal people said.

But, he was trying to be better, more honest. He wasn’t about to unload on her, because she had the exact same problems, she was his child, but he wasn’t going to give her an empty answer, one that was as much as a dismissing of his feelings and it was hers.

He gave her a weak but genuine smile, shook his head, let it loll against the back of the chair.

“Same as you, I’d bet. Tiiiired.” She startled a little, looked like she wanted to disagree and he could nearly hear it, the no, no, I’m fine, I’m totally fine, so he continued. “What a day, huh?”

It must have been the right thing, or, at the very least, the cathartic thing to say because the reaction was immediate.

Charlie huffed a wet laugh, her face turning up in a sad smile. Lucifer’s heart broke a little because, despite their time apart, he did know his daughter, knew the lines of her grief as well as his own.

He’d helped raise her, after all.

He leaned forward, watched patiently as her brow furrowed, wavered as she fought a whimper, which then devolved into a stuttery exhale of breath. Tears were fast to follow.

“Oh, Charlie, c’mere.” He said as he opened his arms, moved to sit at the edge of his seat.

She crossed the divide and fell into his embrace, crumpled at the knees, and for a moment, she felt like his little girl again - the one that would sneak into his workshop, seeking to sit on his lap to watch him at work, or the one that sought him during particularly violent storms, demanded a song.

The lesson had been stupidly slow to come, but he was realizing that this was the best kind of support he could offer. Sure, he could heal her reckless, trouble-magnet of a stray Overlord, or stock them with caviar and resplendent confections, or help construct buildings at an abnormally fast rate but this - this was everything.

This was the point.

“I just - this is all my fault.” She sniffed into his shoulder and he found himself ardently shaking his head, even if she couldn’t really see it.

“No. Nope. No way. This is not your fault.” It’s mine, he wanted to say but had the presence of mind to understand that it wasn’t the time, even if he believed it.

“This is all Heaven.”

“I know that, but, it’s - I shouldn’t have let him, should’ve told him to, to -” Lucifer blew a raspberry, because she didn’t even sound so sure of what she should have done.

“Trust me, sweetie, there’s no making that one do anything.”

“Yeah,” She pulled back, tone suggesting she agreed, that logically, she knew all that, “you’re right, I just - it sounded horrible, you know? But seeing it … this is what Heaven wants? This is what they want my help with?”

Yes, Lucifer thought, though he imagined they would want to keep her far, far away from the actual bloodshed, would want her signature and then would demand she take a vacation while they dealt with the unpleasantries, visit Gluttony! they’d say, I hear the beaches are simply sinful!

Charlie sighed, looked towards Alastor’s desk and Lucifer followed the line of her attention. The contract, she was looking at the contract. It hadn’t taken on any of the day’s gore. It sat there perfect and shiny and infallible.

“What if I -” She trailed off for a moment, hands coming up to worry her long, golden hair, “ - what if I offer to … stop the whole redemption thing? What if I close the hotel?”

Months ago Lucifer would have said yes, yes yes yes, fantastic idea, honey, Heaven never listens anyway, with a side of, and don’t forget, Sinners will always be violent psychopaths! but now - now the idea made him sick.

The idea of her giving up on her dreams filled him with nothing but anguish.

“No.” He said, gripping her shoulders. When she didn’t look at him he gently held her chin, coaxed her exhausted, grieving gaze.

“It might stop all of this. Now.” She said somewhat desperately.

He shook his head, looked into her eyes, repeated:

“No.”

It wasn’t what she wanted and he knew it. She stared back at him, and how he wished he had an answer.

“We’re not beat yet. We have work to do, but we're not beat yet.” Lucifer offered because it was all he had.

It was all they had.

She gave him another smile and this one was far less defeated than the last. She leaned in again, squeezed him tight, some of her confidence restored, bleeding love and purpose into him.

It felt like a win.

He looked over her shoulder at the Overlord laying on the bed, unchanged, unmoved.

He’d fully expected Alastor to ruin it, to recover just at the right moment to mock them, to call them maudlin or something outdated and infuriating. Charlie would love it, would, for some inexplicable reason, find it hilarious because the two shared an absolutely twisted sense of humor.

Lucifer found himself willing Alastor to wake, to say something dreadful that would make his skin crawl, just because it would make Charlie happy.

But he didn’t.

Lucifer figured it was progress, the fact that maybe the asshole had grown on him a little.

That maybe Sinners had grown on him.

Huh, he thought, how about that.

They stayed like that for a moment longer until there was a knock on the door.

Husk strode in with the first good news of the day.

When Vox woke, it was to the sight of an unfamiliar ceiling and the throb of a blinding headache. He could feel his complicated inner workings whirring and clicking as he tried to force a rapid reboot, a desperate bid to force away the haze that was preventing him from making sense of his current situation.

He briefly lost his vision as the pain throughout his body increased; he felt positivity battered.

Vox moved a stiff arm to poke at the worst of it, the spot in the top left corner of his screen that pulsed like flesh, and found his attempt thwarted by a painful, jolting clank.

He blinked, confused, and lifted his arm, held it in front of his face to find his hand bandaged and his wrist trapped by the glowing, golden bonds of a cuff, the chain snaking out of sight. He didn’t recognize the color, nor the magic, and his system seemed to awaken; it sent a flood of chemicals through his body that made him feel numb and panicky.

His mind supplied the vague impression of being held down, of agonizing pain ripping through his body.

Vox pulled at the chain, registered but didn’t process the admonishing “Hey!” as he tried to sit up and failed, a large hand pressing against his chest. The pressure sent more hot, pulsating pain down his side - a neat line from waist to calf.

Before he could really test the chain or, worse-case scenario, chew his arm off like a fucking deranged coyote, a voice stopped him.

“Vox. Calm the fuck down. You’re at the Hotel. You’re safe.”

He wasn’t about to give credit to the voice, because the tone was anything but convincing and sounded gruff and loathsome, but it did snap him out of the flighty, chemical panic.

His breathing had gone fast on him and as he regained some sense of calm, the pressure against his chest retreated, hesitant at first and then disappearing completely.

He felt the mind-stuttering aura of an oncoming glitch and rode it out with as much patience as he could muster. He tried not to focus on the cuff that sat heavy on his wrist. It didn’t hurt but he could feel its magnitude - someone of immense power had bound him.

The thought was enough to prolong this fit and it was becoming painful, a vice settling over his head.

“Jesus. Take it easy.” The voice complained and as some of the haze from his anxiety-inducing awakening cleared, he realized he recognized it; the name on the tip of his digital tongue.

“I’m gonna let the Princess know he’s awake.” The frustratingly familiar voice said, stepped out of view just as Vox’s vision returned. He’d caught a flash of black and white, but the name was slow to come.

There was someone else in the room, and now that he’d calmed the fuck down, he remembered the other voice joining in on the annoying hey hey heys.

Pro-tip: saying hey over and over again was not calming.

Vox would’ve turned to look but he couldn’t. It was one of the major burdens of having a television for a fucking head, which meant he’d have to, you know, succeed at sitting up, which sounded like actual torture given how sore he was and what the fuck was that about.

He started to push himself up, slowly, using his other arm for leverage. No help came from whoever it was and fuck you very much he thought as his body shook with fatigue. He was making progress but froze as an electric pain lanced up the limb. He held the other arm up and found it encased what looked like a cast.

A blue fucking cast.

“Fractured. Four places.” They said with zero sympathy, a regular Nurse Ratchet, and Vox considered it, squinting against the illogic of it.

It shouldn’t be possible, was outrageously beneath an Overlord, but given that even the mildest twitch of his fingers caused another schism of pain to shoot down the lines of the bones in his forearm, it was humiliatingly necessary.

The memory of a sword slamming down onto rebar millimeters from his face flashed through him, followed by the misery of the fever-heat and sweat that stuck his clothing to his body, and then - then hands, shockingly gentle, unbuttoning his shirt …

A slight stutter of circuitry and the events of the last two days came to him in an overwhelming flood.

Arm be damned, he pushed himself up. Vox was only vaguely horrified by his state of undress - torso bared, a pair of sweats he didn’t recognize and endless stretches of gauze - as he came to a sitting position and found himself looking down the length of an angelic spear.

“Easy.” the woman before him said with a snarl. She was sat forward in a chair placed a little too close for comfort and had her spear stuck right in his face. Vox only vaguely recognized her from the research he’d done on the hotel, from the footage he’d recorded of the battle - this was Charlie Morningstar’s angelic girlfriend.

The pieces came quickly together. The other voice had been Husk - Alastor’s second favorite pet - and he’d been referring to the Princess of Hell.

“I won’t hesitate to stab you.” She said in a low, no-nonsense tone, the kind that said please give me a reason to unleash my frustrations, but Vox wasn’t worried about that right now. He was betting heavily that she would bend to the age old agony that was forgoing delinquency and depravity to avoid disappointing one’s partner.

In a move that Velvette would call bloody suicidal and that Val would likely declare tantalizingly deranged, Vox pushed the blade aside with the back of his casted arm.

“Uh-huh, yeah. Where’s Alastor?” Vox tried to keep his voice level and normal because the last truly clear, uncorrupted memory he had of their ordeal was the split second before he was dragged into the shadows.

Everything after that would probably require years of fucking therapy and careful frame-by-frame analysis to understand, but the visuals he did recall featured a very dead looking deer demon and milisecond-long snatches of things, places, and people he’d never seen before.

The angel was practically looking down her nose at him, turned her head in a slight gesture of distrust, and he wanted to scream.

He knew better than to upset her, to raise his voice or make too many demands because screw his critics, he was actually pretty level headed and knew when he was at a disadvantage, knew when he was both proverbally and literally chained to a bed, injured, and on the business end of angelic steel.

He felt his heart rate pick up as she allowed him to stew in silence; his vision blurred a bit as his optics briefly focused on the still-there crack across his screen instead of her face.

A flash, a delirium-damaged memory: an apology, remorse, blood sinking into wood.

Vox reached for the deal, plucked at its strings, felt nothing.

It wasn’t a soul deal and wouldn’t act like one - if they weren’t engaging in activities related to the deal, it would remain silent, dormant. Surely, if Alastor was dead he would feel something - the deal would dissolve and leave nothing behind, wouldn’t it?

Vox swallowed, asked anyway.

“Is he dead?” Vox was taken aback by his own desperation. He could tolerate the chain, could bear the humiliation of this undressed and injured vulnerability.

But this, this he needed to know.

The angel squinted at him.

“Why? Is that what you want?”

Vox nearly recoiled, the question seeming ridiculous, because - because …

Ugh, what do you even want, Vox - fuck him, kill him, whatever, but make up your mind and stop wasting company resources, Velvette said - has said too many times to count.

How delightful that would be, mi amor, to watch the life drain from his form, Val had teased as he fucked him, leveraging his psycho-sexual obsession to empassion the bedroom, wouldn’t you agree?

Yes! Fuck you Alastor, Vox had shouted, jumping on top off the table like he was witnessing another World Series win for the Yankees as Adam cut the other Overlord down like a weed, this is better than sex

Is that what he wanted?

Forty-eight hours ago he would have said yes - yes, yes, fucking yes - eyes blown and deranged, voice taking on its own filtered distortion as his emotions ran away with him. But, now, with what they’d been through together, with the deal soothing his rage, he began to wonder how much of it had been manufactured by his own hurt.

He’d never really put his violent, blood redolent feelings for Alastor under the scrutiny of a magnifying glass. No one had time for that in Hell. No one had use for it. If you felt anger or hatred or bloodthirst you rode along with it, you relaxed into its current because swimming against it just to find the source, to turn it over and learn it, was ridiculous.

It seemed impossible to imagine his actions as one played for the stage - a performance he put more than half his energy into, if Velvette’s estimates were correct.

If he was all vitriol and loathing, why did he so often return to memories of the café in moments of inattentiveness, of sleep? Why did his mind stutter over remembered pleasantries like they were an ache? Why did confrontations leave him emotional and dissociative and absolutely fucking bonkers, you twat for hours, days, sometimes.

Why did he all but leap from a moving car at the sight of him - the first in person sighting in seven years? He could have tried to ambush him, could have electrocuted him from a distance - but, no, he’d shouted his name, had wanted to … talk.

“Ugh, este pendejo.” The angel muttered, and it wasn’t lost on him. Val complained and ranted enough for him to know when he was being called an asshole.

He blinked; she’d lowered her spear while he’d been having his little existential crisis.

“He’s alive.” She relented and he wondered just how pathetic he had looked for her to give in like that. The Hotel was probably filled to the brim with bleeding hearts; how Alastor had ended up here, he wasn’t sure he’d ever understand.

Vox released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders. The relief was phenomenal.

“Can I see him? I need to uh - talk to him.”

“Not until we figure out what you’re doing here.”

As an Overlord, and one who could hypnotize people, he wasn’t used to such flippant displays of disrespect - at least not from those with half a brain. He bristled against her misplaced sense of authority.

“What I’m doing here? Not sure if you missed the memo, but I didn’t have much choice in the matter.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Alastor is the worst -” She looked like she meant it, and what was it with Alastor and Exorcists? “ - but your rivalry with him is pretty infamous, so excuse us for not trusting you.”

She didn’t sound as though she was really interested in being excused.

“Aren’t you an Exorcist?” Vox asked, uninterested in letting a hypocrite point fingers. It had the desired effect, her face darkening with a snarl.

“Formerly.” She all but bit out.

A cold silence fell over the room and Vox realized he wouldn’t get anywhere this way. He shook his head, put his arms up best he could.

“Okay, look - ” He sighed, feeling every wound pull as exhaustion continued to weigh him down. He didn’t want to fight, not really. He was feeling a little single-minded in what he wanted and what he wanted was to talk to Alastor.

“ - Alastor and I got caught up in an Extermination. We decided to work together. Things went south and Alastor brought us here.”

Vox knew it was the ultra-condensed version, but he wasn’t about to go into detail. It was unnecessary and none of her business.

She blinked, fixed him with a considering stare and Vox found himself surprised; she looked mostly appeased.

“Do our stories match up?” He asked with as much sarcasm as he thought he could get away with. Alastor better have told them the same thing. If he hadn’t he was going to throttle him by his stupid antlers.

She squinted at him, ignoring it completely.

“How do we know you didn’t just latch on to him like a - a parasite to get to the hotel?”

Vox opened his mouth to, first, complain about her continued hospitality - she was really shit at it, he’d at least have offered someone he put in handcuffs a glass of water, foreplay, something - and second, to refute the accusation, because what the hell had Alastor told them?

And then he promptly shut it, teeth clacking as he considered the likelihood that no one knew what had happened. The chain wasn’t just a precaution - they didn’t know him from Tom, Dick, or fucking Harry because Alastor hadn’t said anything.

Or, couldn’t.

“How bad is it?” Vox said in a rush, began the painful process of swinging his stiff legs to the side of the bed.

How bad could it be, he asked himself as he reviewed their injuries, his injuries. He’d been in bad shape, but he hadn’t been flagging nearly as terribly as Vox had. Vox’s mind worked to come up with a reason he’d be anything but conscious, remembered the toxin and dismissed it - they’d both been affected, and Alastor hadn’t seemed worse for wear strictly because of it.

Had he been hiding something from him?

“Hey. Stay there.” She warned and he rolled his eyes, flinched when the motion made the destroyed bioglass over his left eye grind together, sending an electric pain across his screen.

He raised his casted arm and pressed the tips of his claws against his screen to ward off the dizziness that came with it.

“How bad is what?” She asked, impatient but with a little less I-wish-you-dead in her tone.

Vox was beginning to feel a little more than frustrated. Alastor’s people - and he still couldn’t believe that Alastor had those, people that would chain an Overlord to a bed for him - clearly thought he was a threat and okay, yeah, maybe he had earned that title, had strived for it, but she couldn’t be so dense as to think he was that committed to the bit, that he’d fake concern and play nice just so he could sneak into the other Overlord’s room and smother the fucker to death with a pillow.

But, perhaps it was that bad. Vox thought of that cold, dark void, and how he could feel Alastor’s life force bleeding into it, disappearing in segments that were punctuated by images and sounds Vox still couldn’t recall fully, still couldn’t explain.

Vox’s gut twisted with anxiety the more he thought about it.

“Alastor. His … condition, or whatever,” that flighty, anxious feeling was back and the chain on his wrist felt like a cruelly gripping hand, “and can we take this off?”

He lifted his other wrist, letting the chain jingle for emphasis.

“No way. We can’t just let you … walk around.”

As if he’d want to, he thought as he lazily let his gaze glide over the room. It looked like your standard hotel room, if not a little cleaner, a little newer. It was nothing compared to Vee Tower and not at all to Alastor’s tastes; he knew the man’s preferred aesthetics rather well and there weren’t enough cervid motifs, encroaching foliage, or controlled dereliction.

“It’s not as if I want to be here, so you can drop the attitude. I’m not here to … steal your linens or … harass the guests you don’t have - “

“ - hey, we have … a guest.” She interjected, uselessly, while he continued.

“ - it’s not like I don’t have an actual business to run. Just let me see him and I’ll be on my way.”

“This is an actual - wait, do you not know?”

Before he could ask - an inarticulate, frantic what do you mean? what do you mean!? forming in partnership with another curl of anxiety - the door swung open to reveal someone he hoped to never have the pleasure of meeting.

Lucifer Morningstar.

He didn’t look particularly happy.

The day wasn’t finished with its surprises, however, because instead of finding himself on the end of a smiting, the Devil -

the door’s bell jingled and Vox looked up to see Lucifer Morningstar himself.

- strode up to him and held out his hand.

“Lucifer Morningstar. Let’s talk.”

Chapter Text

“Good Morning, Starstuff! I’m Sunny Silverlinings and the Earth says, Hello!”

“Indeed it does, Sunny! I’m Cotton Candee, and we are excited to announce a brand new exhibit coming to the Rainbow Expo Center!”

“All of Heaven is invited to the first annual Earth Fest, a new festival to celebrate our Earthly achievements and to remind us of what it means to be a Winner.”

“And not only is everyone invited, but you are expected to join! There will be an opportunity for you to win a miracle for a loved one on Earth, so you simply cannot miss this!”

“That’s right. Be there or … well, you have to be there, three days from now! Official invitations will have reached you by the end of this announcement!”

“We can’t wait to see you there, Winners!”

Being in the presence of Lucifer Morningstar was somehow both over and underwhelming.

Overwhelming because this was the King of Hell. He could likely kill him with a glance, could tear his limbs off with all the effort it took to turn the page of a book. Vox imagined Lucifer could end him in the space it took him to blink - a wholly unnecessary motion but one that made him seem a little less machine and a little more man. He wasn’t going to do that, blink, because he couldn’t help but remember what Alastor had said, a confident Lucifer Morningstar is not my ally.

But also.

Underwhelming, because holy fuck the guy was tiny. He imagined the King would just about reach his chest were he on his feet. Regardless, Vox wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t going to underestimate the man all for his lack of height - and it wasn’t like he hadn’t known, logically - but seeing him in all his stunted glory, and face to face at that, was a shock.

Vox nodded a bit numbly, eyes darting unconsciously from the tip of the King’s golden head to his booted feet, and held out his bandaged right hand.

“Vox.” He said in a tone that Velvette called business casual - lighthearted but guarded, friendly with nothing at all behind it. It was really great for moments like this, when someone who could unmake him with the snap of his fingers granted you Hell’s most uncomfortable audience.

Lucifer took his hand and Vox couldn’t help but note the warmth. It wasn’t a bodily, organic warmth, but more the radiating heat of power, of potential. He fought the urge to pull his hand back with a jerk.

It was like touching the core of a nuclear reactor.

It made his skin itch.

I’m shaking the King of Hell’s hand, he thought, and he supposed he should be grateful - he’d always imagined an encounter ending in his annihilation.

“It’s an honor, Your Majesty.” It sounded phony even to him, but he was sure all royalty was used to it. He just needed to fake it ‘till he made it out the fucking door. He’d pop in on Alastor, thank him for the laughs, and then …

Something inside him churned with impatience, made him feel vaguely ill. That bitter little ex-Exorcist, the one who’d exited the room without so much as a fuck you, good-bye, had left him like a cliffhanger, had fucking knoweldge-edged him.

Wait, she’d said, features confused and crumpled, do you not know?

“Yup. Uh-huh.” Lucifer said and Vox knew he should feel more than a little offended by his blatant rudeness. He should but he didn’t because his current goal was to simply survive a conversation with the King of fucking Hell.

“So, you’re, uh -” Vox started, intending to say something like not gonna kill me? Or, maybe, in the hotel business? But was cut off by a world weary sigh and the exaggerated rolling of the King’s eyes.

“If you say ‘shorter in person’ I will fling you across the Pentagram.” Lucifer said and it was so beyond the parameters of what Vox had been expecting that he was unable to stop himself from scoffing, from reeling and compressing his features like Lucifer had just called him an idiot.

“Do I look suicidal?” All his late-night falseness fell away as his tone dropped towards disbelieving disdain because yeah he’d been thinking it, but he knew when to shut the fuck about things that were likely to get you killed.

The initially stiff lines of Lucifer’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, lowering as though he were comforted by their shared abandonment of pretense.

“Well, that’s exactly what your friend said when he met me, so, I dunno.” Lucifer quirked a brow at him while Vox squinted.

It was well understood where Sinners stood in the general scheme of things: tucked nicely under the Ars Goetia in terms of power, which put them well below the Sins and separated them by a near unfathomable degree from the Morningstar family.

The idea of goading Lucifer into easy slaughter at first meeting was slightly unfathomable.

“My frie -” He was fairly certain he only knew one person who's made the King’s acquaintance and could inspire that level of frustration. “Alastor?”

Lucifer pointed a finger at him, made a clicking sound as though he were shooting a gun - bullseye. Vox couldn’t help but feel as though he were being tested, as though Lucifer was looking for answers or, perhaps, proof within the lines of his responses.

Of what he had no clue.

“Mmhmm. Yeah. Yu-up.” He popped the ‘p’ and it sounded personal, pissed and Vox understood perfectly. “That’s the one.”

Vox could imagine it, too. Could imagine Alastor looking down his nose at this powerful but un-imposing figure as he blinked slowly and called him, all with master-class passive aggression, short.

Vox grimaced a bit, groaned.

“He has zero sense of self preservation.”

Lucifer huffed as though he’d understated things.

“Oh, clearly not. He dropped a piano on me like, ten minutes later.”

“Fuck.” He said, sympathetically, though he wanted to laugh. It was unhinged, the whole idea of it. He wasn’t sure whether it said more about Alastor’s madness, or Lucifer’s patience.

“Right?” Lucifer said, excitable now, hands thrown up in exasperation but equally glad to be heard and understood.

““That’s.” Vox fought a smile. The more flustered the man became the more appreciation Vox felt for how batshit insane Alastor was, for how willing he was to spit in authority’s face.

Lucifer read him for disbelieving rather than enamored with the other Overlord’s wildness. His eyes shone with it, a self-satisfied mania. Lucifer shook his head, leaned forward a bit.

“I know!”

Vox imagined this had been building, that Alastor had somehow managed to push every single one of the King’s buttons in an immensely short amount of time. He wondered if this was why Velvette and Valentino were so fucking brazen with their teasing.

Lucifer had only known Alastor for weeks, months, maybe.

He couldn’t know what it meant to be beguiled by the man for decades.

“I mean, it does sound like him.” Vox added, if only to watch the King spiral a bit more. It was satisfying seeing someone else come undone over the bastard. It was doing wonders for his headache.

Lucifer was happy to oblige him, crossed his arms in a way that made him look petulant. Some of Vox’s very reasonable fear of the man died a bit under the weight of it. He was rapidly proving himself benign.

Not in the kind of way that would have Vox spitting in his face or making ill-timed jabs, but the kind of way that made Vox take him more for man than monster.

“He’s been a thorn in my side ever since.” He complained.

Vox nodded, agreed rather seriously.

“Oh. Mine too.”

Lucifer squinted, suddenly, as though realizing he’d forgotten what he’d came here to do all for the pleasure of a little bitch sesh. The man must be terminally lonely, Vox thought, if a few shreds of understanding unwound him.

“Okay, Nope. Not happening.” Lucifer said as he pulled back, voice taking back its sternness, form going taut again. “We are not bonding over that asshole.”

“Not even a little?’ Vox asked, risking his whole fucking life.

The levity Lucifer had worn so easily before didn’t return. Vox imagined that had been the real Devil, the real man behind the curtain.

It was sad, fucking pathetic, really - to be a King and still have to hide. Vox knew that if he were King, he would wear the worst of himself on his sleeves. It was strange - fucking bizarre - to think what Lucifer might have wanted to be so earnestly was some chummy everyman.

He didn’t look so chummy now. He looked tired and Hell-weary and like Vox was another obstacle in his important Kingly day.

“I’m here to make sure we’re on the same page.”

The room suddenly took on an oppressive air, the barometrics going all screwy. Something stuttered within him, misfired. It was uniquely uncomfortable and undeniably threatening.

“Oh yeah. What’s that?” He asked, brow raised.

He tried for unperturbed but he felt rather like a child, sat there, legs over the side of the bed and one arm cast to the elbow. He didn’t like that he was some version of anxious. The feeling wasn’t so different from that which he had experienced as a human, as a boy, when he had been put in his room and been told to wait - wait for the hammer to drop in the form of belt and buckle.

“That if you do anything to hurt my daughter or her friends I’ll kill you.” Lucifer didn’t say it with any menace. Rather, he said it casually while regarding the tips of his black claws, looked bored by it, and perhaps he was.

Maybe he did this all the time.

That strange pressure increased and something might have popped inside him, a circuit, something.

Vox swallowed against the primal fear gathering in his gorge.

The air was laced with promise.

“Look, I didn’t want to come here in the first place -” He said placatingly, mindful of the golden chain around his wrist.

Lucifer didn’t blink as he waited for more, the very picture of patience.

“ - and I wasn’t planning on being here long enough to do anything, let alone hurt your daughter - “

Suddenly, Vox felt tired, his spine wanting to bend into an exhausted hunch. He felt ill and strange and like that would never change. Creature comforts called to him. He just wanted to see Alastor and then collapse into his bed with its magnificent sheets and long, endless sprawl, preferably, maybe, with the demon aforementioned in it.

“ - just, let me talk to Alastor and then I’ll go.”

Lucifer regarded him for a very long moment.

Vox wondered if Lucifer could see through him, know him with a glance. He hadn’t considered such a thing until now. He was the King after all and Hell’s denizens often wondered, gossiped and guessed at the full range of his powers.

Vox remembered one particularly popular porno he and Val had produced and broadcasted in the 90s. Late Night With the Devil! had featured a Lucifer who could make you come with the power of his mind, and whose touch turned you into an aching, horny freak. He’d truly been the Devil in it - masochistic, hungry, a little more than cruel.

He’d also been tall.

It just looked better on camera.

Late Night had been a massive ratings success, having viewed first amongst viewers 18-35 in all Rings save for Sloth. No one ever bothered to tune-in on time in Sloth, but they had won some ground back with the VHS sales.

Fuck, he really hoped Lucifer couldn’t read minds because that little aside wouldn’t help his case.

Point was, he couldn’t know the full breadth of Lucifer’s power and perhaps he shouldn’t trample so boldly forward. He was rather certain the man had been in his mind, his dreams - something like that.

He could still feel him there, kind of. The dream which had been a memory had a certain taint to it, as if someone had injected falsness into its core and made it truth.

“Hmm.” Was all Lucifer offered before he was suddenly sipping at a mug, its contents filled with a brew that Vox’s sensor’s parsed as 30% Wrath and 70% Envy. He’d conjured it from nothing, hadn’t moved, or, if he had, had done so too quickly for him to register.

Vox didn’t like that.

Benign my arse, Velvette would say with a flick to his antennae.

Still, Vox carried on.

“What, you don’t believe me?’ He asked with a parcel of loathing. There wasn’t much he could do if the King didn’t. If Lucifer saw fit to end his life, he could and would - he wasn’t Hellborne, it wasn’t as if he’d be taken to trial.

“Oh, I do.” He said as though Vox hadn’t been in question to begin with, which, bullshit.

Lucifer took another long slurp, and Vox could have done without the intense eye contact fuck you very much. If Val were here he’d say something terrible and horny and they’d both be smote on the spot.

“Tell me what the deal is about.” Lucifer said, demanded, very much so did not ask.

Vox felt a thrill of anxiety run through him. Lucifer had been in his mind, had been able to perceive something, had been able to know without being told.

“Don’t you already know?” As much as he sounded as though it was of no consequence or importance, he was very genuinely interested. Lucifer must know - he was the original deal maker, after all. It was fucking unsettling and he’d very much like to just know.

“Humor me.”

Vox shook his head, uncertain as to how something common could be an object of Lucifer’s interest. Lucifer was toying with him, had to be.

“It's a deal of mutual protection. Shit was fucked up out there and, well, better the enemy you know, right?”

Lucifer tilted his head like a little, blonde puppy.

“Enemy?”

Vox was reminded of how Alastor would do that, would tilt his head, ears falling to the sides when something remarkably stupid or intriguing was said. It made him look cute for fucks sake and no, he wasn’t doing this right now. He just had to survive this conversation turned interrogation.

Lucifer clicked his claws against the mug. Vox glanced at it. It said Duck Off in a flowery, aristocratic font.

He looked at it for a long moment before looking back into the King’s eyes.

“Did Alastor say differently?” And wouldn’t that be incredible, wouldn’t that be so fucking nice and worth all these years of obsessive stalking, his absolutely debased behavior.

Congratulations, you twat, Velvette would say with all the excitement of a man walking into a colonoscopy, while Valentino would stroke the side of his screen and murmur a teasing, que patético.

He was pathetic, truly.

And, wIshful thinking was what it was, because he was starting to pick up what everyone was putting down. Alastor was out of commission, something was wrong and no one trusted him enough to say anything. Lucifer was trying to poke holes in his story, was looking for the opening to give him a reason to - as promised - fling him across the Pentagram.

“Not exactly.” Lucifer said as he gave him some weird, weak smile over his mug, as if he had a big stupid secret. Hell, he even looked a little sorry and what the fuck did he mean by that?

Lucifer flicked his wrist and the mug disappeared. He leaned forward, steepled his hands and stared at him as though appraising a piece of junk, trying to figure if the resale value was worth the trouble of restoration.

“The deal. It’s uh … unusual.”

Vox imagined the man didn’t know much about deals because he’d crafted dozens like them before. Well, none had been exactly like this one, but he was no stranger to protecting his own hide via deals.

“Is it?” He said, bored,or at least playing at it, because even though he knew better, he wasn’t about to argue with Lucifer Morningstar.

“Yeah. It is.” Lucifer said as though he knew he was being doubted and didn’t much care for it. Vox made a move to grab at his screen, a sudden headache coming on. The golden chain caught with a clunk and Lucifer’s gaze darted down, briefly.

He made no move to change anything about Vox’s situation.

How terribly irritating, how fucking awful, to be chained like this and looked upon as some minor criminal, a threat no greater than a fly in his ear.

“Well, I didn’t notice.” He’d have to take the King’s word for it, lie or otherwise. “I make thousands of deals a year.”

And, it was true. Deals were second nature. He just left out the part where he never really made them like this, equitable and even. If that’s what Lucifer had been alluding to then, well, bully for him.

He couldn’t imagine what about that might be interesting to an ancient being but who was he to ruin the lonely creature’s fun?

Lucifer’s eyes darted around his screen, brow dipping a bit.

“You really can’t tell?” He asked with genuine curiosity.

Vox didn’t know what Lucifer was playing at and a hot spike of irritation made him want to lash out, to tell the King to cut the shit and put him out his misery if this was all just going to be cat and mouse.

He was suddenly rather miserable. Any fight he’d really had drained out of him as he looked down at the stupid blue cast, the memory of the last two days vibrating up his arm as he tried to flex his claws.

Without really intending to do so, he reached for the soft curl of the deal. It was a wreck and worn thin, but it was there, a subtle warmth in his chest. He poked at it with a gentle brush of frequency, a little spike that was as hesitant as imploring.

It was much like plucking a guitar string in a padded room. It rung but died quick and mute for a lack of anything to bounce off of. Vox felt surprisingly empty.

Next to him Lucifer sighed as though completely exasperated.

“Ok, fine.” Lucifer said and wow he was giving him the most vile, piteous look. He would have to erase this memory, maybe download and burn it for the symbolism. No one could know that the King of Hell had ever cast such a forlorn look his way.

“I was really hoping your were just a lying, sleezy, scumbag Overlord - ” Lucifer pinched at the space between his eyes, didn’t seem to mind his claws or the fact that he had no bridge of nose to pinch.

“Excuse me?” Vox

“ - Hell bent on taking advantage of my daughter’s incredible beneficence, not that you could, because, c’mon -”

Vox had the urge to backtrack and announce himself as threat. He was Vox, the CEO of the company that entertained his subjects, that had a place in every household and pocket - he practically ran Pentagram City. His face was more recognizeable to the average ashhole than Lucifer’s own.

He could take over this dinky hotel if he wanted to - seriously.

“ - and I really, and I mean really, don’t have it in me to babysit another Overlord - “

Lucifer was covering his face now, mumbling into his hands, as though the weight of Hell had just crashed upon his shoulders.

“Babysit - ” Vox began in complaint but Lucifer seemed to be going full steam ahead with this little mental breakdown.

“ - but this sad little television schitck, it’s preeetttty convincing and it’s bumming me out.”

Lucifer groaned into his hands, a long ugghhhh that seemed to indicate he was on the fucking edge.

“You are shorter than I thought you’d be,” Vox said in the space between Lucifer’s ramblings, desperate to inspire wrath and yep he understood completely why Alastor had gone so hard at first sight of the King. “I was just being polite.”

Lucifer seemingly ignored him as he pulled his hands from his face, skin pulling briefly as he dragged his claws across pale flesh.

Lucifer looked at him, eyes alight with the work of thinking. He must have found an answer somewhere. He perked up, clapped his hands together, looking slightly revived.

“Okay. But, wait. Not bad. We need more eyes and you’re Mister Thousand Deals a Year, right?”

“Uh -” His surprise over the King’s labile mood kept him from feeling offended over the clear mocking in his voice, the way he bobbed his head back and forth as he copied his previous intonation, his apparent smugness.

He was feeling a bit whiplashed.

“Great. We’ve got three days, and we’re gonna make this work.“ Lucifer’s eye twitched in direct opposition to his apparent confidence.

And, what?

Three days?

What the fuck was going on.

“Make what work?” Vox asked, a little desperate, a little hysterical. “You can’t keep me here.”

“Oh, calm down. Consider it repayment for healing you, which, you’re welcome.” Lucifer stretched, back cracking. “Three days and then you can crawl back to your tower and … propagate fake news, or … whatever. Assuming it’s still standing.”

Still standing. Lucifer had said it like an afterthought and all with a dismissive wave of his hand, a yawn.

Before Vox could say anything Lucifer snapped a finger and the manacle disappeared. He lifted his arm, was able to pull it away from the bed, but the weight of the cuff remained. He could have rubbed as his wrist if he could have, the blocky cast on his other arm making it not at all worth the effort.

“Don’t get too excited.” Lucifer warned as he stood, brushed invisible dust from his immaculate coat. “It’s still there.”

It was, he could feel it. He didn’t want to find out what it would anchor to, how it would manifest if Lucifer saw fit.

“Am I your … prisoner?”

Lucifer lifted his arms and made a gesture that belayed his own uncertainty, the kind of motion you interpreted as yeah, maybe, I dunno, who’s to say, it’s complicated.

“I mean.” Lucifer said, looked as though he were thinking about it. “Does temporary, unpaid employee sound better?”

“I have my own business to run.” Vox complained, listed a bit as he, too, stood. To his surprise Lucifer steadied him, a gentle hand at his elbow. Lucifer was looking up at him with a shockingly earnest expression.

“Yeah. Let’s catch you up.”

Vox reached for the deal, pulled at its threads, desperate.

The deal remained mute.

Before he could stop the errant thought, he had it: he couldn’t do this without Alastor.

“Wait, Alastor first. You can catch me up on the way.”

He was more than relieved when Lucifer simply inclined his head and led the way; he was silently greatly for he wasn’t sure he’d have refrained from begging.

Lucifer had given him the quickest, dirtiest run down he could. He was exhausted enough that he hadn’t bothered with the minutia, and it wasn’t as though the man had earned it. He didn’t need to know about the trip to Heaven, or the battle for the Hotel.

Lucifer had given him only this: the Exterminations are targeted, surprise you’re one of the targets, followed by an apologetic, this isn’t going to stop until your kind are dead, soothed over with a don’t worry, we are trying to avoid that, then, tied with the pretty bow that was we have three days to do that and you’re going to help, hope you’re up for some light reading.

They’d sealed the deal with a completely non-threatening, tell anyone else about this and you and everyone you care about is dead, which left Lucifer feeling pretty confident.

Vox had taken it exceedingly well, and for this, Lucifer knew he was a smart man. He’d been able to extract the nuance, to understand his place in all this, and had done so without any hint of panic.

He’d nodded and hummed as though it were all part of some future business to be had, and Lucifer wearily wondered if he’d just let another snake into the hotel. Like father like daughter - bleeding hearts for the most fucked puppy in the pound.

It was no secret, Lucifer didn’t like Overlords, and having two powerful ones, intelligent ones in the general proximity of his daughter, of each other, of allowing it, sat rather poorly. Bee would be laughing at him, would ask him what he’d want written on his tombstone, while Ozzy face-palmed and sighed the heaviest sigh you’ve ever heard.

And, the coup de grace, he was willingly giving them information. The whole thing was migraine inducing.

The Mammon that unfortunately lived rent-free in his mind offered the usual, like ya said, ya can always kill the cunt, take all his money, fuck his whores or whatevah, and yes, Lucifer thought, he could do that, thanks Mammon.

Lucifer side-eyed the Sinner all the way to their destination, comforted by the fact that he could always just yeet him out of the hotel if he caused trouble, would dump him in some desolate, derelict corner of Imp City.

“Here.” Lucifer said simply, shaking himself out of his own thoughts. There was still ground to cover, but it could wait another moment.

Lucifer raised his fist, knocked and called out to his daughter so as not to surprise her. He heard her low, tired reply and with a final warning - a look that said, try anything and you’re dead - he opened the door and motioned the Overlord to enter.

The sight before him was familiar - Alastor hadn’t moved and neither had his daughter.

It wasn’t familiar to Vox.

Lucifer watched as the Overlord took in the room, his gut stirring with sympathy.

He felt his latent, well meaning, homicidal ideation slip away at the sight of Vox’s clear distress over Alastor’s current state. Lucifer understood. If you were able to look past the Radio Demon’s rampant enjoyment for other’s suffering, and his general sociopathy, his horrible humor, there was a strange charm there. Don’t tell Charlie.

Lucifer could feel the strange hum of some new frequency, and he crossed his arms.

It was especially true if you happened to be enamored, which, despite the strange love-hate colour of Vox’s feelings, was clear as anything. Lucifer had been in his mind and it was clear that the two had a past, that their relationship had been many things and not just ‘enemy’.

He hadn’t trod too deep, mind you. King of Hell he might be, but he’d never been one for gross invasion of privacy, not unless a situation so required, and if the situation did require, he’d rather just cast the guy into a pit, or rip his limbs off, or something - he wouldn’t want to get to know him better.

Charlie stood, chair moving back with a groan as she took in the sight of the other Overlord, relieved.

“Vox, I’m so glad - “

He brushed past her, got closer to Alastor’s bedside.

“Al.”

Lucifer might have felt a bit miffed over the Overlord’s easy dismissal of her, but the poorly concealed look of dread, of pain made it hard to want to kick a guy when he was down. The ethereal handcuffs were threat enough - the Sinner could undeniably feel their weight, a design of intention meant to remind him more than anything.

The air hummed with that strange frequency and Lucifer realized it was Vox. He was trying to talk to Alastor, reach him in a way they couldn’t.

“We uh - he’s - there’s a toxin, it’s keeping him from healing - “ Charlie offered, her voice full of worry.

“I know.” Vox muttered, and Lucifer could see the way his free hand twitched, an aborted, reaching movement. The Overlord turned towards Lucifer.

“You can’t fix it?”

“No. It’s ethereal in nature, and my powers don't, uh, mix well.”

I almost killed him, he thought but didn’t say, because as if that would help.

Lucifer had sensed the same toxin in Vox’s own blood, but he needn’t worry. Vox’s unique system has isolated it, had seemed to have already begun the process of synthesizing it, eliminating it like a personal dialyzer. He hadn’t been able to do much for the Sinner, but it hadn’t fought back like it had when he’d attempted to heal Alastor.

“Has he said anything?” Vox asked, sounding a little broken and no, Lucifer was not getting invested in this, he was not going to feel bad for these two. They had bigger things to worry about.

“He hasn’t woken up yet.” Charlie wrapped her arms around herself as she delivered the news. She sucked in a stuttering breath, advanced a bit and then pulled back, eyes boring into the man’s frame, his strange profile.

“We were hoping you could tell us what happened.”

Vox turned his head slightly, angling it towards her, but didn’t respond.

Lucifer could feel that errant frequency spike, erratic and wild; it would hurt if such a thing could hurt him.

“Please? Vox?” She begged, unaware of the silent, one-sided conversation playing out before her. Vox ignored her, or didn't hear her. He couldn’t be sure.

Lucifer decided to take pity on the man, and to take advantage of the opportunity presented. Charlie needed to rest and she wouldn’t say no when it came to offering the two privacy. With a thought he warded the room, laced it with a horrible snitching habit.

If Vox was anything but a model guest, he would know.

The cuffs, too, would prevent any immediate violence.

It was enough for him.

“Char-char, let’s give them some space.”

HIs daughter looked a bit startled, then ashamed.

“Oh, right. Of course.”

He gave her a small, comforting smile - or, at least what was meant to be one - and nodded towards the door, opened it for her. Once she was gone, Vox spoke again.

“I can’t hear him.” The Overlord said, his voice empty and rough. The frequency buzzed again and Lucifer fought the urge to stick a claw in his ear. Vox was doing the equivalent of screeching into the void and yeah, there was that.

Alastor had a frequency, a static that was audible if you cared to listen. It was the thing that had the speakers in the hotel crackling, had cellular phones glitching and losing their signal. It surrounded him like a cloak, a constant buzz that made your skin tingle.

It was really fucking irritating.

The deeper aspect of it, however, was ultrasonic. He hadn’t been sure anyone but him could hear it, the singing of his soul - and that’s exactly what it was, the bastard was a noisy thing, a radio to the core, always transmitting - but now he knew he wasn’t the only one listening.

Lucifer had noticed its absence rather immediately.

He wasn’t sure what it meant. It could simply be a state of deep unconsciousness, or it could be something more, something he wasn’t about to worry anyone over.

“Can uh - you?” Vox didn't turn to look at him.

Lucifer saw no good reason to lie.

“No. I can’t.”

Lucifer watched for a moment, considered what he should say, considered sorry, and then settled on nothing.

He closed the door behind him, static rolling off his back.

I really am sorry, old chum.

Vox’s mind was a dizzying battleground, overwhelming, traumatized numbness defending its territory against an intellectual, action-hungry panic. Given his unique anatomy, he could split his attention and give each their equal due.

He’d traded stocks, expertly, efficiently, while fucking Valentino stupid.

He’d taken phone calls, important ones thank you very much, while broadcasting on live TV.

He’d doomscrolled, apathetically, miserably, while hosting Pentagram City’s Countdown to the New Year Ball Drop, and it wasn’t his fault the ball had dropped onto a crowd of orphans, okay?

So, surely he could handle the Ring-shattering information Lucifer had shared with him, all while the King side-eyed him like he couldn’t decide whether letting him live was a mistake, and manage this strange sense of wrongness, this unsettling sense of loss that he’d long thought banished, killed, because a Radio Demon laid low was supposed to be a beautiful thing.

It wasn’t.

He was pale and unmoving, littered with injuries that should have healed. The smudges under his eyes were deep in a way that made him look strangely human, horribly vulnerable. Like him, Alastor was bandaged from tip to top.

He looked the exact opposite of his usual self and nowhere near the title of Overlord.

Even the bedding looked offensive with him nestled in it. It made him look small, like it was cradling him because it knew it held a fragile thing. Alastor’s head was turned to one side, facing him, and he imagined that’s just how he had landed in the bed, that he likely hadn’t moved on his own since their disastrous arrival.

One of his ears was smooshed against the pillow and headboard, the other standing but lilting with the angle of his head, and Vox hated how soft it made him look.

I really am sorry, old chum.

Vox sent a soft pulse of static across the form before him, the equivalent of being lightly, if not impatiently, poked.

There was no response, no answer to the question, which, if verbalized, might have been, you really gonna keep me waiting like this?

A spiteful thrill ran through him, a thing born of refusal to accept that Alastor wasn’t just pulling his leg, playing possum like the massive prick he was, and he found himself rudely snapping two claws together above his head, expecting his ears to twitch, show some sign of life.

He’d take anything at this point.

“C’mon, asshole.” Vox tried again before letting his arm fall back to his side, remembering rather moronically that Alastor’s biological hearing had been compromised, that the whole gesture, this fit of desperation had been useless.

His palm thrummed, irritated and hot.

I really am sorry, old chum.

He never should have left the car.

He wouldn’t be standing here, stupid and gawking and empty if he hadn’t. He would be with Valentino and Velvette, yucking it up in their penthouse as their company’s value skyrocketed, brought them even further up the ladder. He would be watching all of this on the biggest fucking TV Hell has ever seen, drunk off his tits and waiting, just waiting to see Exorcists go open season on Alastor’s deer ass. He would be riding this out without so much as a twitch of discomfort.

Vox was a very important person and he had shit to do.

He shouldn’t be hostage to Lucifer Morningstar’s daughter’s stupid hotel and the drama that revolved around it like flies on shit.

He shouldn’t be feeling anything for Alastor but his usual broken rage.

He shouldn't feel like this.

He should …

“I have shit to do, Alastor.” Vox murmured lowly and rather uselessly but at the correct frequency, one only Alastor could hear. The other Overlord didn’t so much as twitch.

The lack of response only exaggerated his own, his free claw twitching with the need to grasp, to hold. It would be strange, wouldn’t it? To reach out for that limp, desatured hand. He could imagine Alastor waking just to rip his arm off, to complain in that 1930s way, a pompous affront, a how dare you presume to touch me on his lips.

But he wouldn’t - his frequency was non-existent. If he hadn’t been standing here, looking at the Overlord in question, he might have assumed him dead. The literal radio silence felt malignant.

His stomach twisted uncomfortably. Mere days ago it would have been due to excitement, the impending joy of an enemy defeated, but now it was just anxiety, ugly, pathetic anxiety.

This was all wrong - he was supposed to find the bastard laid out but conscious enough to roll his eyes, to insult him with some quick witticism while they both shared mutual relief over the end of their deal.

Alastor was supposed to wave him off, tell him his usefulness had been spent, to which Vox would say something equally cutting, and then he’d be off - he was supposed to be heading back to Vee Tower because that was the plan.

They’d be back to their squabbling in a few short days. They’d cut each other apart with words and claws, just as before.

I really am sorry, old chum.

Vox gripped at his screen as something snapped and failed, reset, a fit of glitching overtaking him.

He hadn’t asked Alastor to suck him into that horrible, dark void that - that showed him fucking things. Memories or whatever, shit he really needed to ask about because he was pretty sure he hadn’t hallucinated being nine, clinging to the hem of a dress while the worst wind, the most ferocious rain beat down on a tin roof he’d never had … or, or maybe he’d been standing on top of it, his feet beating the rhythm into sun-abused tin.

He hadn’t just imagined Alastor, voice softer than he’d known capable, apologizing, actually apologizing.

He heard it over and over and over, that wrenching, terrible, I really am sorry, old chum.

Fuck him, he thought as he swallowed, a sick sense of dread tearing at him.

He reached out, stopped himself, and then reached again before deciding to abandon the idea entirely. The whole thing made him irrationally angry as he stared down at the demon who looked to be as close to second-death’s door as possible.

“You know what, no - “

Vox shook his head, wagged a claw on his casted hand at the man who couldn’t do the respectable thing and receive his ire with some damn humility, some respect for what they’d been through.

“You’re s-s-orry?” He asked, voice glitching as his equivalent of a blood pressure raised. He turned away, the need to pace overtaking him. He walked towards the mantle, took a breath as he stared into the humble green flames.

He hadn’t even noticed that it had been lit.

How fucking cozy, how quaint.

“Fuck you, you’re not sorry.” Vox mumbled as he stared at the flickering light. He looked back up at the mantle. There sat a radio, cathedral style and squat. Vox glared at it for a moment before moving on.

He ran his uncasted hand along the mantles molding as he resumed his bothered pacing. He let his claws dig deep into the wood, needing to feel something ruined by his own hands.

“You’ve never been sorry.” Vox sneered, anger rising. He closed his fist and a sharp chunk of wood bit into the raw wound on his hand. He squeezed it for good measure, let it fracture under his grip, splinters digging into his skin while the rest fell away like wood chips.

Vox watched as the bandage on his hand turned red. He pulled at the splinters with the tips of his other claw, range of motion impeded by that hideous, needless cast. The delicate use of his restricted digits sent throbbing waves of pain up to his elbow and he felt indignant at his weakness.

Sorry, he thought with a little hysterical desperation, what a fucking joke.

Alastor’s many, many transgressions presented themselves to him in a tidy list, his mind providing all the requisite proof that would make feeling this way - raw and spent and anxious - some version of acceptable.

What was he meant to do - truly? Stand here like an asshole, waiting? Alastor had delivered him into the service of the fucking Devil and what if this was the plan, the thing all along?

Paranoia ripped at his own fraying seams and the invisible bindings on his wrist tightened a little as though understanding its subject was tiptoeing towards instability. Vox sneered at the invisible pressure, understanding this was both a binding and a neutering and turned back to the the fucker who landed himself in this position.

He hated the bruises under his eyes, the hollow of his cheekbones. He hated the way his breath stuttered every so often, his chest hitching.

“You’re not sorry -” Vox said again because Alastor couldn’t have been. He was a master manipulator, they both were and like recognized like.

He thought back to the last days with this new lens, the one that rejected the tenderness and that soft, broken apology in the void, and the fucking deal that still held them together despite it feeling like a road that led to a dead end.

He pulled at it again, a desperate bid to prove himself wrong, and the lack of response inspired a spark of loss.

Vox could feel the ghostly sensation, the static buzz of Alastor’s hands pulling at the fabric that had been crowding his throat.

He mentally shoved the memory away because that was all precursor, the punchline was coming as it always did.

Vox snarled, hid behind a petulance that surprised even him.

“You weren’t sorry when you - you ruined my favourite tie.” A sixty-year-old memory clawed its way to the surface, outraged for never having been addressed. It had been a verbal spat turned tussle turned destruction of personal property and Alastor had laughed in his face.

The Alastor before him, pale and bruised and silent, did not react. Vox could hardly look at him.

“It was Stefano Ricci, by the way.”

Vox huffed, knew he was being ridiculous, unhinged, but he also knew he’d just boarded a train he couldn’t quite get off, his mind desperate to list decades worth of grievances all to counteract that one, horrible display of regret, all from a man who likely never had even one.

I really am sorry, old chum.

He clutched one edge of his screen, mad and tortured. He wanted to rip the memory from his processors, scrub his organic brain, could do so, would do so when he was freed from Lucifer’s bond. He paced a little, let out a sick sort of chuckle that made him feel imbalanced.

The catharsis would arrive any moment now; he’d feel what he needed to in order to walk away from this.

“You weren’t sorry when you set my living room on fire.” Vox complained even though he did remember the other Overlord’s ears drooping in a way that one might call regretful, if not a little guilty. Still, he’d only given him an impish smile and rolled his eyes, told him he had needed to re-decorate anyway.

“You weren’t sorry when you punched Val in the gut. He had organ damage. He still bitches about it.” They had just met the moth for fuck’s sake. Alastor had claimed being startled by his sudden appearance even though the rising Sinner had approached them head on, arm held out, confident as anything as he introduced himself as the future Prince of Porn and made a lewd but correct statement regarding the stunning cut of Vox’s frame.

Alastor had socked him right in the gut, had answered Vox’s surprised stuttering and Valentino’s sputtering with a, goodness, I mistook you for one of those pesky Hellfire Flies, silly me.

They’d argued about it, and Vox hadn’t been able to get it in to Alastor’s stupid, fluffy head that pornography was a growing fucking market. He hadn’t been able to soften Alastor’s opinion of him, and, wasn’t that an understatement? Though Valentino wasn’t the sole party responsible for the Grand Canyon sized chasm that had grown between the Radio and Television Demons, he had been a sizable wedge.

A wedge that liked to blow smoke in the other demon’s face, that liked to grab a Vox’s crotch at inopportune moments. That liked to huff and complain that the Overlord as a sexless waste of a handsome face and long legs.

“You definitely weren’t sorry when you bit my fucking hand off.” Vox knew he’d essentially been asking for it; one didn’t point directly into the Radio Demon’s face and expected to keep the finger, let alone the hand.

Vox had accused him of something, of being a giant fucking jealous baby or something like that, a whiny little fawn, too, he thought but couldn’t r really remember. He’d been drunk on Val, venom coursing through him in the best way.

He’d ached, had been rock hard, his pants tight and trapping even though he’d had his fill. He still couldn’t remember what had brought the Radio Demon over, only remembered the way his teeth had clamped around his wrist.

It had made Vox furious.

It had made him furious to see Alastor pull away and to start rejecting his invitations, all because Valentino was present. It had made him furious to witness the cooling of his attentions, to see the smile turn fake and rictus, all because Valentino was a fun fuck. It had made him furious, livid, the first time he realized that Alastor’s wit, his sharp tongue had found a target in him, and all because Valentino couldn’t hold his.

Despite Alastor’s shitty attitude, he still reached out and yeah, sometimes it wasn’t with the best of intentions, and sometimes he just wanted to see him bleed or for those dumb ears to wing back in offense, but he had still wanted him.

“You weren’t sorry when you rejected my offer, which - “ which was a Hail Mary, a desperate bid made in a far too emotional moment, unhinged and desperate. Vox swallowed, scoffed, no, just a business deal, that’s what it had been, “which was really fucking generous by the way.”

Something gripped at his throat and he was horrified to find just how upset he was. It disgusted him.

He should stop talking.

But the offer - nothing got him more internally riled than thinking about the offer. He often thought of Alastor in two chapters: before and after the offer. After was particularly ugly and it always tinged the view with a miserable rage.

After the offer was hunger.

After the offer was disgust.

After the offer was war.

And after the offer, after war, was the invitation.

The one he had foolishly abided.

“You weren’t sorry for - for standing me up.”

Wasn’t that what had him leaping from the vehicle? A desperate hunger for the truth? It had yanked him like a puppet, from sitting in the highest of comforts to muddying his shoes with gore, and Alastor might as well have owned him for how incapable he was of stopping himself.

The lights in the room flickered and the chain on his wrist tightened.

Their broadcasted diss-battle had done little to enlighten or alleviate. He hadn’t been satisfied, hadn’t even been the victor. Had he more time, had Alastor been weaker and less capable, he might have been able to extract more, but the Radio Demon had cut the signal with the efficiency of an executioner.

He was always making a fool of him.

He was always making Vox look weak.

Alastor was weak now, his mind whispered, angry and dissatisfied.

He reviled the thought, old sentiments having caught aflame.

A light pain made itself known in his chest - a deal made aware of unseemly thoughts.

“And I know - “ to his own horror his voice cracked, vitriolic over the sight of Alastor’s limpness, his deathly pallor, his ever present disinterest. He didn’t much care for the truth of it, that Alastor could hear none of this, no matter the frequency, that he was not willing in his apathy - not this time.

I really am sorry, old chum.

Vox simply couldn’t take it anymore.

It was too little too late.

“ - I know you’re not sorry for ripping my fucking heart out.”

There.

He’d said it.

The thing he denied time and time again. The accusation at which he flubbed his false lips, eyes rolling whenever Velvette guessed, hinted at it the dirty four letter word she said he felt now or once or whenever.

The thing Val brought into their bedroom, whether out of jealousy or as an enticement and often to be cruel in the way they were with each other, but always said with a purr and a rolling tongue - amor and radio sounded so nice in Spanish.

The thing that Alastor had known about and had still reeled back upon realizing it wasn’t to be contained. Desperate, unwanted sentiment, is what he’d said, had complained that he’d asked for no such thing, had somehow managed to look hurt, as though it were him being so put out by Vox’s messy emotions.

Anything past that is tainted red. Even Vox’s near perfect memory struggled to separate the tarry intrusions of his unstable emotional state. He could freely admit that it had been easy, then, to see every action as a transgression, as an intentional point of cruelty. If there was anything saving their relationship, it remained behind the blood-red veil of his rage, his humiliation, his desperate, unwanted yearning.

And Alastor had returned it in full. Their relationship was a real fat fucking ouroboros, an eternal cycle of jab and riposte coloured red and blue. They continued that way for decades until it became old hat, enjoyable and, sometimes, cathartic. It was enjoyable in the way picking at a scab was. Felt good in a stabbing a toothpick into your gums kind of way. It hurt, but it was something - or, at least, it wasn’t nothing.

There was a difference.

There fucking was.

His words hung ugly in the air. The fireplace hummed and crackled in that strange way Hellish fire did, but that was all. He couldn’t hear Alastor breathing - it was too shallow and Vox was breathing harshly himself.

His head hurt and both his arms throbbed; he felt horrible and overheated, his systems working hard to process that still present poison.

“I should kill you.” He said for the second time in as many days and it felt no more real on his tongue than it had before. If he wasn’t careful it would become part of his parlance, would weigh about as much as good morning and where’d I put the lube.

The pain in his chest thrummed slightly and Vox mindlessly brought his uncasted hand up to rub at the spot.

He rubbed his hand over the area, could feel his organic heart beating away with the urgency of a creature in flight.

Vox imagined it, how easy it would be. He could rip his throat out, exposed as it was. His claws would rend Alastor’s flesh like paper. Would he awaken, then, or would he silently choke and die a permanent death, angelic essence doing its best work?

He could find out.

It would take but a single, lazy motion.

The cuff was oddly silent, and perhaps it understood.

Vox approached the bed again and stared down at the man he had once come undone over. His chest ached as he looked at Alastor, pale and unaware. There was no twitching of his ears, still laid awkward and limp and one still trapped.

He reached forward, body working without his sayso as his breath quickened. Red filled his vision as he watched his own claw reaching out, flexing with intent, the pain in his chest migrating to his throat, a unique blend of the organic and the mechanical being crushed all the same.

Vox’s hand landed gently on Alastor’s cheek, the lateral aspect of his claw brushing the man’s throat. He was hotter than he’d thought he would be, was slightly clammy, but that could have been fever.

Vox swallowed heavily, caught between recoiling and remaining.

He was well aware that Alastor loathed being touched, especially without expressed permission, so, even taken by this tide of confusing emotions, he made quick work of his intentions.

The pressure in his throat, his chest, didn’t let up, but he blinked against it, continued.

Carefully, and with both hands now, he readjusted the other Overlord’s position, turning his head just enough to release the poor, trapped ear, saving both the appendage and his neck from cramping.

Satisfied, he pulled back, hand still warm with the unhealthy heat that had radiated from the demon. Alastor didn’t wake, nor did he so much as twitch. Vox sent an imploring, begging wave of static across that higher frequency and was met with the same as before - a big, fat, resounding nothing.

“I - “ he started, surprised to find that the ache hadn’t subsided, nor that choking feeling. Vox cleared his throat, shook his head and closed his eyes.

Alastor had done it again, and without a single word.

“I can’t do this.” Vox said, low and broken and thoroughly exhausted.

Without another look - because no, fuck you, Alastor, fuck you - he turned heel and went for the door.

It wasn’t until he was in the hall that he realized the feeling in his chest, his throat, wasn’t the deal, but rather his own grief.

Chapter Text

If Vox thought the open air of the hallway would offer him any relief, or at the very least a liminal space in which to entertain a small mental breakdown, he was quickly proven wrong.

Lucifer was leaning against the wall right outside the door, laying in wait like a tiny gargoyle, arms crossed and expression unreadable.

Vox flinched, a motion that ignited every injury in his body, and fuck this guy, couldn’t a man suffer in peace?

“Fuck me.” Vox hissed in complaint as he reeled back, his casted arm throbbing in a way that assured him that though the bones may have started to knit themselves back together, there was quite a ways to go.

“No, thanks.” Lucifer said quickly and without the requisite humor to make it funny.

If Vox cared, if he’d been trying to do anything but survive this fucking day, he may have found the clear lines under the King’s eyes intriguing. He’d only just seen him and he looked as though he’d aged a decade in his brief absence.

“Considering some light homicide?” He asked as he peeled himself from the wall, eyes spiriting towards Alastor’s door.

Vox’s hands were shaking and clenched his fists best he could, turned away from the Devil before turning back around, pacing like a penned beast. He breathed in, fought the urge to cradle his head in his hands.

Get it together, he urged, begged of himself, even as his breath quickened.

“Huh? No. What?” He smiled, tried to, imagined he looked more than crazed. If he had ears, they’d be ringing.

But he didn’t. What he did have was a complex system of components that made for rather impressive audio input and, in this moment, everything rang clear, crystal and clean. He could hear his own ragged breathing, the hum of the lights above, Lucifer fucking blinking, the - the wet, labored breathing of the Overlord in the room behind him -

“The manacle.” Lucifer said and Vox blinked, confused, followed the man’s eyes as they darted toward his wrist; Vox, too, looked, felt a bit nauseous as Lucifer continued.

“There was a moment there, huh, big guy?” Lucifer asked as though he suspected he’d done something juvenile and, though the construction of the question was built like a taunt, like he’d been caught sneaking dessert before dinner and was expected to fess up, Lucifer’s voice held zero humor.

It only worsened the sting in his chest

A moment.

A moment?

Vox couldn’t imagine which moment he’d meant. He’d felt the squeeze of the manacle at some point, but he couldn’t remember when. His thoughts, his emotions had oscillated so quickly that he’d hardly been able to track them himself. He hadn’t been able to discern the warning klaxons of the deal, from his own damn pain - moment, which moment, Lucifer?

Vox wanted to scream, maybe punch the King who was doing nothing but standing there, and run. He hadn't felt this flighty, this uncontrolled since his early days in Hell.

He wasn’t stupid, no matter what Velvette said. He knew running would only be a weak attempt at running for this.

This, the shallow grief that felt so foreign he could hardly stand it, let alone comprehend it.

“The wards didn’t fully activate so, no harm no foul -”

No harm no foul. Vox couldn’t believe how wrong he was. Wasn’t he supposed to be all knowing or something, or, at the very least, able to read social cues? Because Vox would have very much liked to be alone, to not be tempted into an accidental suicide-by-Devil.

And, fuck, weren’t they supposed to be looking over contracts? They had three days to - to fix something, this, to find a fucking solution to this insane mess that he barely understood, to pluck it out of thin fucking air and how was he supposed to do that while Alastor lay dying in that room?

Was he really expected to bear this bizarre man alone, this man who’d shackled him like a badly behaved coyote? What in the unholy fuck were they going to do? Sit around and try to perform legal miracles together like they were a plucky pair of lawyers who had just passed the bar and started a charmed but misguided law firm - fucking Asshole & Moron Law Group on the case, and all that?

Tell me, dear, are you asshole or moron? Alastor would say with one, haughty, elegant claw on his chin, tapping away as though he were deep in though, and fuck, Vox couldn’t do this without him.

Or, rather, he could, but didn’t want to.

He didn’t want to.

“ - you can relax -” Lucifer continued, oblivious, as Vox’s panic - and yes, that’s what this was, he was having a fucking panic attack, something he had thought he’d programmed out of himself - worsened.

This shouldn’t be happening, not to this extent. He shouldn’t be making a fool of himself in this hallway in front of Hell’s ruler under the overstimulating harshness of the overhead lighting, and surrounded by the cacophony of every fucking noise possible.

Couldn’t Lucifer stop blinking so fucking loud?

Vox took a shuddering breath, stared at Lucifer as he seemingly continued to talk to him.

He had never felt so much more biological than machine; the realization made his biological heart stutter, leaving him short and a little tight in the chest.

It was with no small amount of dread that he realized that in a desperate bid to address the toxin in his system, he’d inadvertently deactivated some hardstops, had made a mess of some clever lines of code that should have hacked his pesky biology and neutered this ridiculous, disastrous domino effect.

Fix him, he wanted to scream as he throttled the King of Hell, fix him and put an end to this.

“ - as long as you keep yourself in check, we’re not going to have any issues -”

And fuck, why couldn’t he just shut the fuck up?

Lucifer had clearly read him as panicked over having been caught, caught thinking murderous thoughts over a man, a relationship that the diminutive leader couldn’t and didn’t understand. That was their fucking baseline, he wanted to say with a sharp tongue and a sneering, demeaning tone, he could fill a fucking library with his fantasies of Alastor’s murder.

Sure, they’d more than likely be found in sections labeled romance or fetish-shit or really fucked up and niche, tucked behind a little black curtain to keep the prudes safe, but the point was, they were mundane.

This, this, was not mundane.

This was Hell-shattering and Vox was pretty sure he was going to die, was dying. He was vaguely aware that he was just standing there, staring vacantly in the approximate direction of Lucifer’s face, and oh fuck, shitting Christ, he was now leaning forward with a look of sympathy.

His voice was laden with the vocal equivalent of a friendly, secretive elbow to the side, chummy Lucifer making a reappearance in a clear and desperate attempt to presumably get Vox to stop giving him his best thousand-yard stare.

This man could kill him, and he should.

“ - and, between you and me, we’ve alllllll thought about um - about - “ Lucifer trailed off as Vox glitched in a manner that had likely seemed painful, and maybe it was, he was so fucking numb right now, he might as well have been fucking incorporeal.

The lights above him whined and sparked, made a delightful popping sound as they briefly showered them with short-lived cinders. The rest in the hallway followed, and the darkness lasted for but a moment. Lucifer brought a single, black hand up and snapped his fingers.

The lights above reformed as though they’d never shattered in the first place.

Vox felt a spike of anger towards this man. All this power, all this easy, mindless power, and he couldn’t fix Alastor? He was going to be sick, the thing in his chest was going to kill him.

“Whoah. Okay. You good, uh, shit, what was your name again - ” Lucifer was snapping, trying to remember.

Ha! What was his name? Fuck if he knew, he just needed to get the fuck out of here and far away from Alastor and his horrible softness, his unbecoming pallor, his fucking Void-thick sorry, that which was likely permanently etched into his fucking code.

He attempted to open his direct line to Vel and Val’s phones, was immediately hit with an error.

He glitched again and that one he could feel, his internal fans clicking on as little, inconsequential routines crashed with all the grace and subtlety of a fucking pile-up on the FDR.

“Vox.” Lucifer said, clapping his hands together, and Vox knew he’d missed his cue, was supposed to fill the room with the ding-ding-ding of a game show alarm like the showman he supposedly was.

And the noise, it might as well have been a thunderclap, the sound exploding within his aching head. He flinched.

“Not good. Right - uh, just relax. You’re - you’re alright.”

Lucifer was leaning into his space again, looked as though he might try to touch him. He also looked as though he would rather be anywhere else. He’d likely been expecting some sass, maybe a fight - he’d arrived with the expectation of a near homicide, after all.

Vox reared back, could imagine what Velvette might say, a mean, bloody hell, Vox, you’re acting like a spooked horse, and Val, a disinterested, smoke-laden, singular, cálmate, and Alastor, dying, I really am sorry -

“Fuck off.” Vox said to the voices in his head, to Lucifer.

He needed out of this hallway and why, why was it so fucking red?

Walk away, he thought to himself, just walk away, but he couldn’t; his feet might as well have been nailed to the fucking floor. The idea of letting the door to Alastor’s room out of his sight made him more than anxious - it was as though flood gates had been opened and he was now bodily trying to push against the millions of tons of water.

“I’m fine. It’s fine.” He snapped, tried to remind himself that he was an adult and a fucking professional and that he shouldn’t be biting that hand that could beat him into a pulp. “You can go.”

Lucifer sighed, dropped his head to look at the floor. He put his hands to his hips and looked much like a weary mother of billions.

“I can’t do that.” And how about that, Lucifer sounded a little apologetic over the fact, if not a little on edge. Vox had no doubt that he was thinking about time and their severe lack of it, about how, for an equal lack of understanding regarding the intentions that had made the manacle snitch on him, he couldn’t leave Vox alone.

“What can you do?” Vox challenged, because the line was really fucking blurry for him

The King could give him space, but could also be right up his ass at the drop of a cranky little pin. He could heal, apparently, but just not in the way they needed. He could fix a light bulb with the snap of his fingers, and Vox was certain there was a joke in there somewhere, a rehashing of an old classic.

Oh, and he could apparently root around in people’s brains and fuck with their memories, play tourist within them as though they weren’t private and important and - and -

Holy fuck.

That was it, right?

That would.

That was how.

Without neither ample thought nor concern, Vox surged forward and grabbed at the King of Hell’s lapels. He would have expected to pull the King off his feet, or onto his toes at the very least, but the Devil didn’t so much as budge - he had the density of a fucking meteorite.

It forced him to bend down, hands bunching in fabric finer than anything he’d ever put on his own person - Vox made a mental note to ask about it later, much, much later - as Lucifer glanced with half-lidded disgust at the Sinner’s hands.

So much for not biting the hand that could murder you.

Maybe he’d been a little high and mighty before, when he’d been wondering how Alastor could be so brazen, so potentially stupid to come to blows with the man on first meeting. It was harder than he thought, to look an essential God in the face and realize he, too, had his limitations, that he was lacking.

“You were in my mind.” He stated into the King’s face, the same that had looked back at him from a table he shouldn’t have been sitting at, in a place that only he and Alastor had really known.

“First of all, I’m allowing this because you seem very unstable right now.” Lucifer said calmly, lazily.

“Fffuck you, I’m fi-ine.” It might have been convincing if he hadn’t glitched while saying it; he was fairly certain he’d melted something just then. Even so, he tightened his grip, one hand bleeding onto the King’s fine clothing while the other cramped in its locked position in the horrible cast.

“Second, yes, I was. I wanted to make sure I didn’t scramble your brains before I healed you.” Lucifer explained easily, tilted his head a bit as he gave him a flat, unimpressed look, “You’re welcome.”

“And Alastor, you could do the same with him?” Vox’s heart beat hellish against his rib cage, enough to make it hard to concentrate. He felt - he needed, he needed this to be the solution. He’d never admit it, even as his claws gripped harder - he could feel them meeting his own skin, now, he’d likely cut through the fabric - but hope was burning through him like a cruel, terminal fire.

Lucifer’s eyes gave nothing away, but the way he exhaled felt like a blow.

“It’s not that easy.” He said plainly, must have understood, completely and fully, what Vox was asking. Whether he’d tried the same, whether he’d given enough of a fuck to try and retrieve the Overlord, whether he’d found him, too, in his memories, and, if he hadn’t tried, whether he could.

“You were right there, on the surface, but he … he wasn’t. Isn’t.” Lucifer answered him with a surprising amount of patience, even as he lifted his arms and peeled Vox’s grip from his clothing as easily as removing a kitten from a curtain.

The King’s hands were overly warm, that nuclear heat pulling him slightly away from the ugly chaos of his panic. The surface, Vox thought as he watched, devastated as Lucifer brushed a hand over his coat, mended the holes, unrumpled the fabric.

Alastor wasn’t on the surface because he was deeper. He’d nearly been unmade in the Void. Vox knew its shape, remembered its horrible, freezing embrace. He had been able to feel Alastor slipping, had been adjacently aware that the other had been sinking, dying, and with the last of his strength had allayed his regret just before managing to extract them.

I really am sorry, old chum.

“So, try again.” His disgust was unguarded and that he did not regret. If he’d given up after a single try every time he’d face adversity, he wouldn’t have shit - neither now, nor in his human life.

For the first time since their initial conversation, Lucifer’s temper shone through. His eyes flashed with the fiery glint of his power, and his mouth turned downwards into a frown that suggested Vox was rapidly reaching the end of his hospitality, his good graces.

“You’re making a lot of demands for a guest, Sinner.”

“Unpaid employee.” Vox corrected, mindful of the golden handcuff and his semi-prisoner status.

Vox took the barest moment to steady himself, breathed in and closed his eyes, tried to reign in this ugly mania that had manifested from his panic and grief.

“You said he wasn’t on the surface. That implies there’s somewhere else he could be.”

Vox stared down at Lucifer, attention rapt.

“Human minds are messy. You forget things and somehow still keep the memories,” Lucifer scrunched his features, looked as though he were describing something alien and foreign, and perhaps he was - the Devil had never been human, “you can convince yourself that things that never happened happened, and that those that did, didn’t -”

Lucifer trailed off. Vox wanted to throttle him but he knew for a fact that it would be much like trying to throttle the Empire State Building.

Lucifer blinked up at him, pulling himself from his own thoughts.

“Point is, he could be anywhere.”

“You’re the King of Hell. What, afraid you might get turned around?”

Lucifer rolled his eyes, sighed, again.

“Please.” Vox said, meant it. “Try again.”

“It’s not that simple. I don’t know him well enough. I wouldn’t know where to begin. It’d be like - “ Lucifer sputtered for a moment, clearly looking for an apt comparison that would allow Vox to better understand, “ - walking through a jungle blind, while swinging a machete - ”

That didn't sound good, but surely Alastor would forgive him a few lost memories, a few scratches, as it were, if it meant not dying. He said as much and Lucifer barked a short ha, the kind that suggested Vox was the biggest idiot in the room.

“I could kill him. Probably will. No, we’re not doing this.” Lucifer said as he cut the air with his hands, a motion that suggested this conversation was over. He sounded, looked regrettable.

Vox felt that sick little twisting sensation in his chest, emotion rising. He spoke before thinking, voice louder than he intended and thoroughly wrecked,

“Then he’ll die anyway!” He said it with so much force, so much feeling, he found himself a little breathless. It was as though he’d punched the air from his own lungs.

Lucifer rolled back on his heels, shoulders dropping, that ancient fatigue settling on him again like a well-worn cloak. Vox sympathized, he really fucking did, but he wasn’t about to let this go because the absent King looked, was tired.

“Right? Or, is that the plan? Just … let him die.” It was a question, a statement, whichever made Lucifer feel worse.

The Devil was silent but Vox knew he hadn’t lost him yet; he could see the gears turning, could see him thinking and considering.

“What if I tag along?” Vox asked, uncertain that it was even possible but hopeful, because that’s who he was today, Mr. Brightside, Mr-Oh-So-Fucking-Hopeful. That was him now, his new identity; eggs meet fucking basket.

Lucifer flubbed his lips like it was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard, rolled his eyes.

“Tag along? Well, then you could die, or worse, be trapped in his mind for eternity. Are all your ideas bad?” Lucifer huffed, laughed a little hysterically.

Vox felt the urge to laugh himself, right alongside the man before him, the hysteria absolutely catching. What a knee slapper this all was.

Vox’s knee jerk impulse was to say something embarrassing, something that would have Velvette and Val absolutely roasting his ass for the rest of eternity, something knightley like it would be worth it if it meant I tried, or something brave like you’re not going to scare me away from this, or something so fucking cringe and panicked that Lucifer couldn’t say no, like please, please just fucking help me, I just realized that I still maybe love the prick and need to - to talk to him so he can reject me again and start the cycle anew, just let me fucking have this.

Instead, Vox gathered himself, lowered his tone into something respectable and serious and completely ready for death, if it came to it.

“Your - your majesty, let me try, at least.”

“Were you listening? Why doesn’t anyone listen to me?” Lucifer laughed to himself, threw his hands out in a motion of disbelief, of frustration. He looked like he needed to scream into a pillow.

“Please.” He tried again, only lightly disgusted by his pleading; it wasn’t a word he said often.

“I can do it. I can find him. And, if I can’t,” Vox shrugged, picture of nonchalance, “well, you’ll have one less Overlord to ‘babysit’.”

“That is not as comforting as you think it is.” Lucifer deadpanned and Vox imagined that it would be a massive headache, explaining the whole mess to his daughter if things went south, more than they have already.

But, Hell was in pieces - what was one more shattered, dirty bottle in the shit pit?

“C’mon,” Vox pushed, knowing Lucifer was on the edge of an agreement, of giving in, “if it works, your daughter will be over the moon, and uh - you’ll have my gratitude, of course - “

Lucifer stared at him. His gratitude wasn’t worth much, but he did look intrigued by the promise of soothing his daughter’s own grief.

Vox continued:

“ - and you’ll have another pair of eyes on that contract. Alastor’s no slouch when it comes to loopholes. Trust me.”

He never thought he’d see the day in which he was singing the Radio Demon’s praises, but he found he meant it.

Lucifer shook his head, mouth pressed into a thin line, and, for a moment, Vox felt a horrible pang in his chest, his hope dying ugly. But, he needn’t despair. Lucifer didn’t keep him waiting.

“An hour. We’ll, you’ll have an hour, but after that - “ Lucifer petered off and though Vox wanted to protest the timeframe - an hour, surely they could spare more time for something so delicate? - he knew better than to spit in the face of a favor.

At least, he knew better than to do it again.

“Right.” Vox nodded, adrenaline clearing the animal panic that he’d been so taken by. He’d find a way, an hour was enough, it had to be.

“I’m serious.” Lucifer said, eyes boring into Vox’s own. “If you can’t - if you fail, we move on. You won’t fight me. You won’t refuse to go when I say. You will listen to me.”

Vox nodded, swallowed heavily against the weight of the task and the terribly inadequate amount of time he had to tackle it.

“And no matter the outcome, you will get your head in the game, and help us.”

Before Vox could really say anything about what would come after, about how there would only be one outcome, Lucifer was dismissing him with a wave of a hand, opening a portal with the other.

“I’ll meet you in five.” He said before entering the portal without so much as glancing at him. It had happened too quickly for Vox to even process what had been on the other side.

Vox stood there, arms limp at his sides, as he tried to prepare himself for what was to come. It had only been ten minutes since he’d fled the room, refusal on his lips. Now, on the other side of his panic, in the thick of his pain, he felt reinvigorated if not a little insane.

Watching Alastor die, slowly, all for a lack of trying, watching him lay unaware and sickly, wasn’t something he could do. Watching him struggle to breath and fade into nothingness was so unworthy of both of them, it wasn’t something he could abide. He really wasn’t a bedside vigil kind of guy - ask anyone, ask his dickhole father.

He wasn’t going to lay witness to the absent, injurious, poison-sick end of the Radio Demon.

He couldn’t.

But.

Dragging the asshole from the recesses of his own mind by his antlers?

Yeah, that he could do.

When Lucifer returned to Alastor’s room, Vox was pacing.

A part of him regretted investigating, interrupting whatever breakdown the Overlord had been trying to have in the ‘privacy’ of the hallway.

He’d been hunched over the contract, half-listening to Charlie and Vaggie’s stressed murmuring, when the wall, his ward delivered news of an imminent transgression - he paces like an animal, he talks to himself as though mad, he thinks of murder.

Now, his wards, especially those he laid on walls could be a little finicky, a little judgmental; walls might have eyes but they had no sense. It was why he usually used his ducks - his spy ducks - to be precise. They tended to think a little more critically, and tended not to make assumptions.

They were, however, lousy at hiding, inert as they were. He hadn’t known how to plant a duck in Alastor’s room without Vox noticing - they tended to stare into your soul and catch the eye. Mainly because they would quack whenever they got excited.

He was working on it.

But then the manacle had lit up, had shared with him anger and confusion and grief through a neat little empathic channel that came free with the price of admission. It had been sharp enough, wrenching enough that not even he, in all his exhaustion and occasional, habitual apathy, could ignore it.

With a clumsiness that had suggested it had been a while since he’d last slept, he’d stood and excused himself with an equally clumsy, I gotta … check on something … real quick … be right back, sweetie.

What had ensued had been exhausting.

He had been prepared for a scrap, or at the very least, the equivalent of scruffing the Overlord into submission, putting him in a nice little timeout - not an emotionally tortured Sinner.

And that wasn’t an understatement because oh boy, the guy had laid hands on him, had tried to intimidate him, and had done so with a shattered expression and eyes that verged on looking wet.

Sometimes - and Lucifer wanted to keep it that way, he could not handle this becoming a thing - he could see the human underneath the strange Sinner exterior.

He’d seen it in Angel, once or twice, but always in dark moments - the few times he’d caught him returning to the Hotel in the early morning hours, quiet and not at all himself, and reeking of desperation, a need to change something but knowing it was out of his many hands.

He’d seen it in the bartender, Husk, when his repetitive, bar cleaning would cease mid-swipe, eyes clouding and going distant as he got caught up in his own numbness, a dangerous little fit of dissociation that might as well have been passive suicidality for how unguarded it was.

He’d seen it in Alastor, even, and loathed as he was too admit, it was not rage or wrath, but mild, honest contentment, body leaned over a stove and ears lowering a fraction over satisfaction as he tasted the fruits of his labor.

And, of course, he’d seen it in this newcomer, the strangest looking Sinner he’d seen in a while. For having a television for a head, the Overlord was terribly expressive in a most human way.

On him, Vox, he’d seen grief, the kind built of compounding losses, and it was a little too familiar, a little too exact for Lucifer to ignore.

He’d folded like a lawn chair.

But, Lucifer had given in to his request not in a moment of weakness, but hope … and a little bit of mercy, but more towards himself, because this Hotel was surely going to kill him.

And here he was, foolish as ever, and made ever more so by the too filled whiskey glasses in hand.

If he were about to do this, to potentially condemn two human souls for lack of practice and a general habit of wrong-footedness, he’d offer at least one of them, the one that could, a drink.

He watched the Overlord pace a moment longer, taking note of his refusal to look at Alastor, before deciding to intervene. It seemed as though the Sinner was lost in thought, hadn’t noticed his arrival.

He cleared his throat, loudly, obnoxiously.

Vox turned, face glitching in that strange way it did.

“Good. You’re back.” He said, his long stride carrying him feverishly forward. “Let’s do this.”

Sinners, Lucifer thought, always in such a rush to do something psychotic.

“We will. We are. But first.” Lucifer offered him the glass, nodded towards one of Alastor’s red wingbacks - he’d reset them, put them in their original place with a thought. They could drag them back over to Alastor’s bedside when it was time.

Vox’s expression fell, even as he reached for the glass, peered into it.

“Will this … help?” The Sinner looked confused, was likely trying to figure out whether the whiskey was part of some weird, demonic, mind-melding ritual, and, seriously, this wasn’t the 1400s. He didn’t really do potions anymore. That had just been a weird phase that humans had liked way too much.

Sometimes whiskey was just whiskey.

“It will help you relax.”

Vox gave him a look of pure suspicion while he swirled the glass, assessed it, and, ugh, what a snob. Lucifer imagined he was insufferable when he was alive, the kind of guy that collected watches and said things like time is money.

Vox’s gaze moved downwards, slanted ever slightly towards the bed, and, though Lucifer wasn’t a mind-reader, he was very good at guessing.

“You won’t feel the effects once we’re … well, inside his mind. The transition will be easier if your body is relaxed -”

It was as true as it needed to be. He could easily force the Sinner into twilight, but it was always so much easier when they exercised their own free will. A stiff, anxious body was a stiff, anxious mind, after all.

Also, the Overlord reeked of nerves, had filled the air with the most uncomfortable, electromagnetic hum.

“ - and honestly, you’re making me anxious just looking at you.”

“That must be really hard for you, Your Majesty.” Vox muttered and Lucifer fought the urge to roll his eyes for the tenth time that night. They were so edgy, these two; they absolutely deserved each other.

Vox sat, and Lucifer followed suit, casting a quick glance toward Alastor.

He looked dreadful, weak - he’d neer seen a Sinner in such a state and live long enough to make it everyone else’s problem. Despite his personal feelings towards the man, he preferred him alive.

Stillness didn’t suit him, nor did the softening of his features, the sleep-mussed fluffing of his ears. He looked much more himself when he was dropping pianos on innocent bystanders, or gluing coins to the floor, or being an eldritch horror, or implying that those he’d trapped in conversation were both intellectually impaired and impotent.

The latter he’d done while serving him a plate of etoufée.

Point was, though Vox couldn’t know it, Lucifer wanted this to work, too.

Vox was right. Alastor didn’t have a chance in Hell - hahaha - if he were in what was effectively a coma, all induced by draining himself to the last drop. His constitution was weakening, his body unable to hold its own against the lingering angelic essence and the strange substance. He hadn’t told Charlie, hadn’t told anyone, but the prognosis was bleak.

Lucifer stared down into the amber, took a sip, looked away.

“You’d be surprised.” He said into his glass.

If Vox heard him, he didn’t let on, and Lucifer was fine with that.

“So, an hour.” The Overlord didn’t sound daunted, exactly, but he didn’t sound pleased. He swirled his glass again and perhaps it wasn’t snobbery but nerves, a habit.

An hour.

He’d never done anything like this for longer than five minutes, but he wasn’t about to say that. They could get lost in an hour, very lost, a kind of I-don’t-know-what’s-real-anymore kind of lost.

“It will feel longer, but it’s easy to lose track of time when you’re, well.” It felt strange to elaborate when Alastor was right there, unaware of the impending invasion, and knowing he could fuck this up in ways unimaginable to the Sinner before him.

Vox nodded. He looked as though he had questions but wasn’t certain on how to form them. Lucifer understood perfectly. Human souls had no point of reference for this; it would be like asking a bird to interview a fish about flying.

“Focus on the memories. Humans are very … nostalgic. When things get rough they tend to … hide in them.” Lucifer tried to choose his words carefully. There was no way to explain this easily, quickly, respectfully. What he had wanted to say was that humans were a fucking mess and walking around in some random mind was like walking through a minefield, or a theme park that was actively on fire.

Vox had been easy - had been more dreaming than remembering. It must have been on his mind often, that little slice of the past.

The downturn of Vox’s false brow suggested that he had left the man with more questions than answers.

Still, he nodded, took another sip and oh, that one had been a lot.

“And if he’s not in a memory?”

Lucifer couldn’t help the expression he made, a wincing sort of thing that didn’t exactly inspire confidence.

If Alastor wasn’t tucked away in a memory, then Vox wasn’t going to find him. Outside of memory was abstract thought and opinion and judgement; they were without form.

He laughed a little nervously, waved a dismissive hand.

“Don’t worry about that. That, like, never happens.” And if it did Lucifer, well, Vox wouldn't be any the wiser because Lucifer would be extracting them both on the hour mark and that would be that.

Vox didn’t look convinced, but he also didn’t look perturbed.

Ok, Lucifer thought, so we’re doing this.

The fire hummed and crackled merrily, and an antique clock Lucifer hadn’t noticed before was ticking and tocking away in the corner of the room. The time he’d allotted, allowed because, holy shit they had a lot to do, was nearly up and though the Sinner only looked slightly less wired - hahaha, fuck he was tired - he figured this was as ready as they would get.

“You seem very confident that you’ll succeed.” Lucifer stated, keeping the manic-laced hope from his voice before taking the final sip; the whiskey was warm but woefully incapable of making a dent in his constitution.

Still, he needed the distraction - it wasn’t just Sinners who got nervous, got a little bit of performance anxiety. And, hell, they really could use a win right now.

Vox finished his own glass, taking an audible gulp as he put his glass down with a miserable clunk.

If this had helped, Lucifer couldn’t say.

Vox stood, pulled at one of his shirtsleeves.

Lucifer was still trying to shed his former hermetic tendencies, so maybe was relying a little too heavily on outdated standards and royal niceties.

It had made sense to him when he’d first thought of it. Sharing a drink is what one did before you jumped lind into the fray, before you did something outrageously stupid.

Right? That irritating, hair raising hum persisted, and the man before him still refused to look directly at the subject of all this … pain. Alastor’s capacity to cause it clearly wasn’t bound to his state of consciousness, let alone his will.

It was impressive, really.

“We doing this, or not?”

Didn’t help. Great. Good.

He was killing it.

Instead of answering, Lucifer tossed his glass aside, banishing it to wherever, clapped his hands, and leveraged himself up with the kind of pep and energy that came only from pure, unfiltered insanity.

Then, as expected, there was a knock on the door.

Right on time.

Before Vox could question him, or file a complaint, he strode over to the door and opened it, smiled softly at his wonderful, punctual daughter and her lovely girlfriend.

Charlie and Vaggie stepped in, quick and quiet, door shutting softly behind them. He accepted the hug his daughter had broadcasted wanting as soon as she’d been visible, and then raised an eyebrow at Vaggie’s angelic spear, gave her a tight smile that suggested it was a nice thought but maybe overkill?

“What are they doing here?” Vox sounded irritated, unimpressed, a little blasé, but Lucifer knew better, or at least the manacle did. He bet it was squeezing the ever loving shit out of his wrist.

He’d put himself between them and Alastor, their presence clearly having raised his hackles. His gaze darted for a moment towards his empty whiskey glass - with a thought, Lucifer banished that one, too - then at the spear.

Lucifer put up a hand in a gesture of peace.

“It was just whiskey. They’re not here to … kill you, or whatever you’re thinking” Lucifer said again, because if he’d really wanted to kill him, he wouldn’t have liquored him and then had his daughter and her girlfriend do it.

What kind of father did he think he was?

Vox made a face that suggested he was offended, plowed forward.

“You didn’t mention needing your daughter or her bodyguard for this.”

Lucifer didn’t much like his tone, but he supposed he should be glad that the Overlord was showing more grit than grain; as much as he hated the ‘tude, the disrespect, he needed this version of the Overlord, not the one that had been humming with worry.

“Bodyguard? Seriously, asshole? “

“Vaggie.” Charlie said, not unkindly. Her voice was dripping with exhaustion and Lucifer’s heart broke for her, had been for a while now.

“Right. Sorry, hon.” Vaggie murmured as she curled her free hand into Charlie’s own. Lucifer knew that Vaggie was no less impacted by the recent turn of events. Unlike Charlie, from whom emotions flowed easily and constantly, Vaggie was playing the part of fortress.

Lucifer knew she was upset, that the meeting in Heaven had ignited a fury that, in present time, would have no outlet. She’d been ready to go to work, to make use of her strategic mind, and she’d been more than willing to prepare her body to enter battle, something Lucifer was dearly hoping to avoid.

She hadn’t been ready for this - to come home from a milk run to two dying Overlords, one of whom she had more than complicated feelings about. Alastor and Vaggie were about as oil and water as it got. And Vox, well, Lucifer got the impression that he could fall over dead and she’d brush her hands off with a welp, that’s that.

Vox had likely gotten that impression, too, so his reaction wasn’t so unreasonable.

“I didn’t.” He agreed, because he hadn’t told Vox, but it had hardly been necessary, and it wasn’t in the Overlord’s power to change.

“Like I said before, time gets weird in there.” Lucifer shrugged out of his coat as he spoke, tossed it towards the antler-prong coat rack and ugh, Alastor accused him of being tacky?

Vox still hadn’t moved, hadn’t relinquished his position between them and the downed Overlord, and wasn’t that ironic? He was fairly certain they had been at each other’s throats mere weeks ago. That’s what Charlie had said, at least.

“Charlie is our failsafe. She’ll be here to … uh, keep us on time.” Which was a nicer way of saying that, should he go over time, should he become unresponsive, she would bodily rip him away from the Overlord, severing the connection completely.

It would hurt, but it would do the job.

“Ok.” Vox said, flat and accepting, but clearly not in love with the idea of having two of the most powerful beings in Hell anywhere near him when he was so vulnerable.

“And GI Jane?”

Lucifer didn’t know who or what a GI Jane was, but he assumed he meant Vaggie, was proven correct when his attention once again slid over to the woman and her deadly spear, his expression guarded.

“While we’re - “ He still hadn’t the right word for this - rummaging around Alastor’s mind like it was an unorganized junk drawer didn’t quit hit - so he continued with the vagaries, “ - in there, we won’t be aware of what’s happening out here.”

Vox’s screen seemed to dim at the implication; the level of vulnerability required for this was rather enormous.

“I don’t know about you, but I rather have someone watching my - our backs.” It was true, unfortunately. Lucifer would survive an ambush in this state, but Vox wouldn’t - his consciousness, his awareness would rely purely on Lucifer’s own.

If something happened, if they were attacked in the sparse, weighty hour he’d allotted, Vox would never even know he’d been struck down. He’d just simply bear the attack until it either ended, or he expired.

Lucifer watched him carefully, waited for him to show any signs of regret, evidence that he may call the whole thing off.

He didn’t, and perhaps Lucifer shouldn’t be so surprised - he remembered their little deal, the way it had felt when he’d briefly held it in his hands.

“Right. Fine. Enough talk.”

Lucifer gave him a short nod, turned to his daughter and Vaggie and did the same, signalling it was time.

With a wave and a snap he set the room and lowered himself into his seat, gestured for Vox’s hand as he took Alastor’s own, cold and limp, and took a breath.