Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You know,” Husker mutters around his smoke, “I don’t think he’s looked away from you since you walked in.”

Alastor hummed, his grin stretching slow and catlike as he swirled his drink. “Mmm… how flattering,” he said, his voice coming out with a slight purr beneath the faint crackle of static. He was on his fourth drink now and he was starting to feel the tiniest bit tipsy. “Though I can’t imagine what’s so fascinating about little ol’ me.”

Husker snorted as he polished a glass that clearly didn’t need it. Alastor suspected that it was something to keep his hands busy. “You’re loud, dramatic, and you light up a room without trying. Kinda hard not to look.” And most sinners think you to be more dangerous than the devil himself, went unsaid.

Alastor couldn’t help but laugh, resting his chin on his hand as he looked at the Overlord. “My dear Husker, that sounds dangerously like a compliment!” 

Husker rolled his eyes, taking out his cigar to flick ash into the tray beside him. “Don’t get used to it,” he grumbled. “Just calling it how I see it.” 

Alastor’s grin softened to something more genuine, for just a heartbeat. Then the familiar playfulness returned, “Careful, Husker. If you start complimenting me too often, people might think you like my company.”

“Yeah, well,” The older cat muttered, setting the glass aside and taking a long drag of his cigar, exhaling a slow trail of smoke that curled towards the ceiling. “At least you pay your tab.” Once he was done, he put the cigar out in the ash tray. “Though I still don’t know how you drink that much sugar in one sitting. Makes my teeth hurt just lookin’ at it.”

Alastor chuckled, lifting his empty glass in mock salute. “Oh, Husker, my dear fellow, the sweetness makes the bitterness easier to swallow.”

“Yeah? Try tellin’ that to him,” Husker muttered, jerking his head subtly toward the far end of the bar.

This time, Alastor followed the motion lazily with his eyes. 

There he was. 

In the corner, wearing a yellow sweater and a black blazer and matching slacks, was the demon who had been watching him. He was… unique, if Alastor had to put a name to the other's appearance. Most demons were more commonly animal based, but it also wasn't unrare for a demon to be more object based.

This one just happened to have a picture box for a head. 

When the other noticed that the two demons were looking over, he stiffened ever so slightly. He tried to play it off by reaching for his drink with a too-casual motion and drowning it.

“Ah,” Alastor mused, letting more weight rest in his hand as his other gently tapped his staff on the bar's side. “He’s shy. How adorable.” He might be more drunk than he thought. Thank Lucifer that Mimizy wasn't here or he would have to deal with her teasing. 

Then again, if Mimizy wasn't here, he would probably be on his tenth drink.

“That’s the new wannabe Overlord. Well, one of them. But he’s the one that everyone’s been talking ‘bout,” Husker muttered, gesturing subtly with his cigar toward the corner booth. “Calls himself Vox, I think.” 

When Alastor didn’t say anything or even look surprised, Husker gave him a look, “You two met before?” 

“Not officially,” Alastor said, setting down his glass with a soft clink. He was starting to become terribly curious or terrible and curious?

“Now don’t go causin’ trouble,” Husker warned once he saw the slow grin starting to stretch from ear to ear on the other demon's face. Whenever the older man saw that grin, it never meant anything good. And more often than not, it led to his bar, or whatever establishment they were in, in some type of disarray.

Alastor pushed away from the bar, placing a hand on his chest and twirling his staff in the other dramatically. “Trouble? Dear Husker, you wound me.” He straightened his tie, the faint hum of his radio static buzzing grew a pitch louder. “I’m simply going to introduce myself. It would be rude not to, don’t you think?”

Husker sighed. “You’re gonna eat him alive, aren’t you?”

Alastor’s grin widened. “Only if he asks nicely.”

With that, Alastor stepped away from the bar, watching as Husker rolled his eyes and checked on his customers with a roll of his eyes.

That action made him pause, just a little. Alastor let himself watch for a moment, a few seconds really.

While Husker was an older man then himself, he was a younger demon then Alastor. Maybe that explains why it was almost impressive that Husker had been able to claim the Overlord in that short time. Not that it was hard to do nowadays, but to keep it was a victory in of itself. He had gained notable notoriety, especially since he cared a good little niche for himself in hell.  That led the cat Overlord to gain a couple of nicknames from the papers, like the Gambling Demon or the Card King. Hell’s appalling lack of imagination aside, the titles did fit. The man was good at what he did. 

But despite all that, he still didn’t know the rules like Alastor did. 

The reminder made his teeth ache.

It would be so very, very easy to claim his soul for own. Especially since Husker had many exploitable vices himself. All it would take would be night of drinking and gambling.

But as Alastor watched, Husker manifested a stack of cards and started to play some tricks for two female imps perched at the bar, he used his tongue to soothe the back of his teeth.

Husk was one of the few in Hell who didn’t cower or grovel. He’d stare a demon down, deal the cards, and let fate decide who burned. He also was one of the few who could keep up with Alastor when he played on the piano.

If the deer demon were to take the other’s soul, he would become a, well, a husk, of his former self. That wouldn’t do, not while he was still so entertaining.  

If that ever changed, well, Alastor would cross that delightful little bridge when he came to it.

For now, there were other amusements to be had.

The music from the gramophone warbled into a slower, lazier song. Alastor adjusted his collar before striding across the bar, letting his cane tapping in time with the beat.

At the corner booth, Vox was pretending very hard not to notice him.

He had his chin propped on one hand, fiddling with the rim of his glass as though it was the most fascinating thing in Hell. Alastor could also hear the faint hum of static from his screen, which betrayed him as every few seconds, the sound grew and then dimmed, like a pulse quickening under scrutiny.

The Radio Demon couldn't help but wonder if only he heard that last part. 

Alastor stopped just short of the booth, head tilted. “Well now,” he said at last, keeping tone smooth as he talked, “you make a rather poor statue, my good man. Blink and you’ll give yourself away.”

Vox froze for a half-beat, then chuckled awkwardly. “Guess you caught me,” he said, turning his screen toward him fully now. The blue light of it reflected faintly off Alastor’s green eyes. “Didn’t realize I was that obvious.” The tone was almost bashful, almost boyish even, but there was a faint tension behind it. Like he was trying to play off being caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

Alastor hummed again before he answered. “No need to apologize,” Alastor said finally, sliding into the seat across from him without asking. A little rude, maybe, but most would considered staring rude so it canceled out. “I tend to find curiosity to be a rather endearing trait. It’s one of the few things that keeps this place from being so dreadfully boring.”

Vox’s had screen flickered faintly when Alastor sat down across from him. He coughed and as scrambled for composure, straightening his blazer and setting his empty glass a little harsher than more then likely intended.  “I just meant it’s… not every day you meet a legend,” Vox finished lamely.

It wasn’t quite the smooth, charismatic tone Alastor was expecting from a supposed rising Overlord. Vox looked like he was trying to be suave, to maintain a certain polish, but his words kept tripping over themselves. It was oddly… genuine.

Alastor blinked once, tilting his head as he looked at him. As he did so, a faint sound of a radio turning onto a new frequency played. “My, my, how flattering. But I do think you're overselling it a touch, don’t you think?”

The other demon gave a small, embarrassed chuckle. “Maybe,” Vox admitted, drumming his fingers once against the table before stilling them. “But it’s true. Everyone’s heard of you, you know. The Radio Demon, just appearing out of nowhere, tearing through half the city like it was nothing.”

Alastor waved his hand, “Ah, yes. The stories do tend to… embellish a bit, don’t they? You conquer one or two egotistical Overlords and suddenly you’re a monster!” He laughed lightly, alongside the laugh track that accompanied it.

Vox smiled, well, the pixelated approximation of one. Alastor had to wonder how the other ate. “You don’t think you are?”

“Oh, I didn’t say that,” Alastor replied smoothly, resting his chin on his hand again. His head was still a bit woozy, if anything it seemed to be getting worse. “I’m simply saying that perception and truth rarely hold hands for long.”

Vox tilted his head slightly, the faint buzz of static coming from his screen. “Guess that depends on who’s telling the story,” he said, leaning back with a practiced air of nonchalance that didn’t quite land.

“Precisely!” Alastor's sudden increase in voice was enough to make a nearby demon jump. “A story is only as powerful as the teller. And I’ve always found it far more fun to let others do the telling.” His grin almost seemed to glimmered in the bar's lighting. “They make me far more interesting than I ever could on my own.”

That earned a real surprised laugh from Vox. That made his grin turn into something between sharp and genuinely entertained. It was enough to make Alastor continue.

“Well, Vox, was it? You’re quite the curiosity yourself. An ambitious little broadcaster trying to carve out his niche, hmm?”

Vox’s screen flickered faintly at that, annoyance Alastor clocked easily. “Something like that,” he said, his voice was confident enough to make the other sudden irritation. “I’ve got ideas. Big ones. Just… haven’t gotten the reach yet.” Then he looked at Alastor with almost nervous eyes. “Have you seen any of my broadcasts?” Vox asked, his tone casual, but the tension in his shoulders said otherwise.

Alastor leaned back in the booth, wishing he still had a drink. “Mmm, I can’t say I have,” he said, a bit more detached then he met too. “Radio’s always been my preferred medium. But I will say that I might have caught a few ends of the broadcasts around town. You're very… expressive.” 

Vox chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well… gotta get people’s attention somehow,” he said. His voice carried a spark of defensiveness as he continued, “Some of the… other networks don’t exactly play nice.”

“Rivals, then,” Alastor mused. “Competition breeds innovation, or so they say.”

“Yeah, well, I’m working on the breeding part,” Vox muttered, bitterness creeping in despite his attempt to stay smooth. “The bastards keep trying to steal my frequencies. Half of ‘em can’t even run a proper signal, but they’ve got the power to drown me out.”

Oh, and how Alastor could understand that. When he had first arrived in Hell, after his "adjustment period” so to speak, Alastor had worked tirelessly to claim his voice, and only his voice, across the airwaves. There had been other radio hosts, of course, but they had no class, no style with no direction or idea to what they were really doing.

It had been fun to use their annoying artless voice for his own shows. Their screams almost made up for the lackluster work.

Almost.

“Ahhh,” Alastor said with mock sympathy, resting his chin on his hand again. “So the bright young entrepreneur finds himself beset by the cruel world of business.” His grin turned razor-edged. “How dreadfully ordinary.”

That made Vox chuckle, and this time it sounded a little less forced. “Yeah, maybe. But that’s how you start. You tear down the competition, build something better. Bigger.”  

There it was. His ambition. Wasn't that a such a delicious little character trait. 

This sinner could be very entertaining to watch. Would rule or would he fall like Icarus?

Still, despite this conversation being one of the most engaging he’d had in weeks, Alastor had always known when it was best to step away.

Always leave them wanting more. 

He rose from his seat in one fluid motion, twirling his cane as he did so. “Well, this has been delightfully diverting,” he said, straightening his jacket. “But alas, the night wanes, and I fear if I linger much longer, dear Husker will charge me for loitering.”

Vox blinked, “You’re leaving already?”

Alastor smiled, but it gave nothing away for how he really felt. It didn't help that he also had another… arrangement this evening. “Ah, you say that as though you’ll miss me.” The pixels on Vox’s face glitched faintly, which caused Alastor to chuckle. “I do hope that you won’t let my departure ruin your evening.”

Vox opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, but this time something in his posture shifted. Less jittery. He straightened, “No,” he said, voice steadier. “I just wonder if… you would like to meet again. At some point. To talk.”

Alastor paused. Just a blink. Barely even a moment.

To his credit, the picture box didn’t shrink as the other demon stared him down in that brief pause. In fact, he made sure to hold Alastor’s gaze.

Interesting.

Alastor tilted his head, just slightly. “To talk…?”

Vox nodded once. “Yeah. Just talk. Or, maybe, I dunno, ” He hesitated, but didn’t look away. “Get dinner or something.”

Dinner.

A harmless suggestion for most.

For Alastor?

Alastor’s smile sharpened.

It sparked an idea.

“Well,” he said lightly, “I suppose I could be persuaded.”

Vox’s screen flickered brighter. “Really?”

“Certainly,” Alastor replied as though it were the simplest thing in the world. “A bit of conversation over dinner might be… enlightening.”

Vox sat up straighter, almost energized. “Great. Good. I can, uh, I can plan something, if you’d like?”

Alastor tapped his cane once against the floor. “No need. I’ll contact you.”

Vox nodded, relieved and maybe a bit proud. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll be ready.”

Alastor’s grin widened.

“I expect you will be.”

With that, he turned away. He made sure to place his money onto the counter before he teleported away. 

And just like that, he was gone.

Vox lingered in the booth a few seconds longer, screen flickering faintly.

Then, he murmured to himself:

“…Holy shit.”

And downed the rest of his drink.

When Alastor rematerialized in his own home, he nearly collapsed. He grasped one of the arms of the velvet armchairs to not fall to the ground. His legs buckled the moment reality solidified around him, but he stayed standing. 

Using his other hand, he ran it over his face. He turned, letting himself sit on the arm and rubbed his hand up again, reaching up and roughly pulling at his hair.

So the woozyness wasn’t because of the drinks was it? 

After a few minutes of hunched over the arm of the chair, making sure that the room stopped spinning, he finally let out a long, low breath. It trembled near the end of it despite his attempt to steady it.

He hated that.

But it was no matter. It always passed. 

He straightened himself, placing his hand on his chest for a second before standing fully. “Yes,” he murmured to the quiet room, almost dismissily, “quite manageable.”

Once he was certain his legs would obey him again, Alastor finally pushed himself fully upright. His posture snapped back into its usual poised sharpness, nothing betrayed his momentarily weakness. 

But his hands…

His hands still trembled. Only slightly, but enough that he tucked them behind his back before the sight could irritate him further.

He rolled his eyes as he summoned one of his shadows to him, a sharp grin on its face stretched across its inky face as it curled around his shoulder, awaiting instruction.

Alastor exhaled slowly, letting that last shred of unease slip from his expression as the shadow loomed over his shoulder, its grin reflected his own. “Keep watching him,” Since he was alone, he let the normal static that accompanied his voice die down. “Patterns, habits, anything that stands out." He waved a dismissive hand made his way to his bedroom.  He ignored the shadow when it gave a look. "He’s not subtle.”

The shadow watched its master for a moment, almost too knowing.

 “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he chided lightly. “I’m not in the habit of explaining myself to my own shadows." 

The shadow only tilted its head slowly. 

Alastor clicked his tongue and turned away, unwilling to be studied in his own home by a creature that was technically a part of him. Or well, more like summoned by him. This shadow was not his own, only something he had worked hard to summon and use for his own uses. Where Alastor's own shadow was an enigma to him at the moment. He could easily call it to his side, the shadow like to explore. Just like it's owner, it did not like to be kept still.

Alastor didn’t bother to watch as this shadow left. He could feel it leave as he took off his coat when he did get into the bedroom. He draped the coat over the back of the vanity chair with less care than he normally had before settling into the chair himself.

He might have told a little white lie here and there in the conversation. 

In truth, Alastox had already known who the TV demon was when he first walked through the door. How could he not? The Radio Demon could pinpoint the moment Vox had manifested in Hell. The radio frequency he had been living in alone suddenly had a new signal cutting through the static. It was unmistakable. Jarring. A new voice on a wavelength that had once belonged to him and him alone.

Alastor had sent his own shadow at first to investigate, to see what this little upstart was about. And the reports had been interesting enough to keep him listening.

So very, very interesting.

An ambitious thing with far too much spark for his own good. Much like Alastor himself when he first arrived in Hell, he took one look at how lacking his industry was and decided to take it all over for himself. Despite talking how his competition was trying to crush him, Vox had already taken over half of the TV industry.

For someone so young in demonic years, Vox was already clawing his way into relevance with the intensity of someone who refused to back down.

Alastor still didn’t know if he found it endearing, irritating, or fascinating.

He rested his elbows on the vanity, folding his hands beneath his chin. The tremor was only in his fingers now. Tsk. How undignified.

When he looked back into the mirror, his own shadow was curled around his shoulders now. “I should have ignored him,” Alastor murmured as he finally started on fixing his face. His night out this evening wasn’t that crazy to upset his appearance too much. “It's hardly worth my attention.”

But they both knew that wasn’t true.

His shadow stared at him in the mirror.

Alastor’s ear twitched.

“Oh, don’t you start,” he muttered, dabbing a bit of tint that matched his skin tone onto his cheekbone. “You are a fragment of me. You should be agreeing with me.”

A beat.

He clicked his tongue sharply. “Not… hovering.”

His shadow only curled closer as though listening to a confession he refused to give.

“Tsk.” He set the brush down with more force than necessary.  “You are insufferable.”

His shadow only tilted its head, as if to say: You’re deflecting.

Alastor smoothed a claw beneath his eye, neatening a line. “I am not interested. It’s a little curiosity. Nothing more,” he continued,  “A new arrival with an unusual make. A… strange little anomaly.”

The shadow’s grin widened in the mirror.

Alastor inhaled sharply through his nose.

“Fine. Slightly compelling,” he allowed, just barely. “But only because novelty is so dreadfully rare.”

The shadow continued to stare.

Alastor narrowed his green eyes at his own reflection. “You are awfully bold for a creature whose existence depends entirely on my good will.”

The shadow didn’t flinch nor did its grin didn’t fade.

Alastor jaw tightened, “Oh, stop that,” he snapped, flicking his wrist. “I do not brood.”

The shadow arched a brow it didn’t technically have.

Alastor inhaled sharply through his nose, picked up the brush again to finish his work. His hands had finally, blessedly, stopped shaking.

“He is ambitious,” Alastor conceded quietly, as though admitting it was a minor inconvenience rather than what it truly was. The spark that had unsettled him from the first moment that new frequency tore through his broadcast waves. “Ambition breeds unpredictability.”

He dragged the brush across his cheekbone, satisfied with the symmetry.

“That,” he murmured, “is all that interests me.”

He stood, making sure to adjust his belt vest before making his way to his closet. He reached into his closet to grab an identical coat, one of several, in fact, and put it on. Once he was finished, he took one last look into the mirror. 

His smile was, of course, perfect. 

Alastor had needed those drinks tonight, and the conversation with Vox had been a convenient distraction, but now, but now the last buzz of alcohol had faded into a dull aftertaste…

He remembered why he’d needed the distraction at all.

If he was someone lesser, he would have sighed. Instead, he summoned his staff and gave it a twirl. 

It wouldn’t be best to linger, Alastor thought as he let himself slip into the shadows. 

Queen Lilith was not one to be kept waiting.

Chapter Text

“-So you see,” Vox said as finished with the last slide of the projector and slid back into his own chair, “It’s not just a business opportunity. It’s an upgrade for your entire district.”

Across from him sat three sinners, all mid-tier gang leaders with cheap suits, cheaper cigars, and cheaper ambitions.

Vox hated the fact that he had to pitch himself to people this far beneath him, people who could barely understand half the words he used, let alone the brilliance of the infrastructure overhaul he was offering.

But he kept his smile polite. He knew how to play the room, even when the room smelled like sweat, blood, and desperation.

One of the gangsters finally spoke, the one with the mismatched horns and the cigarette glued to his lip.

“So lemme get this straight,” the man started, not bothering to hid his skepticism, “you wanna, what was it again? Build on our territory to make yous a brand new… broadcast hub? And, what, somehow that’s supposed to… help us?”

If Vox had a nose, he would have taken a deep inhale at that moment. "It would bring new jobs, thus more revenue, for everyone involved,” Vox said smoothly, leaning forward slightly. “Think of it as an investment in your own influence. The more people are working, watching, interacting… the stronger your hold on the district becomes. It’s not just my gain, it’s mutual deal.”

The mismatched-horned man snorted, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. “Mutual, huh? Sounds real generous of you. What’s the catch?”

Vox’s grin didn’t falter. “The catch, gentlemen, is that is that I need your cooperation. I can’t do this alone. Your territories, your local connections- they’re invaluable. In return, you get the infrastructure, the jobs, the surveillance, and the leverage to strengthen your positions. Think of it as… strategic opportunity.”

Another gangster, the shorter one with the slicked-back horns and a scar across his cheek, leaned forward, fingers tapping impatiently on the table. “And if we say no?”

Vox tilted his head, and when he talked again, there was almost a clinical edge to his voice. “Then, of course, nothing changes. You keep your current operations, your current… limitations. But ask yourselves this, are you satisfied with the status quo? Or would you rather control the narrative, rather than let someone else write it for you?”

The room went quiet for a beat, save for the soft hum of the projector and the distant gunfire outside. The gangsters exchanged glances that had a lot of skepticism but, thankfully for Vox, greed was clearly in their eyes as well.

The meeting only lasted another ten minutes before the gangsters' leaders begrudgingly nodded one by one. 

Vox surpassed a grin. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, trying to not seem too eager. “Excellent,” he said, trying to, “I knew you gentlemen had vision. I look forward to seeing what we can accomplish together.”

The moment they were gone, Vox’s shoulders finally dropped. That had taken more time and effort than he had wanted. Convincing three barely-literate thugs to act in their own interest shouldn’t require this much effort, he thought as he stood. 

He shut off the projector and rolled it to the side of the room. Vox had turned off all the other lights of the room and shut the curtains because of the projector. Thankfully his own head worked as a flashlight. “Idiots,” he muttered under his breath. “Absolute, brainless idiots.” He straightened, rubbing the back of his neck where constant pain rested. He hated lowering himself to bargain with small-time crooks, but he didn’t have the luxury of pride. Not yet. He was new. He was building. He needed footholds, territory, partnerships, exposure

He needed patience, even though that had always been the hardest part for him.

Vox pushed his shoulders back, forcing himself into some semblance of posture, and stepped out of the meeting room to go to his own office.

It was the middle of the day now, with most of his employees working behind their desks or at their stations. Only a few of his employees were wandering around, from one task to another.

His employees, half of them is were low-level sinners who needed stable work and could tolerate his particular brand of management, straightened when he passed. Not out of fear, exactly. He didn't have that reputation yet. He wasn’t an Overlord yet, but everyone knew that everyone knew that he would be. What probably made it so awkward for them was probably the fact he was a younger sinner then most of them. But he had one thing that they didn’t, ambition.

Plus the unique connection with television that helped him to surpass all others in his industry, but ambition was a better story to tell.

The other half of his employees were his “followers” from when he was alive, or, as some of the newer staff whispered when they thought he wasn't listening, his cult.

Vox had always thought it was more of a movement, but he never corrected the statement when he heard others talking about it.

When Vox made it back to his office, he shut the door with his foot and let his whole body sag backward against it, exhaling the kind of exhausted groan that he would never let another soul hear.

He stood there for a moment, head tilted back against the wood with his eyes closed. Tried, if he had to put a word to what he felt. Working with others could be so draining.

“Well, it looks like you had a productive morning.”

Vox didn’t scream.

He did let out a very undignified electronic squeak as his eye opened in a flash to look in front of him.

“Alastor!” he managed, with a strained brightness. He laughed awkwardly as he scrambled upright, forcing his posture into something that didn’t scream caught off guard. Static fizzed at the edge of his screen as he smoothed a hand down the front of his blazer and tried, keyword there, to look composed. “Didn’t hear you come in. You, uh… startled me.”

Across the office, lounging as though the room belonged to him, the Radio Demon leaned casually against Vox’s desk, arms folded behind his back like he was merely enjoying the décor.

“Oh, forgive me,” Alastor said, voice honey slick and laced with that faint static that always accompanied him. “I simply walked in! Your secretary was kind enough to hold the door for me.”

Vox’s eyes flicked toward the closed door.

He didn’t have a secretary today. Got caught up in the latest turf war and wouldn't be back for a while now.

Alastor’s smile only widened, “So, what fascinating enterprise has you collapsing dramatically against your own door, pal?” Alastor asked, tone somehow both colored in faux innocence and smugness in the way that meant someone absolutely witnessed the whole thing.

Vox cleared his throat, screen flickering for half a second before stabilizing.

“Just… business,” he said, walking past Alastor toward his desk, “Meetings. Negotiations. The usual headaches.”

“Headaches, hm?” Alastor echoed, moving to fully sit on the desk and let his legs swing back and forth lazily. “Funny, because you looked a touch more… distressed than that.”

Vox rolled his eyes, sitting down at his desk and looking up at the other Sinner. Oh, in the dark lighting of the room, his body only lit by the blue light of the screen, Alastor looked almost holy. 

Vox hated this. Hated that his first thought wasn’t You irritating little bastard, but instead-

-God, he looks unreal.

Alastor’s silhouette stood out boldly against the blue light. His antlers looked almost like a halo. The light caught the curve of his smile just right as side the sharp line of his cheekbones. His green eyes legitimately glowed in the dark room. And the worst thing was? He wasn’t even doing anything. Just sitting there, legs swinging like a bored child, humming like he didn’t know he was the most distracting thing in the room.

Vox surpassed a blush, even if his own antenna betrayed him by sparking a bit.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair as if that would somehow help; newflash- it didn’t. At all. It just gave him a better view of Alastor in his… Alastor-ness.

Vox pressed both palms against his desk and let out the kind of sigh he usually reserves for when something went awry, like how the transmitter room caught fire yesterday. “Yeah, well. If I have to explain the word ‘infrastructure’ to one more poorly-dressed thug, I might actually snap.”

Alastor’s laugh crackled alongside a laugh track. “Oh, but you handled yourself beautifully. Quite the performance! The passionate, the earnest… and perhaps a touch desperate.”

“I was not desperate,” Vox muttered. Typically he would have more bit to it, but his energy was at a all time low. When was the last time he ate?

“You were pitching to men whose greatest ambition is not getting shot before dinner,” Alastor countered, stepping lightly around the desk until he stood beside him. “Your energy was utterly lost on them.”

For a moment, just a moment. Vox’s screen flickered with something like flustered pride.“…Well. Someone understands, at least.”

Alastor shrugged, looking down now to claws. “I don't see why you didn’t just kill them and take the land for yourself.” He inspected his claws as he continued “Truly. It would have been faster. Cleaner. Certainly far more entertaining.” He looked back up at Vox, flecking his claws. "I wouldn't even minded helping you here. It has been an age since I've had a good b̴̖̗̈̚l̴̳̇̊o̸̹͆o̴̜̱̅͆d̵̡͝b̷̨̙́̚a̸̍ͅt̷͔͛͜h̵̪͕̒."

Vox froze so hard his internal fan briefly stalled. 

Alastor was offering to kill with him.

Alastor casually willing to spill blood at his side.

The idea of it all almost made him throw out all his plans and 

Vox cleared his throat, hard, sitting up straighter and very deliberately not making eye contact. “Well, ah, I appreciate the offer, really I do, but-”

“But?” Alastor’s grin tilted, interested. Vox almost thought that the other sinner was teasing him. 

Vox forced himself not to melt into a puddle. “I need their people to want me there,” Vox finally said, steepling his fingers on the desk so Alastor wouldn’t see how they trembled. “I can’t just… take the territory. Not this early. Not when I’m still building my image.”

Alastor raised a brow, grin widening. “Image?”

“Yes, image,” Vox said, ignoring the sting of embarrassment. “If I want to run a district, I need more than fear. I need loyalty. Engagement. Viewership.” He gestured vaguely to the projector, the charts still glowing faintly in the dark. “If I kill the leaders, their people scatter. They panic. They blame me. If I partner with them instead- well…”

He leaned back in his chair, “Then I slowly replace them. Quietly. Their men start reporting to me instead. Their businesses rely on my power grid. Their citizens watch my screens. And by the time the leaders realize they’re obsolete…” Vox snapped his fingers. A sharp bzzt sparked off his antenna. “They’re already irrelevant.”

It was true. When Alastor manifested in Hell and had taken out all but four, five if one where to be technical, of the Ruling Overlords in the Pride Ring, real change started to happen. The old Overlord didn't like change, and had kept the city in a kind of stifling stasis. From what Vox could understand, they had rigid hierarchy that favored certain kinds of sinners, those with pedigree, prestige, or the “right” lineage. 

But after they were gone, there had been the largest power vacuum in decades, and the city had moved faster than anyone could keep up with. For years, different gangs had risen to fill the gaps left by the old Overlords, carving out territories for themselves. New wannabe Overlords had also stamped their marks on the streets, trying to make a names for themselves. Though, the gangs were already starting to get pushed out again and certain sinner were proving themselves to the title of Overlords.

Vox was almost happy he died when he did. He was able to capitalize on both collapse of the old order and the technology of the future.

Alastor stared at him for a long moment. Before erupting into laughter. It was so loud and sharp that it caught the TV demon off guard. He planted a hand flat on Vox’s desk as he bent at the waist, laughter shaking his shoulders.

“Oh, Vox! Vox, my dear-” he wheezed between peals. “You do have teeth! And such beautifully sharpened ones!”

Vox’s antenna fizzed so violently he nearly slapped a hand over it. He hated that he couldn't control that fully yet.

He swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. “I, uh, take it that means you agree?”

“Oh, wholeheartedly!” Alastor straightened again, grinning so wide it bordered on feral. “I simply had to know. You spoke of ambition, of opportunity- but I needed to see if there was steel beneath all that polish.” His grin curled. “Or if you were simply a charming little screen projecting confidence.”

Vox’s screen glitched- a flustered blush of pixels shimmer across his cheeks. “You were… testing me?”

Alastor hummed, tapping a claw thoughtfully against his chin. “Only a little! And you passed,” The deer sinner added cheerfully with some applauding and cheering noises sounding around them. “Magnificently.”

“Passed,” he echoed, trying very, very hard not to stare at the way Alastor’s sharp grin gleamed in the low light. “Right. Good. Great. Fantastic.”

Alastor only tilted his head, studying him with mild curiosity, and absolutely zero awareness of the nuclear meltdown happening three feet in front of him.

“Well!” the Radio Demon clapped his hands together, “Now that we’ve finished discussing corpses and cooperation, I do believe it’s time for something far more interesting at the moment!”

Vox blinked. “Pleasant?”

Alastor leaned forward slightly, posture attentive in that unnervingly theatrical way of his. “Yes, indeed! I’ve come to inform you that one of my establishments, The Ragtime Roost, charming little thing really, has introduced a new item on its cafe menu. Naturally, as the proprietor, I am expected to try all the new creations before they are served to the public. “And as you were so conveniently doing absolutely nothing of importance-”

“I literally just finished a three-hour negotia-”

“-I thought,” Alastor continued right over him, “that you might like to accompany me!”

Vox’s internal fan spun up so loudly he was terrified Alastor might actually hear it.

It has been about a year now of the two being friends, if Vox had to put a name to what the two of them were. And in that time, they had only really hung out at bars. All of which were that weird cat/bird hybrid-thing seemed to be the barkeep of. Vox had still yet to get his name. 

The other times were when Alastor simply appeared.

Whether Vox was in the middle of work, just finishing a broadcast, or, Hell forbid, trying to eat lunch like a normal person, the Radio Demon had a habit of manifesting as though summoned by the faintest whiff of entertainment or chaos.

But now Alastor inviting him somewhere else, somewhere that was his. Vox absolutely did not trust himself to examine too closely. “You… you want me to… go with you?”

Alastor blinked at him as though the question were absurd. “Oh, of course! It would be dreadfully dull to try the new treat all alone. And you,” he added with a brightness Vox absolutely was not prepared for, “are delightful company.”

Vox stared at him.

Alastor stared back, smiling.

Vox hated him.

He also adored him.

Vox’s throat went dry.

He hated that, too.

But he recovered quickly, or he at least pretended to, with a sharp inhale through his vents at his sides and a smile that he hoped didn’t give too much away. “Well-” Vox straightened his posture, smoothing his blazer needlessly. “If you insist… I suppose I could free up some time…”

Alastor beamed, delighted. “Splendid! I thought you might enjoy a change of scenery. And, if I must say, you look dreadfully overworked.” He leaned one elbow on Vox’s desk, chin in his palm. “It’s quite tragic, actually.”

“S-Sure,” he said, clearing his throat. “I just need to change. Really quick. I have… a meeting outfit on.” He gestured vaguely at his blazer. “Not… casual dining material.”

Alastor tilted his head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “By all means! I shall wait.”

Vox nodded and stood perhaps a little too quickly.

“Right. Yes. I’ll just-” he gestured vaguely toward the side room attached to his office, the one he’d converted into a private-room-slash-bedroom-space. “-change. Shouldn’t take long.”

Alastor swept an arm dramatically toward the door to grant him passage, like Vox was royalty and not a flustered, overheating disaster of a demon.

“Take your time, Vox!” Alastor said cheerfully. “I’m terribly patient.”

He wasn’t. Vox knew he wasn’t. But apparently Alastor had decided to lie today.

Vox slipped into the small side room and shut the door firmly behind him.

The moment the latch clicked, Vox let out the longest sigh in his whole life and afterlife. 

“Oh my God,” he hissed under his breath. “What is wrong with me?”

The room around him did not offer comfort.

It was a mess, to put it plainly. A pull-out couch shoved against one wall, a blanket he never quite managed to wash thrown on top. Stacks of boxed take-out containers and empty cups scattered near the bin he always missed. Blinking server lights embedded into the wall where he’d merged workplace data ports that he was still getting a handle on. A wardrobe he’d dragged in two months ago because commuting home just to change was “inefficient.”

It wasn’t that Vox didn’t have a house. He did. But he barely slept there.

The most he did was go home to shower and avoid smelling like burnt wires and corporate despair. Everything else, eating, working, malfunctioning emotionally in a controlled environment, he did here.

He sighed again and ran a hand down his screen, trying to force some sense of composure into the whirlwind of thoughts spinning in his head. Why am I like this? he asked himself, I can’t… I can’t be thinking like this. Not about him. Not… him. I’m not- 

Vox cut his own thoughts off as he grabbed his favorite sweater, the yellow one. It was absurd. All of it really. He kept on a single mantra: He’s… just a friend. Just a friend. Nothing else.

He had ended up picking out a brown plaid blazer and brown pants. He didn’t know fully how dressed up to get it, but knowing Alastor’s tastes, it would be best to lean toward looking respectable rather than casual. He tugged the blazer on, adjusting the sleeves, and the pants, making sure nothing wrinkled in a way that could be interpreted as laziness.

When Vox walked back into the main office, Alastor was perched on the edge of the desk, one clawed hand resting on a scattered stack of papers. The TV demon wasn’t actually all too worried about letting the deer sinner look at the paperwork and blueprints. The Radio Demon had made it quite clear that he had no interest in the minutiae of Vox’s operations, he only wanted entertainment, a little chaos, maybe a chance to inject some laughter into an otherwise dreary day. That suited Vox just fine.

Alastor’s ears flicked to the door, and his head followed the motion. When green eyes landed fully on him when he fully stepped into the room. 

Vox cleared his throat, making sure to keep his composure this time. ““So… uh… how exactly are we getting there?”

Alastor’s grin widened, sharp as a blade, “Why, my dear Vox,” he replied, tilting his head with exaggerated charm, “the usual way!”

Vox felt himself go cold. “Oh no. Alastor-”

He was cut off by the world going dark and inky blackness of Alastor shadows consuming him. The last thing he heard was the sound of Alastor laughing. 

When the two Media demons arrived at their destination, they had two very different reactions. 

One was entirely composed, standing with his usual theatrical posture, cane in hand. The other one was clutching at the wall and trying not to throw up.

Three guesses to who was who and the first two don't count.

Alastor couldn’t help but chuckle at the screen-face demon trying to compose himself. It was always fun to see how other sinners reacted to shadow travel. Vox looked positively fragile as he tried, oh, how he tried, to regain some semblance of dignity.

“One of these days,” Vox started, finally getting a grip on his wobbling legs, “I swear I’m going to get even on you with that.”

He leaned lazily against the wall, “Oh, I do look forward to that, Vox! I simply do,”

Vox looked up at him with an almost annoyed glare, only to pause. It looks like his eyes have fully adjusted now, letting him be able to take in the room.

“Alastor?”

The demon in question hummed as his grin widened.

“I thought you said this was a cafe?” 

The two demons were standing in the foyer with booths sitting on either side and a counter to where the host/hostess would sit them and an open pair of deep red open curtains. The room led out to an even larger room and the very obvious center piece. 

In the center stood a two-tiered bar, baristas in vintage uniforms darted up and down the winding staircase connecting the two levels or simply flew. Above it was a massive domed skylight that took up the entire ceiling. On the first floor, booths lined the walls with a few tables scattered around. On either side of the bar were stairs that led up to the second floor, which wrapped around to make a U-shape. Bookshelves wrapped the walls of the second floor, with even more tables. Thin catwalks reached the bar there, letting the works come to and fro the bar.

And at the very back of the first floor: a stage. For music. Of course. A group of sinners were currently playing some quiet jazz at the moment there.

Everything smelled faintly of roasted beans, caramel, and old wood.

Vox blinked. He angled his head, taking it all in. “…This looks like a bar.”

“That’s because it was one,” Alastor said cheerfully, spreading his arms as though showing off a prized stage. “I acquired it in a deal I made and never gave it much thought. Then, a rather persistent demon came to me asking, no, begging, to change it.” He tapped his cane lightly on the polished floor, eyes glittering as he recalled the memory. “She wanted to rid the building of its… shall we say… unsavory former owner and turn this place into something brighter. Prettier. Less likely to catch on fire at random.”

Vox raised a brow. “And you just agreed?”

“Oh, heavens no!” Alastor laughed, pressing a hand delicately to his chest as though Vox had said something scandalous. “I turned her down twice. Maybe three times. But she was stubborn. And very, very tired of her boss.” He leaned in a little on his staff. “She sold her soul just to ensure he’d never bother her, or anyone, again. Quite the spectacle! You should’ve seen her when she shook on the deal. Shaking like a leaf, but her eyes?” His grin sharpened. “Burning.”

Vox glanced around again, noticing the little touches that Alastor’s usual aesthetic had, animal skeletons and lots and lots of deer imagery. “So she… designed all this?”

“She directed it,” Alastor corrected. “I provided the resources. And the former owner’s screams still echo amusingly through the walls if you press your ear to the right spot.”

Vox grimaced. “Charming.”

“Oh, it is!” Alastor chirped, delighted. “Why so surprised?” He asked in mock astonishment. “You think I’d bring you to a boring café?”

“I thought you meant a normal one!”

“Oh Vox,” Alastor said, almost sympathetically, “I never do anything normally.”

Vox tried to maintain annoyance but he couldn’t stop the smile inched his way onto his face. “You’re unbelievable,” Vox finished, trying, and failing, to make it sound like an insult. 

Alastor laughed just as a soft patter of footsteps approached them.

“Oh! Mister Alastor!”

Both demons looked up as a small squirrel sinner skidded to a stop before them, tail puffed twice her size and flicking rapidly with excitement. She wore a neatly pressed vintage uniform with little acorn buttons and a bow tie shaped like a leaf. Her big eyes sparkled the moment she spotted the Radio Demon.

“There you are! I was wondering when you’d swing when I sent the notice. And- oh!” Her fluffy tail puffed up as she noticed the other demon on her boss's side. “You brought a guest! Oh my gosh, Mister Alastor, you didn’t tell me you were bringing someone with you!” she squeaked, tail flicking in erratic swishes. “I would’ve cleaned the curtains twice, no, three times, oh! Oh! Sorry! I’ll seat you now!”

Vox blinked, unsure whether to be amused or alarmed. “Uh… she’s energetic.”

Alastor’s grin broadened. “She is enthusiastic. Quite admirable. She works herself into such a frenzy trying to make everything perfect, really, it’s adorable. She reminds me of another soul I own…” He trailed off.

The squirrel demon turned bright crimson beneath her fur, wringing her hands. “S-sir, please-!”

“Lead on, my dear,” Alastor said with a flourish of his cane. “The usual spot, if you would?”

“Yes! Of course! Right this way! An- oh! And the new batch of honey-pecan scones came out perfect this time- just like you wanted!”

Alastor’s grin softened, just a hair, as the squirrel girl nearly vibrated with excitement as she went ahead. Vox followed stiffly, still taking in the room. 

They were led toward a raised alcove tucked to the side, half hidden by deep red curtains. A circular booth with velvet seats sat there, with a perfect line of sight to the stage.

The squirrel girl stopped, straightened her bow tie, and proudly gestured at the space.

“Your usual, Mister Alastor!”

“Lovely,” he said with a warm, and mildly terrifying, smile.

Vox slid into the booth, just as Hazel placed two menus down. “I’ll give you gentlemen a moment!” she squeaked, then darted off so fast Vox could swear there was a dust trail. 

The media demon watched her go, blinking slowly. “Is she… always like that?”

“Oh yes,” Alastor replied as he slid gracefully into the booth across from him. “She’s delightful. A constant source of energy. Much like a dear little wind-up toy on the verge of overclocking itself.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Vox muttered, flipping open the menu.

“Should it be?” Alastor asked sweetly.

Vox decided not to answer.

The menu was far more elaborate than he was expecting. And as the TV demon read it all, the shook of it all finally bleeding away to something else.

Envy.

This was what Vox wanted.

It was exactly the kind of empire he dreamed of building someday in hell.

Shops, businesses, a chain of places people flocked to. The influence. To have his own brand stamped itself into Hell like a signature burn. Where people where people walked in and knew it was his. Where his ideas, his aesthetic, his vision reshaped a whole corner of Hell. All of Hell.

He just had to get there first. 

And he would.

But here was Alastor just… effortlessly sitting in the middle of exactly that. Someone who didn’t care about public power or who wasn’t trying to build an empire?

He swallowed, his screen lowering slightly as he tried to focus on the menu. That jealousy felt coil through him like a bad wire heating up.

Except…

Except he also felt something else.

Because despite the jealousy…

He wasn’t angry.

He was in awe.

“Well, what do you think?” Alastor's voice cut through his thoughts, making Vox blinked slowly, like he was processing the question. 

Alastor, ever amused, tilted his head, “You’re awfully quiet over there. I thought perhaps,” he sing-songed, “my dear competitor might not enjoy a place so different from his more modern tastes.” The sinner said the word 'modern' like it had spit in his face. 

“Actually…” Vox cleared his throat, adjusting his collar. “It’s… incredible.” Alastor paused mid-smirk, the static around him softening for a heartbeat. Not disappearing, Alastor never truly relaxed, but it was something.

 “Oh?” he hummed. “Truly?” 

Vox rolled his eyes, but it lacked its usual venom. “Don’t sound so surprised. I have taste, you know.” 

Alastor’s grin widened. “I’ve noticed,” he purred. “Although your taste tends to lean toward neon blasphemies and billboards.”

“Those are gorgeous, and profitable,” Vox snapped, but there was no real bite behind it. He gestured around the café with a slow sweep of his hand. “But this? This is… something else.” 

Alastor rested his chin atop folded fingers. “Do tell,” he said coyly. 

Vox hesitated, because it felt like this was another one of Alastor's test. “It’s cohesive,” Vox said finally. “Detailed. Thought out. Everything ties together. The lighting, the floor plan, the branding, the-” He pointed his thumb toward Hazel, who was nearly vibrating as she polished glasses at the bar. “-even the staff have a theme.” 

Alastor’s eyes sharpened. He was listening.

 “And you did all of this,” Vox continued quietly. “Just because someone asked nicely and signed a soul over on the dotted line. You didn’t even care about the business. You just wanted- what? A whim satisfied?”

 Alastor blinked. “A whim?” he echoed lightly. “Oh no, no, Vox. I don’t invest my time in whims. Whims bore me.” His smile softened, not kind, but genuine in its own eerie way. “This place exists because it amused me. Because the idea amused me. Because watching it become something,” his eyes drifted toward the stage where the jazz band shifted into a brighter tune, “was entertaining.”

Vox felt the sting of jealousy again… but now it was mixed with something warmer. He ignored it. 

“But you like it.” Alastor’s voice cut through his thoughts, a spark of something triumphant in his tone. Vox met his gaze, and didn’t look away. “I do,” he admitted. “It’s… honestly? It’s kind of brilliant.” 

Alastor’s grin went razor-sharp. “Flattery, Vox? From you?” He placed a dramatic hand over his heart. “I might faint.” 

“Oh, shut up.” Vox’s screen flickered with a pixelated blush. “Just because you did something good doesn’t mean I’m going to start worshipping you.”

 “Hm. Shame,” Alastor replied, leaning back in the booth. “I would look lovely with a worshipper.” 

Vox sputtered. “That’s- not what I, ugh-” Alastor laughed, warm and dangerous all at once. “Relax, dear Vox. I’m teasing.”

Thankfully, Vox was saved from answering when Hazel skidded back into view so fast Vox was genuinely unsure whether she’d teleported or simply moved that quickly on foot. The little squirrel demon clutched her notepad, "Are you ready to order?” Hazel asked, breathless. She held her notepad like it was a sacred text. “I, I can give you more time if you need it! Or less time! Or exactly the right amount of time which I can absolutely calculate if you want me to-”

“Hazel,” Alastor said gently.

She froze like someone had hit pause on a wind-up toy.

“Yes, Mister Alastor?”

He smiled, serene and sharp. “Breathe.”

Hazel sucked in a gasp of air so fast she squeaked.

Vox blinked. “Was she… not breathing?”

“She forgets,” Alastor replied cheerfully.

Hazel nodded vigorously. “It’s true, sir! I get excited and, oh! Orders. Right! Are you ready to order?”

“Indeed!” Alastor declared before Vox could answer. “I’ll have my usual, Hazel dear.”

The squirrel girl beamed, scribbling frantically. “Of course! Your signature chicory blend, triple-pressed, with cinnamon foam and a drizzle of honey. Oh! And the raspberry-cardamom cream tart, right?”

“Such a sharp memory,” Alastor praised, eyes crinkling. “You spoil me.”

Hazel’s blush puffed through her fur again. “I- I try! And for your guest?”

Vox blinked, caught off guard. He had not expected the Radio Demon to have a favorite order, much less one that had a list like that. If he were to be honest, he would have that the older sinner would just get black coffee.

“I’ll take… the uh…” Vox scanned the menu again, antenna twitching when he saw the item that immediately appealed to him. “The Blackout Caramel Coldbrew? Extra espresso.”

She nodded and scribbled it down. “Wonderful choices! Perfect choices! Immaculate choices!” she chirped. “I’ll be back in exactly, um, approximately, oh gosh, soon!”

And she zoomed off again, feet skittering so fast the floor threatened to catch fire.

Vox watched her disappear, then slumped back into his seat.

“She’s going to combust one day,” he muttered.

“Not on the premises,” Alastor said pleasantly. “I made her sign paperwork.”

Of course he did.

Vox rubbed the side of his screen-face, exhaling a sigh. “I still can’t believe you have a coffee order that complicated.”

“I have refined tastes,” Alastor replied primly, “Besides, Hazel gets so excited when I give her something specific to do. It’s practically enrichment.”

They lapsed into silence after that. Vox watched the band, fingers drumming absentmindedly on the table as Alastor leaned back. The Radio Demon expression was unreadable, but it was clear to see that he was thinking something. 

They didn’t talk again until Hazel zoomed back with their drinks and left just as quick. Vox reached for his drink and sipped it absentmindedly, humming in approval as soon as the taste hit him.

Alastor picked his drink up and took a long sip before set his cup down delicately, the faintest click of porcelain against the polished table catching Vox’s attention. He leaned forward, green eyes glinting with that impossible mix of mischief and charm.

“You know, Vox,” Alastor began, voice lowering into something almost conspiratorial, “There was a very particular reason I wanted you here today.” 

Vox blinked before he straightened. “Oh?" 

Alastor’s grin sharpened as he hummed, “In a few days, there will be a concert. Lilith herself will perform. A rare event, mind you. I’ve… secured us tickets.” 

Vox froze mid-sip. Did he hear that right!? “Tickets? To…see the Queen?” 

“Indeed!” Alastor replied, he snapped his fingers and in a poof, two silver and purple tickets appear in the middle of the table. “I thought it the perfect opportunity for you to enjoy something other than your endless schemes and broadcasts.” 

Vox stared at the tickets as brain caught up to him. He picked one up, turning it over in his hand as if examining a fragile artifact. The purple and silver shimmered under the warm light of the café.

These were tickets. To see the Queen of Hell.

Holy shit.

Since arriving in Hell, Vox has learned what every other sinner in Hell knows about the Royal family.

Lilith, the first woman and the first sinner, the one of the first to rebel against Heaven’s order. Cast down with her husband in their defiance. And while Lucifer kept himself tucked away in mysteries and away from sinners, Lilith was the one who walked among her people. And she was everywhere. Her influence touched every aspect of Hell’s culture, it's aesthetics.

And the Overlords? Everyone knew that they were really Lilith’s Council.

Her concerts had become the stuff of legend. In the early centuries, she sang often, weaving her voice into the very identity of the Pride Ring. But in the last few decades, her appearances had grown rare. Some said she was too busy tending to the politics of the other rings. Others thought she was preparing something grander, something that required her full attention.

Vox had never seen the Queen in person, but he had heard her. Either from the records that came from her shops, her magazines, or from Alastor's own radio show.

To have tickets to a show? It made sense now that he thought about it. Alastor was an Overlord, wasn’t he? From what he heard they got tickets for free. At least the older sinner didn't pay for these or he would have short circuited.

Vox suddenly realized that he had been quiet for too long. He looked back up at Alastor, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t know what to say.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Repeated that twice.  

Alastor’s grin only widened. 

The bastard was enjoying this. 

“Why me?” Vox finally got out. His tone was a bit stiff, but that was only because if he didn’t keep it stiff, it would wobble. And Vox would not wobble in front of Alastor. “Why bring me? You could take anyone. You could go alone. Hell, you could snap your fingers and have a line out the door begging to join you.”

A slow grin curled across Alastor’s face, but it wasn’t his usual predator’s smile. To be honest, Vox could tell what type of grin it was at the moment. “I could,” he acknowledged lightly. “But that would be terribly boring, wouldn’t it?” 

“Boring?” Vox repeated, still in shock. “Seeing the Queen of Hell perform is many things, Alastor. ‘Boring’ is not one of them.” 

Alastor tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something that made Vox’s stomach flip in a way he absolutely did not approve of. “Oh, I daresay it’s hardly boring,” he said, voice light, almost teasing. “But you see, my dear Vox, the company makes all the difference. One can experience grandeur alone, yes… but with the right companion? One can savor it tenfold,” Alastor finished with a shrug.

Vox was nearly sent back into silence but thankfully Hazel came skittering back. She seemed to know that they were in deep conversations and placed Alastor's tart and tray of pastries that twisted together and had jelly in the middle without a word before leaving again. The new dessert, Vox realized. The whole reason they came in the first place was to try something new. He had almost forgotten. Or not, seeing as the other demon had ulterior motives for this little hang out.

Vox picked up the twisted tart with the jelly center, looking at it as if it had the answers he needed. “I… I don’t know how to repay you for this,” The TV admitted finally, static around him flickering as he tried to find the right words. “It’s… a lot. And I- well, I don’t even know where to start.”

"You're company is reward enough." Alastor before biting into his own food. 

Vox blinked at him, antennae twitching as he tried to process that. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally settled on a slow, deliberate nod.

“…Then, I suppose… that will have to do,” Vox said, voice low and steady, though a faint static undertone betrayed how unusual it felt to simply accept something without strings. There would be a catch to this somewhere but he couldn’t bring himself to think about it right now. He bite into up the twisted tart. It was delicious, of course. “I… appreciate it. Truly.”

It was at that moment Vox realized that for the first time in his life, he wanted an equal. That he wanted someone whose brilliance wasn’t just a tool to manipulate or exploit for his own benefit. He wanted to be on top, with someone else.

As the two demons ate, Vox resolved himself to proving that he was worthy of that.

Chapter Text

The moment Alastor stepped through the front door of Rosie's Emporium, the scent of rosewater and freshly baked bread and meat washed over him.

It only took ten seconds for the Overlord of Cannibal Town to spot him.

“Alastor!” Rosie sang from behind the counter, where she was slicing a loaf of something that was either sourdough or someone’s arm. With Rosie, it was always a fifty-fifty.

In a blink, she abandoned her work, wiped her hands on a pink apron embroidered with tiny skulls, and made her way over to him. When she did reach him, rising onto her toes to pull him into a quick, fond hug that was more forceful than her delicate frame suggested. 

Alasor returned the embrace with a light laugh, patting her back as though she were a child rather than one of Hell’s most deceptively powerful Overlords. He only allowed it for a few seconds before he pulled away. Physical touch wasn't something he indulged in often, but Rosie was one of the very few he tolerated, and the even fewer he dared said he liked. 

“My, my, someone’s in high spirits.”

“I always am when you drop by.” She stepped back, hands on her hips, giving him a once-over that was far too perceptive for his liking. She seemed to come to some type of conclusion as  her eyes sparkled with a knowing mischief.

“Now, I wasn’t expecting you to drop in until the end of the week! What’s brought you to Auntie Rosie so soon?” She said as she simply looped her arm through his and guided him towards the back table, “did you finally come to sample my new Pirozhki?

Alastor chuckled, but shook his head. “As tempting as your culinary horrors always are, my dear Rosie, I’m afraid I’m here on business this time.”

Rosie’s brows rose at business, “Oh? Well that certainly sounds more serious than pastries.”

She steered him into the back room, the lace curtains fluttering behind them as the door swung shut. The warmth of the shop softened here; the air smelled less like freshly baked bread and cooked meat and more like dried herbs, old magic, and something metallic and sweet.

Alastor took his usual seat at the small round table, legs crossed, posture perfect, except Rosie caught the faintest tremor in his hands before he tucked them under the table.

She said nothing. But her smile turned knowing and almost a bit sad.

“Business,” she echoed, fetching her tea kettle, already brewing something fragrant. “Do tell.”

Alastor folded his hands neatly on the table. “I need the usual tonic. Early.”

Rosie’s hand paused mid-reach for a teacup.

“Well now,” she murmured, plucking the teacup from the shelf and setting it down with a delicate clink. “You’ve been overexerting yourself again, haven’t you?”

Alastor let out a small hum, almost dismissive. “Simply a matter of timing,” he said lightly. “I’d rather be prepared. Nothing too big of a concern.”

She hummed as she eyed him up and down,  “Oh, of course. Nothing at all. You always pop in suddenly, weeks early, looking like you’re pretending not to fall over. Perfectly normal.

He shot her a thin smile. “Rosie.”

“Yes, yes.” She waved him off, amused. “I’ll prepare it.”

She moved to her cabinet, rummaging through jars labeled with elegant script- some in different human languages, some in Latin, some in a language he only fairly knew was demonic. 

“So,” she began casually, “since you’re here early, perhaps you’ll indulge me with a little gossip.”

“Oh?” Alastor grin turned almost vicious, “Do go on.”

She flicked him a sly look over her shoulder. One that immediately made his own grin turn suspicious. “I heard from a little bird that someone bought two tickets to the concert." She poured some ingredients into a pot and turned on the slow cooker, before making her way back to the table. "Said concerts you always go with me with?"

Alastor’s grin stayed fixed.

"Tell me," She said as she sat down, one hand propping up her chin, "How is dear Vox?"

A record scratched echoed in the room. 

The Radio Demon eyed the cannibal sinner just for a second.

While Alastor didn't really do friends, Rosie was the closest thing he would consider. Sans Mimizy of course.

Afterall, Rosie was the only one but himself and one other unfortunate soul to know about his little… issue. The reason he went to her for help. This issue had been the whole reason she hadn’t done a deal with him when he was alive.

Despite no deal ever being struck between the two back then, he had continued to summon her on his radio. Technically,  he continued to try and summon any demon and kept getting her every time. At first, he would try to barter for information that could help him when he did start his undead life, but in truth he had just liked talking to someone who he could be a little more honest with. 

Especially when he both realized they have the same dietary habits. 

From that, they eventually did come up with a quid pro quo system. Roise would tell her knowledge of Hell and magic for fresh human corpses and his own blood. Both of which were delicacies down in here. It was no real trouble for Alastor.

When he did move on down to hell, it had been a delight to meet her in person.

Because of all those reasons, she had quickly become his most trusted and only confidant.

Alastor sighed and let him relax slightly, wishing he had a drink. It wouldn’t do to work up his anger, not here, not now, and not with Rosie. 

“Rosie…” Alastor drawled, his smile thin as piano wire.

She only smiled wider. That was the problem with Rosie, she’d known him too long. Long enough that she never flinched at the danger in his voice. Long enough to know exactly how far she could push, and that he would let her do so.

“A little bird told me that you are bring him to the concert.” Rosie finished sweetly, folding her hands under her chin like a schoolgirl waiting for scandal.

Alastor’s smile did not move. But his eye twitched, just ever so slightly. A lesser demon would’ve bolted for the door. Rosie only rolled her eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, reaching out and flicking a stray bit of dust from his sleeve. “You’ve taken me to every Lilith concert for a decade, and suddenly you decide to change partners?” She leaned back. “That’s newsworthy.”

“It was a simple matter of opportunity,” Alastor replied with cool smoothness, it sounded almost rehearsed. “He was present, and-”

“-and you didn’t want to go alone,” Rosie finished in a sing-song murmur.

His grin sharpened like a guillotine blade. “I don’t mind solitude.”

“Oh, darling, do you think I don’t know that?” She chuckled, before standing again and going back to the pot to add a pinch of something that hissed. “But you do like an audience. And Vox?” She shrugged. “He stares at you like you’ve hung the moon and bought the radio rights to it.”

Alastor stiffened.

“…he does no such thing.”

“Let me guess,” Rosie said as she returned, “When you asked him,  he stared at you like a lovesick puppy the whole time. And you didn’t do a single thing to stop him.”

Alastor’s grin faltered, just a hair. “The staring is his own problem,” he said stiffly. “Not mine.”

“Oh, I know,” Rosie chirped. “It’s always his problem. Noticed that when you brought him here. But it is not because you enjoy the attention.”

He bristled. “I do not-”

“-you do,” she interrupted flatly.

Alastor clicked his tongue. “Even if that were true, which it isn’t, it hardly matters. Vox is a useful ally at best. He is…” He hesitated and shook his head, “Infatuation is foolish.”

“Oh yes,” Rosie said gently. “It is.”

The soft burble of the potion warming on the stove filled the quiet between them. The scent of herbs and copper thickened the air. Alastor sat utterly still, jaw tight, smile fixed, the faint tremor in his fingers betraying more than he would ever admit.

Rosie watched him with that maddening blend of affection and sharp perception, the one that made him feel seen in ways he thoroughly disliked.

She sighed as she folded her hands, voice dropping to something quieter and much more sincere.

“I could help you, you know,” she murmured. “Really help you. Fix the… strain.”

The air in the room tightened and the lights started to flicker.

Alastor’s eyes sharpened, his green eyes turning to dials.  “No.”

“You don’t have to keep letting it eat at you,” she said. “There are ways. Better than what I am doing now. I could work hard to try something out.”

Alastor’s grin went ice-cold and it didn’t reach his eyes.

“No,” he said softly, which only really meant danger. “We’ve discussed this.”

“And I’m bringing it up again,” she said, matching his tone with maddening sweetness. “Because I care. And because this-” she gestured toward his hands, the faint tremor he thought he’d hidden enough, “is getting worse.”

His shadows twitched to life and curled behind him like a protective dog. It norammly was such an affectionate creature to the women, to have it glare at her meant that she really did get under his nerves. But Rosie stayed calm.

“It is manageable,” Alastor hissed.

“It wouldn’t be forever,” she countered.

He stood abruptly, chair scraping back an inch. She blinked in surprise. To slightly lose the tight control he had of his shadows was one thing, she was half-conviced that his shadow was semi-sentient in how it acted. But the physical movement to get away from a conversation? He had to be rattled.

“No deals,” he snapped. “Not with you.”

Rosie sighed softly, standing as well. She reached out and straightened his jacket, an intimate gesture, one only she could do and survive.

“Well,” she murmured, “I suppose I’ll simply keep the offer open. But I won’t force it. You know that.”

He relaxed, just enough for his shoulders to lower from their rigid height. Rosie let her hands linger on the lapels of his coat for a breath longer than necessary before stepping back. She sighed and moved back to the pot and grabbed a bottle to dip into concoction.

The bottle was green, the same shade as Alastor’s eyes. She snapped her fingers and little reindeer wine stopper slid it. She always liked to go on theme whenever she could. 

 “As for Vox?” she said as she returned to his side and nudged the bottle into his hand. “He’s harmless. And hopelessly gone on you. If you want him to stop watching you like you hung the moon, you’ll have to tell him yourself.”

Alastor rolled his eyes as he poofed the bottle out of existence. He would use it when he needed. “I will not dignify that with a response.”

Rosie winked. “Translation: you won’t, because you don’t want him to stop.”

He snarled, frustrated, not truly angry.

She chuckled, patting his cheek. “Oh, darling,” she said fondly. “You’re a disaster. But you’re my disaster.”

He huffed, before reaching into his jacket to pull out a soul contact. He placed it onto the table. That was the price of his tonics. They still had a quid pro quo system between them. Made everything fair really. “Yes, yes. I’ll be off now.”

“Send Vox my regards!” she called after him.

“Absolutely not!” he shouted back, flustered, as the door swung shut behind him.

Rosie sighed, smiling to herself as she cleaned the table.

Alastor really was a mess wasn’t he?

When Alastor had finished that night’s broadcast and teleported himself home, the first thing he did was pour himself a glass of brandy and lit one of his good cigarettes, sliding it into the long, lacquered theatre-style holder he favored. It had been a gift from Maestro, trying to make sure he stayed on the Radio Demons.

Bribes didn’t really work on him, but he wasn’t going to say no to he wasn’t going to say no to good craftsmanship. Maestro at least had taste.

Tonight’s broadcast had gone smoothly, and that in itself normally put himself into a good mood.

He took one long drag from the cigarette, exhaling a thin ribbon of smoke that curled toward the ceiling.

Tonight, though, even the successful broadcast didn’t cut through the quiet thrum beneath his skin.

Alastor lowered himself into his armchair, crossing one leg over the other with careful poise. The brandy warmed his hand, the cigarette holder balanced elegantly between two fingers. Everything about the scene should have soothed him. Familiar rituals and comforts.

But instead of relaxing, he found himself tapping his finger against the glass.

Once. Twice. Three times.

A tic he despised.

He forced the tapping to stop and took another drag, letting the smoke pool in his lungs before exhaling slowly.

He had been working on this project, this idea, far more intently lately. Something that had lived in the back of his mind for years. It was a possibility he’d researched for the scraps of lore all over Hell. 

Alastor stood, making his way from the- well, he would call this room his parlor, but that would imply he brought guests over in the first place so ‘living room’ would have to suffice. The room itself was well furnished. Two velvet armchairs faced the fireplace, with a stag skin rug in front of them  and a mahogany coffee type between the two. Two large bookcases on either side of the fireplace, which took up the rest of the wall there. They were filled with the Alastor’s favorites, or more helpful in some cases, books as well as different clutter collected over the years. In front of the right of the bookcase in the corner was a lectern, with a single book placed on top of it. Next the left armchair was a rolltop desk pushed against the wall, a record player on its own stand next to it.

The archway to the library took up half of the wall on the right. As he passed by, he took the book off the lectern and tucked it neatly under his arm, making sure none of the ask from his cigarette made it onto there. The book was thick, bound in dark brown leather that looked suspiciously like something that could breathe. Its edges were worn from constant handling, but the pages inside were meticulously maintained, no stains, no tears, no blemishes. Alastor would never allow carelessness to touch his research.

The cover was a green pentagram, with his own seal in the middle. 

It was his, a compendium of every scrap of occult theory, Hellish lore, magical anomaly, and historical rumors he’d collected since the day he clawed his way into the Pride Ring. Some pages were densely filled with tiny, angular handwriting. Others held intricate diagrams, circles of runes, precise annotations that spiraled toward the margins. 

Alastor took his brandy, the cigarette holder still balanced between two fingers, and made his way into the room.

The library was larger than the living room, but only just so. Straight from the arch, was another fireplace with a map of Pentagram City above it, marked with pins, strings, annotations. On either side of it stood tall glass cabinets filled with rarities he didn’t trust on open shelves. The right wall just floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The left wall mirrored the right, except in the middle of the wall. Between two bookshelves, was a bump-out seat with a cushioned window nook, framed by heavy red curtains. Below it were drawers packed with records he’d confiscated “stolen” over the decades. If you had asked Alastor, “acquired” was a better word for it. In front of the seating was a desk, with one corner stacked with different parchment paper and an inkwell next to it, the other corner had an old oil lamp.

He exhaled another long, slow line of smoke as he crossed the library. Alastor set the brandy down, coaster first, of course, then the cigarette holder in its little brass rest shaped like a snarling wolf. Then, taking a long sigh, he walked around the desk.

In the middle of the floor was a ritual circle made of his own blood. The outer ring of the circle  had different runes, with the middle having his own sigil in it. And on top of the sigil was one of his personal radios.

He stared at it like it had done something personally offensive.

In truth, it hadn’t. It was he that was the problem.  

The last few days had been trying on him, attempting the spell again and again with small variations had led to nowhere. Each failed attempt had only increased his sense of agitation. Eventually, he had decided a break would be good for him. Alastor had planned to try a new meat shop that had opened on the West side of the Pentagram, when his shadows had told him that the Queen had announced her concert to her inner circle.  

No doubt she would send word to him that she wanted to go public with her intentions soon. She loved the public eye and its people. It wasn’t uncommon for her to have a free concert out in the streets in the Pride Ring. And of course, Alastor knew that, as usual, he’d be expected to attend. It had been a year now since their last meeting, which was technically “unofficial”. Remembering it only made his teeth grind in annoyance.

So he had gone, he had secured two tickets before most Overlords even heard the rumor whisper through their districts, and he’d made the… questionable decision to invite Vox.

In truth, he wasn’t even sure why he invited the rising Overlord. He hadn’t even given it much thought when he teleported himself into Vox’s workplace. Alastor prided himself on knowing his every action and what entertainment and opportunities it would bring him. To not know why he did something was… irritating.

Well, at least his respite with Vox had brought him some unexpected… relief. No, to say Vox had been disappointed with his invitation would be a lie. It had been entertaining to watch as Vox went from cunning businessman to a mess of flustered static and twitching antennae, trying desperately to maintain his composure.

And oh, how his little picture box was so trusting, leaving his documents out in the open for the Radio Demon to read. While it was true that Alastor’s didn't care for inner workings Vox’s operations, having any type of knowledge over someone, especially someone as ambitious, cunning, and hungry for power as Vox, was good practice. Plus, the blueprint to Vox’s ideal building was interesting. Though, it clearly needed a revision or two.

Not that Alastor would do anything malicious. At least, not yet. Just like dear Husker, keeping Vox close and keeping their rapport friendly was entertaining enough for him for the time. 

If Alastor were to act on any of his more darker thoughts, it would undoubtedly change their dynamic. Though, wouldn't it be curious if he could try and regain it later down the road?

Hmm. No matter. This was eternal damnation after all. He had all the time in the world to figure it out and see who their relationship evolves.  

Alastor's hand almost unconsciously reached up to touch his chest. 

As long as he gets that little problem resolved, that is.

He quickly shook his head, that was another matter he would settle later, and refocused on the circle in front of him. He took off his coat and carefully landed it on the desk and grabbed the book next to it before sitting on his heels in front of it.

The concert would be in a few weeks time. If the ritual went awry again, he would have enough time to fall asleep and rest in that time. 

Sleep was such a funny thing to the Radio Demon. 

He could go weeks without needing to rest, but that came at a price. The edges of his magic grew sharp and brittle. His shadows became overeager, twitchy, and more hungry then normal. His mind ran too loudly, too quickly, the static beneath his skin building into something nearly unbearable. He’d once gone six months without rest. Rosie hadn’t spoken to him for a week after that.

The only way to stop that was to go to sleep, which was the half of the coin. Try as he might, once Alastor was asleep, he was at his most vulnerable. Nothing could wake him until fully rested again, and nothing meant and nothing meant nothing.

He was just a corpse with a pulse in that time.

The sinner took every precaution to protect himself. None one knew where his real home was and his bedroom was layered with some many wards that most ancient of sinners would think twice before approaching the threshold.

Still, it was always a concern at the back of his head.

His shadow had peeled away from him again, curling up and around the ritual circle. “Behave,” he muttered when he saw it start to, voice dipping into that soft warning sweetness he used only with his shadows. The shadow stilled, but only barely. Instead, it moved carefully not to disturb even a fleck of his dried blood to rest on above the fireplace, watching him.

Then he placed the book next to him and reread what he wrote from the last attempt. He nodded to himself before extending one hand over the radio, palm hovering just above the sigil. His fingers were steady this time. Good. He despised shaking.

“Let’s try,” he murmured, “for attempt number twenty-three.”

His palm lowered. Magic gathered like the tightening of unseen strings, pulling against the circle as his stitches and eyes started to glow green.. A faint vibration began under the floorboards, spreading through the room in waves.

The radio’s dials twitched. The runes flared, first a faint ember-red, then bright green to match his magic. Slowly, in a circular motion, the blood circle started to turn a dull green.

Alastor’s smile turned into a grimace.

Not enough.

Still not enough.

It wanted more of him every time.

He gritted his teeth. Irritation flickered across his face, not fear, never fear, but real genuine frustration was clear on his face,

If he pushed too far, it could drain him. If he didn’t push far enough, nothing would happen. The ritual had to meet the precise threshold between siphoning and resonance. Anything less was wasted effort.

And anything more-

A soft twitch ran through the lines of the circle.

The runes pulsed again and this time the sigil in the middle started to glow green as well. In fact, the circle started to become brighter and brighter.

Alastor’s eyes widened, just a fraction, before he adjusted his stance. He sat up on his knees and 

The circle wasn’t rejecting him this time.

His pulse quickened.

“Well,” he breathed, a real grin tugging at the corner of his lips, “isn’t that interesting-”

But then the magic snapped, almost like overstretched wire.

A flash of crimson light shot upward, cutting across his palm before the rest of the ritual collapsed inward with a sharp pop, as harmless and small as a bursting soap bubble, and yet somehow infinitely more insulting.

The glow died as all the vibration ceased and the circle dimmed to nothing but dried blood again.

The radio lay motionless.

Alastor stared at his hand. A shallow slice marked his palm, beading gently with blood.

“Oh, go to Hell,” he snarled dryly. “All of you.”

He let his head fall back as his ears pinned to the top of his head. The idea was simple one, and shared among the more powerful sinners. Find a way to contact the morat plain to communicate with humans to gain souls before they even fell down here. If Alastor could unsupervisingly make deals with mortals, well. That would bring him to a new height of power, wouldn't it? 

There just had to be a way to pierce the veil without needing a damned patron… or offering up pieces of himself he wasn’t willing to lose.

He wiped the blood from his palm with his thumb, smearing the copper sheen across his skin before licking it clean with absent-minded irritation. The cut had already begun to stitch itself back together, almost grudgingly, as if his body, too, were tired of him tonight.

Alastor pushed himself to his feet in one smooth motion, dusting off his knees with the casualness of someone refusing to admit he’d just failed at something, again, before picking up his brandy.

He downed it in one swallow.

If others could breach realms so effortlessly, then surely there was a back door. A seam. A loophole. Some forgotten hinge in the cosmic machinery that a clever sinner could pry open.

He hated wasting time.

He hated worse that the ritual had accepted him, for one suspended moment, as if he was finally about to make progress-

Only to bite him like a rabid dog.

His shadow trilled from its perch above the fireplace, before unfurling and slitherling across the floor until it reached his feet, brushing against his ankle like an anxious animal.

Alastor didn’t look down. “I said behave,” he reminded it, "Or I'm putting you in a jar."

The shadow froze, then recoiled a few inches, obedient, but clearly distressed.

He set the empty glass aside and pressed two fingers to his temple. A faint buzz of static crawled behind his eyes, a soft grinding of invisible gears out of alignment. His power was lopsided now, nothing dangerous, merely… unbalanced. Aggravatingly so.

Alastor exhaled through his nose.

“Attempt number twenty-three,” he murmured, “and you still demand the moon and the sun and perhaps a limb for good measure.”

He lifted two his fingers, and the pen from his inkwell and his book glowed green before both of them floated in a bullet paced speed infront of him.

Maybe a variation in the runes again? The sigil looked like it worked this time. He sighed, letting the pen mark out #23 and write #24 underneath it. 

A few more times wouldn’t hurt. Then he would drink Rosie’s elixir and go to bed. 

He would be fine.

 Queen Lilith worked in many of the different concert halls in Hell, but nothing beat her own stage.

It wasn’t even a venue so much as a cathedral built for sound and spectacle. Almost glowing in the Hell's night light, it was located in the middle district of the Pentagram. The building was thought to be constructed by Lucifer himself, if the apple themes and slight circus themes around and in the halls were any proof. Stained-glass windows depicting her most iconic performances, and rows of floating lanterns inside with the different colored flames of the Seven Rings.

Aula Concertus Primi Peccatoris was plastered above the entrance hall door, The Concert Hall of the First Sinner. The entrance hall alone radiated grandeur. A massive marble floor stretched beneath a ceiling painted with constellations that changed depending on the year. Gold-trimmed posters showcased decades of Lilith’s eras: the Swinging Sinful Forties, her Neon Siren phase, the infamous Blood Moon Tour.

Demons of all classes gathered restlessly outside, forming lines that wrapped around the block. Her concerts didn’t require payment, for Lilith didn’t need money. Some said she fed off attention. Off devotion. Off the sheer collective thrill of her audience.

Alastor arrived early, of course. It was a habit, one drilled into him after years of knowing just how unpredictable Queen Lilith could be with her public appearances. The lobby of Aula Concertus Primi Peccatoris gleamed beneath the floating lanterns, their colored flames reflecting in polished marble and gold trim, creating a chaotic rainbow of light. Demons bustled about, some chatting excitedly, others craning their necks to glimpse the stage beyond the velvet ropes.

He stayed in the shadows, waiting until he spotted his guest for the evening.

Alastor, was in fact, not fine. 

When he had finally woken up, it was far later than he thought it was going to be. The first thing he noticed was how drained he still felt. Not the pleasant kind of lingering sleepiness after a night of restful slumber. He felt as if he probably needed another few days of rest or so. The second thing was that he woke up five hours before the concert.

That had been... unfortunate, to say the least. He had made plans to make plans with Vox to discuss their meeting at the concert. But due to the timing he only had enough time to send one of his shadows to tell the television that they would meet in the lobby an hour before the performance. 

One thing was sure, his perfection could not falter, even if the Radio Demon himself felt perilously close to passing out.

The entrance hall had been busy since it opened its doors three hours ago. It was fun to watch-in theory. Normally, Alastor delighted in observing the chaos of other demons, how all Overlords, wanna be Overlords, the Ars Goetia, and any other lucky sinner or imp to get a ticket. 

But tonight… it was grating.

Everything was too bright, too loud, too busy for him. Lantern flames shimmered in too many colors. Voices overlapped in shrill, scraping pitches. The lobby seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of the crowd.

Normally, he would drink it in like dessert.

Tonight, it all scraped against the inside of his skull.

This is becoming excessive, he thought.

Really, at this point, he knew Vox’s signal almost as well as his own. 

And, for the first time since he’d woken, a spark of amusement lit through the fatigue. It was almost as dangerous as broken glass. From the shadows, he let himself take in Vox’s appearance. 

Vox stepped into the lobby like he owned the entire building. Which, of course, he didn’t. But he carried himself like he did, shoulders squared, screen bright, suit immaculate. And the suit… The sinner had thankfully dressed up from his normal sweater for this occasion. It was obviously new.

He wore a three piece suit. The outer coat was a royal blue, with a slightly dark blue for its peak lapel. The waistcoat was a navy blue that matched the pants, which had a striped pattern down it. He had a white dress shirt and tie tucked into his vest that looked almost black, but if Alastor had to guess was a navy blue, and white stripes that run diagonal down it. Alastor noted that his handkerchief was the same pattern as that tie. 

Ah. 

So the television had put in effort. 

He let himself watch the other just a heartbeat longer, enough to see Vox’s shoulders were just a touch too tight, betraying nerves he’d never admit to, and then he rematerialized directly behind other sinner, close enough to catch the faint smell of his cologne. Something ginger and a little metallic 

 “Good evening, Vox,” Alastor purred, his voice perfectly pitched between polite greeting and predatory delight. 

Vox jolted, a sharp crackle popping across his screen as he whipped around. “JES-!” Static snapped violently before he throttled it down. “Alastor! What the hell-?!” 

Alastor chuckled. “My apologies,” he lied with absolutely no shame, "but I simply couldn’t resist. You were standing there so beautifully unaware.”

Vox’s screen flickered a deep indignant blue. “You can’t just- just spawn behind people!” 

“Oh, but I can.” Alastor tilted his head, grin widening. “And I do.” Vox opened his mouth, probably to complain, scold, or sputter, but whatever retort he had queued up fizzled when he really looked at Alastor. 

“You, uh… dressed up,” he said, gesturing vaguely at Alastor’s immaculate suit. His voice buzzed. “Not that you ever don’t dress up, but, this is, I dunno. It’s different.” 

And indeed, Alastor changed from his typical suit.

He was also wearing a three piece suit, or something that looked close enough to call it. His jacket was a bit shorter than his normal one, in a burgundy color and slightly lighter color shawl lapel. The lapel and stitching were a glowing green, shimmer with his magic. His waistcoat and dress shirt were the same maroon shade with his bow tie bringing one of the lightest red on him, despite it still a darker color then his normal suit. His pants were a darker wine color too, and had the same stitching as the jacket. His shoes were the same color as his bow tie, with the tips of shoes being black.

He has even done his hair differently. Despite not having much time, he had straightened it and tied it in the back. Letting his bangs and a strand of hair on either side to frame his face.

“I’m attending a performance of Hell’s oldest diva,” Alastor replied lightly, brushing a speck of dust from his lapel. “One should appear presentable.” His eyes offered a glint. “And you look rather sharp yourself, my dear Vox.”

Vox immediately glitched. “Wh- I, yeah, well, I have a brand to maintain.”

“Mm,” Alastor hummed approvingly. “So you do.”

Vox blushed a slight blue and opened his mouth, which was only to be cut off by a flash of light and then yelp and curse.

The lobby fell silent as Alastor froze.

Alastor turned his head slowly toward the trembling imp who’d dared raise a camera. The poor creature must be new if he were to be trying to photograph him. The imp looked fearful between his now broken camera and the sinner who was eyeing him like lunch.

“Now, now…” Alastor purred, his voice as soft as velvet and twice as suffocating. “How terribly rude.”

The imp squeaked. “I- I wasn’t- I mean it’s the concert, and- and pictures are-”

“Allowed.” Alastor’s smile widened, cracking too sharp. “But not of me.” He dipped his head, his shadow stretching long and thin beneath him like a noose. “Try pointing that delightful little contraption in my direction again,” he said cheerfully, “and I’ll be forced to return the favor in kind. I hear souls shatter far more loudly than glass.”

The imp nearly dropped to his knees. “Y-Yes sir- s-sorry sir-!”

With a hum, he turned away from the imp and turned back to Vox. His grin grew twice as sharp when he heard what could only be the imp falling to the floor, running, and then failing again.

Vox whispered, “Holy shit.”

Alastor smoothed his jacket cuffs, smiling returning to something deceptively polite. From this point on, it wouldn't do to use his shadows, much to his dislike of it. There were others intending who could sense the shadow and might… take offense. “Apologies, Vox. I detest being photographed without consent. Especially when the angle is dreadful.”

Vox blinked at him. “Th- that… that wasn’t an angle issue, that was you nearly traumatizing the press.” 

“Precisely,” Alastor said, voice bright. “He’ll remember not to do it again.”

Vox stared at him for a minute before breaking into a laugh. Several demons turned to stare but Vox didn’t seem to care. “God, you’re impossible,” he snorted, rubbing the corner of his screen as if wiping away a tear. Alastor's grin turned more genuine. This was one of the many reasons he liked Vox, the man could be just as demented as him.

Alastor savored it.

“Impossible?” he echoed as if the word were a compliment. “My dear Vox, I strive for nothing less.”

He offered his arm with theatrical flourish, and Vox took it without hesitation. 

Together, they moved deeper into the lobby.

Demons parted automatically as they went. 

After all, the Radio Demon and the rising Television Tycoon walking side by side was… a definite statement.

The few Goetian nobles who were still in the lobby were watching them, Alastor noted. Judgmental eyes. 

Alastor tried to ignore how his teeth started to ache. 

Hell’s royalty reminded him a bit too much of the upper white class he had to endure in life. The the way their eyes slid over others as if they were lesser. 

His teeth throbbed beneath his smile. 

But as much as he hated to admit it, thankfully only to himself, he could not take on a Goetian noble. Even if he was at full power, they were annoyingly durable. 

One day, he swore to himself, he would learn what their blood tasted like. 

Until then, it was best just to keep moving. 

They passed through the last stretch of the lobby and into a roped-off corridor guarded by two hulking hellhounds in polished armor. They wore the sigil of the Crown, Lilith’s personal version of it anyways, and they stepped aside the moment they recognized Alastor’s silhouette.

“Overlord lounge is this way, sir,” one rumbled as he pointed down the hall. Vox straightened slightly, pride flickering across his screen. He wasn’t always invited into areas like this still, but arriving on Alastor’s arm meant the guards didn’t even question it. 

The moment the velvet ropes closed behind them, the atmosphere changed. The noise of the main lobby dimmed, replaced with a muted hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and the steady pulse of multiple magic's mingling together. 

The Overlord antechamber wasn’t large, but it was lavish. Crimson carpets with gold threadwork, polished obsidian columns, floating trays of drinks drifting lazily in the air. 

And, of course, the demons. 

Overlords, rising Overlords, or just powerful demons filled the room. And power radiated off them like heat. 

Every one of them turned, some subtly, some not, to watch Alastor and Vox enter.

Carmilla Carmine was the first to make eye contact.

She stood near one of the floating drink trays, taking with the Publishing Overlord, a glass of something dark and expensive in hand. Her crimson gown shimmered with scales, real ones, by the look of it, with a slit up the side that only revealed the black fabric under the dress. She was wearing her hair down surprisingly, with black roses scattered within it.

There was no sign of her daughters, but Alastor had no doubt that they were nearby. 

Carmilla's gaze landed on Alastor… then on Vox… then on their linked arms.

Her painted brow twitched upward.

Her husband, an imposingly tall demon with a charcoal-gray complexion, sharp cheekbones, and a tailored black suit that screamed old money and older blood, tilted his head in interest. He was quieter than Carmilla ever was, sharp-eyed, sharp-minded, one of those demons who never needed theatrics to be terrifying.

He murmured something to Carmilla behind his glass. Her lips curved.

Alastor’s smile did not falter, but he flicked his eyes away before he had to acknowledge either of them.

Vox, however, had different plans. He glanced up at him briefly, then at Carmilla, then back again. A teasing smile slowly grew on his face. “She staring because I’m hot, right?” he muttered under his breath.

His ears perked up, caught off guard. A genuine surprised chuckle escaped him. “You flatter yourself too much,” Alastor replied lightly, but the faint twitch at the corner of his grin betrayed amusement. “Carmilla stares because she is cataloging potential leverage. One does not become Pride’s best weapons dealer without assessing the value of every piece on the board."

Vox blinked, confused. “I thought her husband handled all the weapons stuff.”

Alastor’s grin widened just a fraction. No one ever said he didn't love gossip. “Oh, he does,” he answered smoothly. “On paper.”

Vox’s screen flickered. “…‘On paper’?”

“Carmilla Carmine,” he murmured, voice dipped low enough only Vox could hear, “is a prima ballerina. A performer. A socialite.” He paused, letting the words hang for a moment. Ever the performer. “But she is also the one who designs every enchanted prototype the Carmine arsenal releases. She writes the schematics. Her husband merely handles the transactions and the muscle.”

Vox blinked. “…She’s the brains?”

“Oh, my dear Vox.” Alastor’s smile grew wicked, almost fond in its cruelty. “Carmilla is the entire operation on stilettos. If her husband vanished tomorrow, nothing would change except the signature on the contracts.”

Vox’s screen pixelated in stunned awe. “Damn.”

“Indeed.”

They continue on into the room, moving past a group of demons whispering behind fans of red silk and gold trim. Bankers wives, if Alastor remembered right, more specially a banker's many wives, but before the older sinner could tell any more gossip, a voice interrupted their progress. 

“Well ain’t this a lovely little picture!” Rosie’s voice chimed behind them. “My stars, look at you two! Aren’t you a matched pair tonight?” 

Alastor didn’t jump, but Vox did. 

Rosie looped her arm through Alastor’s free one without asking, leaning in to inspect both sinners with a cat’s assessing amusement. She addressed her friend first. “Oh, sweet pea, you look ready to conquer the whole district.” Then she tapped Vox’s vest with a dainty finger. "You look like you stepped straight out of a fashion sheet. Bravo!” 

Vox’s antenna twitched, nervous around the Cannibal Overlord. That might be the Radio Demon's fault. When Alastor had eventually taken the other to their second meeting, Alastor had picked where they would be having dinner. Of course, Alastor had forgotten to tell the sinner that they were going to Rosie’s place.

Which meant Vox, poor, clueless Vox, had walked straight into one of the most dangerous Overlords’ dinner lounges wearing a sweatshirt and jeans.

He had nearly short-circuited when he realized where he was, and Rosie, delighted beyond measure, had spent the entire evening cooing over him like he was some lost stray Alastor had dragged in from the rain. 

It also didn't help his nerves when he learned what type of meat was being sold at the establishment. The television had ended up going with a salad.

Vox had not forgotten.

Neither had Rosie.

And certainly not Alastor.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Rosie teased Vox now, already turning merciless. “You clean up real nice when you intend to. Though I suppose the last time you visited my establishment, you weren’t exactly informed of the dress code…”

Vox sputtered. “I didn’t know he was taking me to your place! Had I known I would’ve been more formal! He didn’t tell me!”

Rosie turned her smile on Alastor, all dimples and venom. “Oh, he never tells anyone anything he finds personally amusing.”

Alastor simply shrugged, utterly unbothered. “It was your own fault for assuming any establishment I choose is casual.”

At the time, Alastor had been so sure that dinner would scare the younger sinner away. That he would look for the best excuse to leave and never come back.

Instead, Vox had sat through the entire dinner, rigid and vibrating with nerves, but present. He’d answered Rosie’s questions without making a complete fool of himself. He’d even managed to make her laugh once. genuinely, which had startled Alastor more than anything else that night.

And instead of leaving the Radio Demon alone after that, at the end of night he had asked when they were going to meet again. 

It had been… irritating.

And interesting.

And deeply, deeply confusing.

Vox’s screen snapped into a glare. “One day I’m going to electrocute you."

“And I’ll cherish your attempt to,” Alastor replied warmly.

Rosie beamed at the both of them, her teeth just a shade too sharp to be harmless.

“Ohh, listen to the two of you,” she cooed, waving a gloved hand as though fanning away the tension. “Bickering like an old married couple. Why, if I didn’t know any better-”

Alastor cut her a warning glance, polite but edged, a little radio-static crackle riding its underside.

Rosie ignored it completely.

“-I’d say someone here is smitten.”

Vox choked so hard his screen glitched into two frames of static before returning. Thankfully he was saved by a timely interruption.

“Ah, the Radio Demon and the rising star himself.” 

Both sinners turned.

Both Vox and Alastor turned as the crowd subtly parted to reveal a tall, imposing figure gliding toward them with ethereal grace.

Vox nearly choked on air and short circuited again. 

Zestial. 

It was because of Vox stuttering, did the television fail to notice who was at Zestial's side, but Alastor had no such problem.

That was another little detail Alastor had neglected to mention. 

Oh, the entertainment of this evening was worth the exhaustion that clung to him. 

“Good morrow, Alastor,” Zestial intoned, “And thou, Vox, is’t not? The broadcast-born ingenue of this new age.” He inclined his head with a grace that made several lesser Overlords straighten their spines. “Thy presence lends our humble gathering a most peculiar shine.” 

Vox’s screen flickered, a pale blue of fluster. “I, thanks?” 

Alastor chuckled. His evening's companion was doing a better job than most at keeping his composure around the oldest Overlord the others did. 

Before Vox could fully regain his equilibrium, Zestial’s attention drifted toward Rosie. “Lady Rosemary,” Zestial murmured with a courtly incline of his head. “Ever radiant.” 

Rosie giggled into her glove. Perfect fake innocence. “Oh, you old flatterer,” she sang. As the two talked, it was then, only then, did Vox notice who stood next to Zestial.

Vox blinked. Then blinked again. Then:

“Bartender?”

Husker looked at him like he’d just asked if water was wet.

“…Yeah?”

Zestial chuckled. “Pray forgive my companion’s reticence. Hospitality hath never been his chosen art.” His pale eyes turned to Vox. “Thou art taken aback, young Television? Perchance thou wert unaware of thy friend’s station?”

Vox’s screen pixelated with pure confusion. “Station? He’s a bartender! A grumpy bartender who steals cherries out of drinks! What station?!”

Husker groaned loudly, “For fuck’s sake…”

Alastor’s chuckle practically vibrated in the air.

“Oh Vox,” Alastor purred, savoring the moment. Finally, he let his arms free from both his side companions. He could only do touch for so long. “Surely you didn’t think just anyone would be allowed in Queen Lilith’s Overlord lounge.”

Vox's head whipped toward him, “You didn’t tell me he was an Overlord?!”

Alastor feigned surprise, tapping a thoughtful finger to his chin. “Did I not?”

“You did not!”

“Ah,” he said with a far too delighted grin, “an oversight.”

Rosie snorted behind her hand.

Husker had dressed in his normal dark grey and black suit with its gold highlights, but had replaced his bowtie with a long golden tie. Definitely a step up from his typical bartending outfit, which was a black slacks, grey vest, white undershirt, and a red bowtie.

The well dressed cat stuck out his hand, “Since someone didn’t feel like giving introductions,” he grumbled, “Husker. Or Gambling King. Or Card King. Or whatever the papers are calling me nowadays.” 

Vox just stared at the offered hand like it might explode for just a second before taking it. “…Husker,” Vox repeated slowly, like tasting a word he wasn’t sure was food or poison. “You’re an Overlord?’”

Husker rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of his skull. “Yeah, kid. Surprise. The world’s full of things you don’t know.”

“But-!” Vox spluttered, screen glitching, “You work at a bar!”

“I own that bar,” Husker corrected with a weary sigh. “And about a hundred more, along five casinos. And most of the gambling rings on the West side of the Pentagram.”

Vox looked as if he was trying not to gawk like someone had unplugged his brain.

Husker jerked his thumb toward Alastor. “And I only show up at that bar of mine ‘cause this jackass keeps causing a mess and I gotta keep an eye on him.”

Alastor placed a hand over his chest, feigning outrage.

“My dear Husker, I’ll have you know, every mischief I create is entirely intentional.”

“That’s the problem.”

Vox slowly turned to Alastor, voice rising in pitch, “You- you KNEW he was an Overlord and never told me?!”

Alastor’s smile sharpened. “I thought it would be far more amusing to let you discover it on your own.”

Rosie couldn’t hold back anymore, she crackled loudly, nearly doubling over.

Even Zestial’s lips curved in the faintest hint of amusement.

“Aye,” he mused, “the Radio Demon hath ever delighted in his dramatics.”

Vox looked as if he wanted to throw up his hands, “I mean, really?! The guy who serves my drinks and complains when I ask for more ice?! That’s an Overlord?!”

Husker shrugged. “Yeah, well. Some of us aren’t show-offs.”

He shot a look at Alastor that could peel paint.

Alastor’s grin practically vibrated. “Oh Husk, you wound me. If anything, you’re excellent entertainment when you’re irritated.”

“Yeah, well, fuck you too,” The old cat muttered under his breath, pulling out a cigar before it disappeared. He glared at his emptied hand. The Wards in the buildings forbid any smoking within the establishment.

“And,” Rosie leant towards Vox, “Husker doesn’t really advertise who he is, sweetheart. Most demons only know him as the King of Cards. And even then, they don’t know what he looks like. That’s why you didn’t recognize him, dear.”

Husker crossed his arms. “Damn right. I don’t need idiots lining up askin’ for blessings over their shitty luck.” 

Alastor looked him up and down, “Oh, let us not pretend modesty is the full story, Husker.”

The winged Overlord smirked and shrugged his shoulders, "Not my fault that people underestimate me,” He chuckled. “Most demons see a bartender, a grumpy old guy with a bad habit of complaining, and they think they’ve got the measure of me. That’s when I swoop in.”

Vox tilted his head, still processing, “You… you do all that? Just by… pretending to be a bartender?”

Husk’s smirk turned faintly predatory. “Exactly. Let them see what they want. Let them get comfortable. I watch. I wait. Then when the timing’s right… well, souls sell themselves when the mark thinks they’re winning.”

Rosie's eyes glinted. “And that, dear Vox, is why Husker doesn’t just advertise who he is. It’s far too profitable to let them know.”

“Huh,” Was all that Vox had to say.

Husker looked around the room, “Where's Maestro? Woulda thought he’d be here by now,” Husker muttered, scanning the room with a practiced eye. "His type of venue."

“Ah,” Zestial murmured, “Maestro prepares. Tonight, the venerable Lilith shall be accompanied by a most capable hand.” 

Alastor hummed. That was something to keep in mind. 

It was evident Maestro was quickly becoming one of Lilith’s new favorites, next to Zestial and Carmilla. Might even be replacing Vespa with how close that partnership was becoming.

Before Alastor, he had only been a minor character in Hell’s politics. He had only owned a few theater halls before Alastor had… inadvertently given him the opportunity to expand. Now the sinner controlled nearly every major stage in Hell, from grand operas and choir groups to avant-garde experimental plays. Excluding the ballet, of course. His name was now attached to symphonies, jazz clubs, chamber ensembles, and even solo recitals. In the world of the theatre arts and performances, Maestro had become untouchable. Not including the stages that Zestial owned, but those tended to be more about improv theaters or plays, Shakespearean more often than not.

Alastor's thoughts were interrupted by Vox leaning in, voice low enough only Alastor could hear. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Of course I am,” Alastor whispered back. “Gossip is a lovely pre-show appetizer.”

In truth, as much as he loved Rosie and Zestial gossip, Alastor would have loved to make it more about him this evening. But he was too run down for such indulgences. Plus, gossiping always proved to be far more entertaining when observed rather than initiated. So he let Vox talk, let the younger sinner fumble and smooth talk, all while Alastor’s own mind wandered over the threads of power and influence in the room.

None of the other Overlords in the room dared to move closer to the little group. Even though he could see a few itching to get close, Bardot and Torque he knew just wanted something to happen. But they wouldn't. Not only were they the most powerful in the room, no sinner wanted to start a fight in Lilith’s own domain. Aula Concertus Primi Peccatoris wasn’t just a concert hall, it was basically her castle.

Another floating tray drifted by, glasses clinking softly together. Vox plucked two drinks from it, a neon-blue cocktail for himself, and a dark burgundy liquor for Alastor, matching his suit. He handed it to Alastor, who took it without hesitation. 

It took him a second too late to realize that his fingers were shaking slightly. 

No- 

Alastor snatched the drink, careful to keep his smile fixed. He drained it half in one swig. He nodded in thanks.

Much to Alastor's dread, Vox noticed it immediately. He blinked, confused, unsure if he’d imagined it.

But before he could decide on what he saw, a chime sounded throughout the building.

The house was opening. 

Showtime. 

Each of the sinners and demons in the room stopped their conversation as the lanterns dimmed and purple magic slithered through the air, looking like sheet music. 

Rosie clapped her hands together. “Oooh! Perfect timing!” 

Zestial straightened with regal poise. “Her Majesty calls.” 

Husker grumbled something unprintable but even he shifted to full attention. 

The crowd began to leave the room as Alastor summoned his cane to lean on. “Let's get to our seats, dear.”

Vox fell into step beside him, and together they slipped out with the tide of demons. It was then that Vox's touch returned to him, but it was not to link arms again. No, instead it landed on the small of his back as they navigated the thinning crowd.

It was a light touch, almost an afterthought or Vox wasn’t aware he was doing it, but it cut through Alastor’s exhaustion like a needle through silk. A reminder, almost unwelcome, that Vox was closer than he usually permitted anyone to be.

The faintest crackle of static rose in the air around Alastor, but he forced it down.

Alastor's relationship with touch was… complicated. 

He was fine when he initiated it. Often, getting into someone's personal space was simply another tool in his repertoire, psychological leverage, a theatrical flourish, a way to unsettle, to disarm, to control the flow of an interaction. When he leaned close, when he hovered at someone’s shoulder, when he brushed past with calculated ease, it was his choice.

His space and his rules.

But when someone else initiated?

Ah.

That was a different matter entirely.

Uninvited touch was a breach. He could count on one hand those he allowed within arm’s reach without bristling, Rosie, Zestial on very rare occasions, Husker if he was too tired to care, Mimizy because of their history.

So to feel the hand on him was disconcerting.

But that was precisely what troubled Alastor.

There had been no intent behind it.

No manipulation. No play acting. No attempt at dominance or negotiation. Like, it was natural. Reflexive contact, the sort one did with someone they trusted implicitly to accept it.

And that- that rattled Alastor more than he wished to admit.

Internally, Alastor shook his head. He was putting too much thought into this. He had taken the other sinner’s arm earlier in the evening, of course Vox would assume the gesture was mutual, or at least permissible. It was a simple bit of theater on Alastor’s part, a social maneuver, nothing more. Vox was likely treating it as such. A tit-for-tat. A return of showmanship.

Yes. That was all.

So to fix that little problem, he stepped forward and let Vox’s hand slide away naturally, as if it had been incidental contact and not a strike directly to his equilibrium.

Vox, of course, bless his naive, blinding confidence, had no idea.

When they reached the top of the grand staircase, Zestial, Rosie, and Husker turned towards where the ornate Overlord central balcony was, Alastor led Vox in the opposite direction, where all the other Sinners were going. 

Vox blinked behind him. “Uh… are we going the wrong way?”

“No,” Alastor said lightly.

Vox followed with easy trust, adjusting his tie, antennas tilted forward in curiosity.

“So,” Vox said after a moment, “since you’re doing the guiding, I’m guessing we got a good seat, right? You said you’d handle it.”

Alastor smiled. “And I did.”

Vox looked like he wanted to ask more questions but seemed to realize, based on Alastor’s short answers, that it would go no where.

But before they left, Rosie’s gaze flicked to him for a single heartbeat, assessing.

He met her eyes with a pleasant, lazy smile as he walked away.

Her expression smoothed and she said nothing as turned to walk her own way.

Good.

Soon, they made it to the quieter wing of the hall. There were less sinners in the halls here, eventually they started to climb 

“So,” Vox ventured carefully, “just to confirm… we’re not… lost, right?”

“Dear,” Alastor said with a gentle scoff, “I am many things. Directionally incompetent is not among them.”

“…Okay, but you’re also the type to pick a random hallway because it looks interesting.”

“A lively accusation,” Alastor hummed, “but tonight I assure you my navigation is entirely deliberate. Do keep up, dear.”

And Vox did, with that same naïve certainty that Alastor found both irritating and disarming.

They reached their box, a modest, shadowed space tucked between larger ones.

Vox finally spoke. “…Huh.”

Alastor stepped inside without hesitation. “Charming, isn’t it?”

He said it lightly, as though he hadn’t deliberately chosen the most inconspicuous private box in the venue. As though he hadn’t weighed every angle and sightline to select one with the least visibility. There had been very few occasions that Alastor hadn't come with Rosie, and this had always been the seat he chose. When he had been with the other cannibal, they had always been in the Overlord box. But well, he wasn’t with Rosie was he?

“…This is… cozy,” Vox said slowly as he took in the box. His words were not a criticism or a disappointment. He was genuinely confused.

He turned back to Alastor, antennas dipping. “Ali… did we get bumped from the big seats or something? Did someone outrank you for once? ‘Cause honestly that would be kinda funny-”

“No,” Alastor interrupted softly. He decided to ignore that new nickname for now. 

He stepped into the box as well and closed the door behind them.

The sound of the crowd dulled, the noise becoming pleasant ambient hum. Finally tolerable to Alastor tired ears.

“I selected this one.”

Vox looked around, perplexed. “You… picked this?”

Alastor opened his mouth with an easy glib explanation ready on his tongue, ‘It’s acoustically superior’, ‘I enjoy the vantage point’ or ‘Larger crowds dull the sound quality’

But none of those left his lips.

Because Vox turned back toward him with a shrug, unbothered, and smiled.

“Oh. Okay. Cool.”

Alastor blinked.

That was… not the reaction he expected.

No sulking over the lack of grandeur. No assumption that Alastor was secretly slighting him or lowering his status.

It was just… acceptance.

“It’s nice,” Vox added, leaning casually against the railing. “Kinda… private. In a good way.”

Internally, Alastor’s thoughts stuttered.

It was then that he had been slightly ridiculously worried.

A useless, unproductive, embarrassingly human flicker in his chest that he promptly crushed the moment he recognized it. Worry was not an emotion Alastor entertained. It was not part of his repertoire.

And thankfully Vox interpreted it as a preference, not a weakness.

Alastor might like to keep things from Vox to see how the rising star would react to it, but there was little detail that was one thing he didn't intend for the other to learn about. At least at the moment. He wasn't dumb to think he wouldn't learn eventually, but it would be a later issue to deal with. 

They took their seats just as the lights started to dim. 

Vox settled in beside him, the faint blue glow of his eyes and screen-face reflecting the warm, descending darkness. Alastor sat with perfect posture, hands folded neatly atop his cane.

Vox leaned over, “You've interviewed the Queen on your show before, right? What's she like?”

“Yes,” he murmured, “several times.”

He didn’t elaborate at first. He let the silence stretch, savoring Vox’s expectant glance from the corner of his eye. Alastor watched as Maestro walked up to the conductors podium in the orchestra pit and started to get ready.

Finally, Alastor tilted his head, voice low. “Lilith is… charismatic. Sharp. A consummate performer, onstage and off.”

Vox raised a brow. “That’s the polite version. What’s the real one?”

Alastor’s grin widened, the edges just a little too sharp. Insightful picture box. “Oh, she is everything a sovereign of Hell should be. Graceful, ruthless, playful when she wishes, utterly terrifying when she doesn’t. And above all…” He tapped one finger lightly against his cane, once. “…she is never, ever predictable.”

Vox let out a soft whistle. “Sounds like you admire her.”

“I admire competence,” Alastor replied, at least that was the truth. “She possesses it in admirable abundance.”

Before Vox could question any further, the orchestra tuned, and the first gentle hush fell across the hall. The chandeliers dimmed into a soft purple as the curtains on the stage drew back, revealing a stretch of darkness lit only by faint, purple footlights. The full hush swept through the hall. 

This silence was reverence.

A spotlight flickered on.

Queen Lilith had certainly gone all out on her outfit for the evening

Her dark gown cascaded behind her, layered in black opal silk that shifted from deep wine to midnight with every breath she took. Jewels dripped from her shoulders like captured constellations, her hair spilled down her back in a perfect waterfall of white-blonde curls, shaped and styled to look effortless

She stepped forward with the unhurried grace of someone who had never once needed to earn a crowd’s attention. It simply belonged to her.

He stared down at her, expression unchanged. Nothing in his posture betrayed the truth, that Lilith’s presence set his nerves on alert in a way he had honed over many, many years. It was impossible for anyone to tell the truth, that he did not like her. But he wasn't stupid to show it.

She lifted the microphone stand with effortless poise.

The first note left her lips, almost like velvet, sliding across the hall like a ribbon drawn slowly over glass.

Vox let out a quiet reverent, “...damn.”

Lilith’s voice deepened, swelled, the orchestra rising behind her perfectly, making sure to only enhance the queen. Lilith’s melody unfurled into a haunting, seductive waltz as the orchestra followed. Her vibrato controlled to the point of weaponization.

Alastor’s ears prickled. It was not with admiration, but with the same careful attention one might give a rival predator crossing its territory.

Vox leaned slightly toward him. “She’s unreal,” he whispered, almost forgetting to keep his voice down. “Like- this is insane. I didn’t think she was this good live.”

“She is… practiced,” Alastor replied blandly.

Vox gave him an amused sideways glance. “That’s your compliment? Practiced?”

“It is among the highest praise I offer.”

Vox snorted, but he turned back to the stage, transfixed.

Lilith transitioned seamlessly into the chorus, her voice rising. Just like Vox, the audience was captivated, entirely in her grasp.

Alastor watched her with a polite, neutral smile that did not reach his eyes.

He could acknowledge skill. He could acknowledge presence. But admiration? Attachment? Awe?

Those belonged to others, not him.

What mattered now was simple. Vox’s slack-jawed wonder, the way his antennas had perked forward, the reflection of the stage lights dancing across his screen-face.

Vox was enthralled.

Good.

Because if Vox’s attention was fixed on Lilith, then it did not linger on Alastor’s lingering stiffness or the faint, residual tremor in his fingers he kept in his lap. Or the fact he was forcing himself to stay awake. Satan, if he were to fall asleep that would have bigger consequences that he wanted to deal with.

Alastor couldn’t help but let his eyes wander around the room. The middle where most of the seats were packed, but whenever had they ever been empty? The boxes on either side of the started more modest but slowly increased in grandeur as they went higher.

On the back wall, the lowest was the Overlord box. The middle was the sprawling Ars Goetia box, which is just a hallway with a long balcony. But the highest and most grand box was where the Royalty sat. Theoretically, it would be used by the Sins or by the King of Hell himself, but no one had ever seen it used-

Wait a moment.

Alastor's eyes narrowed, before widening in disbelief.

It seems that tonight… tonight it was occupied.

By King Lucifer Morningstar himself.

Alastor’s breath caught, not that anyone could tell. He adjusted his posture with the precision of centuries of practice, hands gripping his cane just slightly tighter than necessary. His smile remained carefully neutral.

The King of Hell was very recluse from sinners of Hell. The only reason Alastor knew what he looked like was because of the statues around the city. The biggest of his influence was the architecture around the city. 

Alastor continued to watch, and while it was hard to tell from the distance between them, he came to the realization that the king was also not watching the performance. He seemed to be scanning the room, rather than the stage. Then King’s gaze, almost imperceptibly, flicked to the side boxes.  

They made eye contact.

Alastor’s instincts screamed as he looked away. He had no idea what His Majesty's personality would be, but one would assume based on the fact he was The Devil. He had more power then Alastor could dream of. 

Alastor forced his smile back into something less strained turning slightly to Vox. “Enjoying the show?” he murmured, trying to ignore what just happened.

Vox, glowing faintly in the dark, turned slightly, oblivious to the apex of power now overseeing the hall. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It’s… unreal.”

Alastor’s eyes flicked back to Lucifer, who had thankfully looked away. The Radio Demon had too many problems on his hands to worry about the king of hell becoming interested in him.

Give him a decade and then he would be ready.

For now, it would be best to focus on the performance and find any entertainment he could for the evening.

Chapter Text

After the performance, Alastor and Vox temporarily separated to do exactly what each of them did best. Vox had wanted to mingle while Alastor, on the other hand, wanted to explore a little before they left.   

They did make plans to meet up in an hour. Vox had said it with an easy grin, a wave of his hand. “Meet you by the main atrium? One hour?”    

Alastor had agreed with a polite nod, “One hour,” he had echoed.    

Vox grinned wide, like excitement he couldn’t quite contain. The picture box-sinner gave a casual two-finger salute before turning toward the glittering mass of demons drifting back into the corridors, eager to schmooze, brag, and bask in the afterglow of royal spectacle.    

Alastor watched him go only long enough to ensure Vox had fully disappeared into the crowd. Only then did his pleasant expression slip into something more contemplative.    

He pivoted smoothly, cane tapping lightly against the marble as he moved into a less-traveled hallway.     

The Radio Demon was taking a chance with exploring, something he rarely did in such an exposed, high-profile venue by himself. His shadows could slip past many things, but not the kind of defenses one installed in this building to keep out meddling eyes of Overlords.     

It wasn’t like it was strictly forbidden to look around the building, but snooping wasn't welcomed either.

But Alastor had always been good at walking the line between “allowed” and “inadvisable.”

Did Alastor have a full out goal to what he was looking for? Not really, no. He doubted a place like this would have anything of real value. But his curiosity was a persistent, needling thing that he always seemed to have in abundance.

Alastor followed the quiet corridor deeper into the private wings of the venue. The echoes of the dispersing crowd had long since faded behind him.

Eventually, he made his way down a long hallway, with the walls lined with portraits and doors.

He wasn’t stupid to go into the rooms, but he did make sure to take his time with portraits. Each of them were framed in heavy gold leaf patterns. Most were of Lilith, always in different royal gowns and poses, but each one had a presence that commanded even through canvas. Always in control. 

Alastor’s smile tightened just a fraction.

He moved on.

Then came the Ars Goetia portraits. He wished that he had learned more about the royalty of Hell when he was alive. Back then, he had just learned about them from Rosie before his… time in hell began. He had even managed to secure a copy of a compendium about early Ars Goetia mythos and royal genealogies. It had been tucked away with his stash of weapons and alcohol in his cabin.

He wondered, not for the first time, what happened to it. 

He recognized the bigger names of course, the first king, Bael, and his successor and current High King Paimon and the Lower Kings; Baal, Belth, and Purson. The others in the portraits were a mystery to him.

The Goetia were very secretive, aggressively so. Their bloodlines, their hierarchies, their duties… it was all kept tightly contained within their palace wall.  

To the common sinner, the Ars Goetia were something like a myth layered over a monarchy. They were faraway, untouchable, and steeped in ancient power. To an Overlord, they were a political force best avoided. But to someone like Alastor, someone who resented bowing his head to anyone, their superiority complex was a quiet irritation.

Alastor’s smile thinned further.

Yes.

The Goetia had never bothered to hide how they viewed the rest of Hell. Sinners were beneath them and while Overlords were dangerous but they were still beneath them.

He pushed the thought aside.

It wouldn’t suit to get his hunger riled. It would be useless. There was nothing he could do. 

An itch crawled beneath his skin.

Wasn’t that an awful thought?

That no matter how clever he was, how powerful he had become, there were still entire swaths of Hell in which he was, by design, insignificant.

He continued to walk down the hallway, tapping his cane which step he took. He should probably be getting back-

Alastor froze at the same time his ears twitched to face on the doors. 

Was that... 

Crying?

Alastor’s head tilted slightly, ears sharpening instinctively toward the sound. It was faint and muffled, but unmistakenly quiet, soft sobs. It almost sounded as if the one crying was trying desperately not to be heard. And whoever it was sounded… young?

He blinked. And blinked again. 

It was very rare for something to genuinely catch him off guard, but this was not a situation he had planned to find himself in this evening. Still, something with a rough shape of a plan was starting to form in his head as he approached the door. 

“Well now,” he began as he leaned back against the wall next to the door, “I know that sobs of despair are not usually part of the evening’s entertainment, so do tell- what’s troubling you so?”

The sobs stopped abruptly, and Alastor wished he could see through the door to see whatever reaction the person was. His shadows could easily slip under the door, but Wards were still very much in place. 

He was half-sure whoever was behind the door was gone, but that didn’t stop him from continuing, “Do forgive me for disturbing you,” he said with theatrical politeness, “but I couldn’t resist the temptation to inquire further. Curiosity is, after all, the lifeblood of a properly entertained soul.”

Another sob escaped from behind the door, only to be poorly muffled. Like whoever it was was trying to keep it together. Alastor almost applauded the attempt.  

“You know,” he continued in that same deceptively gentle tone, “sometimes it helps to tell someone. A stranger an excellent person to vent to, as they rarely judge. And I assure you, I am an excellent listener, though I admit, I rarely volunteer for such work.”

There was another long pause, to the point Alastor doubted he was going to hear the real voice the person when- 

“What-” A hiccup and a long sniff, “What do you do when your parents don’t love each other anymore.”

Ah.

Well. 

That-

Hmm.

That was a lot deeper than he wanted to go.

Still, he pressed on. “Well now,” he murmured, “Whatever gave you that thought, my dear?” Alastor asked, his tone softening imperceptibly, the usual edge of amusement slightly muted by genuine curiosity.

He could barely keep his shadows tied to him, they reached out just enough to sense the shape of whoever was behind the door without betraying his presence. Whoever it was, it was someone young. 12, maybe?

A small, muffled sniff came from the other side. Then, a shaky voice:

“I… I don’t know what to do. She’s… she’s leaving. Mom’s… she’s leaving so my Dad can… figure things out… pre-pry-rye-yorities or whatever. And I… I can’t-” Another hiccup, more stifled sobs.

Now, Alastor liked to say he was a very charismatic individual. He prided himself on that fact. One with mixed skin did not because the top radio host in bigoted south on nothing. But children… they had never quite been his 

Alastor shifted slightly, spinning his cane once as he thought out what to do next. “Ah… I see.”

A small sniff, muffled, followed. “I… I should’ve been better. Maybe if I was… nicer, or… or meaner… maybe she wouldn’t be leaving.”

Alastor paused. Children often twisted blame inward, and he would know that, wouldn’t he? When in reality it was something far beyond their control.

“My dear,” he said gently, leaning closer to the door as if proximity could lend weight to his reassurance, “let me assure you… it is never the child who holds responsibility for the decisions of grown-ups. Often, I find that adults are remarkably poor at managing their own lives. They make choices… messy, complicated choices… for reasons so tangled they can barely understand them themselves.” Thank Satan, he hadn’t been in something like that. Relationships looked more trouble than they were worth in his opinion. 

If he ever found the right person, he hoped it wouldn’t be like that.

A shaky little sound came from the other side of the door, halfway between a sniff and a quiet please go on.

Alastor tapped his cane lightly against his boot,“You seem like a clever child,” he said.

Another sniff. “I- I try…”

“Mm. Yes. And if you are clever, then you must understand this. When grown-ups falter, their mistakes are not born from your actions. Whether you are kind or cruel, loud or quiet, obedient or rebellious, it is not your responsibility to hold a crumbling foundation together with your small hands.”

While Alastor still wasn’t feeling very empathetic, those were words he wished desperately someone had told him when he was child. 

“And as for your mother… if she is leaving to ‘figure out her priorities,’ as you say… that, too, is her burden. Not yours.”

The child, the young girl really, had to be, shifted. He could hear the faint rustle of fabric, like she had drawn her knees tighter to her chest.

“…She asked me to go with her.”

“Did she now?” Alastor mused quietly. He wondered just who her mother was. A goetia?

Another faint, wet sniff. “She said she wants me there… that she doesn’t want to leave me with Dad if- Dad’s not- not ready to fix things. But Mom’s… I don’t know. I don’t know what she wants anymore.”

Alastor leaned his shoulder more comfortably against the wall, honestly this was far more interesting then the concert itself.

“And what do you want, my dear?”

A trembling breath. Then, in a tiny voice-

“I want… I want things to be the way they were. Before they started fighting all the time.”

“Ah.”

“But,” he said with purposeful softness, “you cannot chase something that no longer exists. Memories are delightful things, but they are not destinations.”

The child let out a soft whimper.

“I don’t want her to leave…”

Another pause.

“But… I also… I don’t want to leave him.”

“Your father?” Alastor said lightly. And her father? Only the hellborn can have kids. Who could it be? He doubted an imp child could get this deep into the building.

“…yes.”

“Well then,” he murmured, “I believe your answer has already found you.”

“I-I don’t-”

“My dear,” Alastor interrupted, “if the thought of leaving your father twists your stomach even more than the thought of your mother leaving, then you’ve already chosen. You simply haven’t admitted it to yourself.”

Another pause, longer than the rest of them.  Then, a quiet, almost vulnerable, “I… I just… I don’t want them to… not love me anymore, no matter what I choose.”

Alastor had no idea what to say to that. 

“…My dear,” he said slowly, carefully, more gently than he ever would have allowed himself were anyone watching. Where was all the sentimentality coming from? It was starting to give him an itch. “Love, true lovemis not so delicate that it crumbles because of a single choice.”

A tiny, shaky breath answered him.

“You assume your parents’ affection is conditional,” Alastor continued. “That it is something you must earn with good behavior, or cleverness, or obedience. But I assure you… even the most dysfunctional parents do not abandon love so easily.”

Not always true, of course, but a little white lie wouldn’t hurt at the moment. 

“But… then Mom will think I don’t want her, if I pick him…”

“She asked you to choose,” Alastor said, voice darkening just a touch with irritation on her behalf. “And when one asks a child to choose between parents, one must accept the result. That burden is hers. Not yours.”

Silence. Then a tiny, broken whisper:

“…So it’s not because… I wasn’t good enough?”

Ah.

There it was.

Alastor closed his eyes, not in sympathy, he didn’t know if he could feel that, he was far too broken for that but in recognition. How often had he asked himself that as a child?

How often had he twisted himself trying to become “good enough” for people incapable of giving affection when he was young? It was so easy to think of another person behind the door, he found. Of a little boy cowering in a broom closet. Another lifetime. 

“No,” he said, and this time the word came out sharper than intended. He softened it on the follow-up. “No, my dear. That is not the reason.”

A hiccup. Another faint sniff.

“When adults make their choices, they are not thinking about whether you behaved well enough that day. Their choices…” He waved his fingers vaguely, even though she couldn’t see. “Are far more selfish than that.”

A long breath on the other side of the door.

“…I don’t want to go with her,” she whispered at last. “I don’t want to leave Dad. I don’t want to leave home.”

“Well then,” he said, “you’ve decided.”

“I… I think so…”

“I know so,” he corrected lightly. “You merely needed permission to admit it.”

Another sniff. Softer this time. Less broken.

“…Thank you,” the child whispered.

Alastor blinked.

It was rare, exceptionally rare, that someone thanked him without fear or dread in their voice. It startled him more than it should have.

He cleared his throat, straightening his coat as if dusting off the unfamiliar sensation. He needed to have at least two unprovoked murders on the way home, it seemed. 

“Well,” he said, regaining his usual cadence, “I’m pleased I could be of assistance. Even rarer still that someone finds my advice useful and uses it.”

She gave a tiny, watery laugh.

“Now,” Alastor continued, pushing himself off the wall, “you ought to dry your face and straighten yourself up. Decisions are easier to face when one looks presentable.”

“O-okay…”

“And,” he added conversationally, “it would be wise not to mention this little exchange to anyone. It would ruin my reputation.”

A soft giggle. A little fragile but real.

More shuffling behind the door.

“Goodbye, Mister…” she trailed off, realizing she never got his name.

“Just a passing stranger,” Alastor replied, already turning down the hall. “And on the last piece of advice, keep on smiling my dear, you're never fully dressed without one!”

With that, he continued on his way, cane tapping down the corridor.

Well.

That had been entertaining, hadn't it.

He didn’t see the door behind open a crack, just enough for the girl to peek out. Red eyes followed him cautious, but undeniably curious.

And he had absolutely no idea that, entirely by accident, he had pushed her firmly, irrevocably, toward choosing her father.

Toward Lucifer.

And away from Lilith.

All he knew was that Vox would be waiting in the atrium.

He adjusted his tie, smoothed his smile, and kept walking.

He had no idea how he had just changed the projection of his life

Efficere Mutatio

When Alastor finally made it back to the lobby, Vox looked deep in a conversation with a bull sinner. If Alastor tried to remember correctly, the brute’s name was something like Bighorn or Buckshot loud, broad-shouldered, and very much the type who mistook volume for authority. He was moving up in the architecture world, pushing for more “ modern” buildings. 

Vox didn’t notice him at first. He had all his weight on leg, ankles crossed as he said something the bull found hilarious.

Alastor’s grin sharpened a touch.

He didn’t interrupt, no, that would imply impatience. The sinner simply waited. Good prey always revealed themselves when you stayed quiet long enough.

It was something to see the television in his natural element though, that silver tongue that could convince demons to give away their money and sell their souls without realizing they’d done it until they were already signing the dotted line. Vox’s charisma had always been formidable in its own right. Watching him deploy it on someone else stirred a vaguely predatory delight that curled beneath Alastor’s ribs.

Alastor was charismatic in his own right, but he was aware he unsettled others in ways Vox didn’t. His smile was a threat and his presence a warning. Vox, on the other hand, oh, Vox invited you in. Vox drew you close, dazzled you, made you feel chosen before he hollowed you out.

Perhaps that was why the sight before him prickled beneath his skin.

The bull sinner leaned in a little too eagerly, shoulders shaking with laughter, clearly unaware of how transparently desperate it looked. Vox rewarded the display with a dazzling grin, screen glittering with static just shy of flirtation.

Alastor drummed his fingers once against his cane.

How curious.

He wondered if the other demon did that on purpose.

Vox’s gaze drifted eventually, the only tell of his boredom, only to land on Alastor.

Instant shift.

The ankle-crossed casual pose straightened into something more deliberate. Vox’s smile went from showman’s grin to something a little more sincere, along with a little static pop at his antennas. 

Bull-Brain didn't notice as the bull kept on rambling, laughing at his own joke.

Alastor lifted his chin in the faintest acknowledgment.

It was almost funny how quickly Vox's attention changed when it came to him. Vox always was an attentive little creature when it mattered. It's what's made him so entertaining! Half the reason Alastor kept hanging out with the sinner. 

Vox’s tells were usually nonexistent. He was a performer, after all, a master of controlling what others saw, of revealing only what he wished. But right now? Oh, how transparent he had become.

The TV star's expression was different now, but Alastor didn't think he could name it. Something did scratch at his back of his brain, but Alastor pushed it away. He was too tired to think about at the moment.  

The bull finally paused, following Vox’s gaze. He turned, and froze.

Whatever Vox’s expression had been a second ago, it was gone. The showman’s glitzy grin returned instantly, but there was very much a disinterested look in his eyes now.  “Right, yeah, send the proposal to my assistant,” Vox said, voice suddenly corporate cold. “We’ll… see.”

Dismissed.

The bull’s ears drooped. “Uh. Yeah. Sure. Of course.” He backed away, almost bumping into a table. Vox didn’t look at him once as he left.

Alastor’s grin widened by a millimeter.

“My, my,” Alastor drawled once he came to stand next to other sinner, eyes flicking to the retreating bull, “I do hope I wasn’t interrupting an important business negotiation.”

Vox scoffed under his breath before the charm flipped on again, a flicker across his screen-face like a channel changing. “Oh, please. Bastian isn’t the problem,” he said lightly, but Alastor caught the undercurrent of thought in his tone. “He’s just one more thing I have to consider.” 

Alastor gave him a curious look, but the other did not continue. Instead, he tilted his bulky head slightly as he asked, “You hungry?”

“I…” Alastor tapped his cane once, lightly. He could say no, he should say no. He was tired and this evening had dragged on enough. But the conversation in the hallway had helped him regain even a sliver of control that had lacked this evening. 

…Well. It would be rude to end the night prematurely, wouldn’t it?

“I wouldn’t say no to something.”

Vox grinned. “Good. Because I figured you’d be starving after all this. I looked up a place beforehand, don’t look at me like that, you don’t even know that type of food it is yet, that stays open late. Heard the food is killer. Literally.”

Alastor chuckled. “How quant.”

Vox’s grin widened, all bright edges.  “Come on,” he said, giving Alastor a light tap on the arm with the back of his hand, an unnecessarily unfamiliar gesture that Alastor narrowly resisted reacting to. “It’s a short walk. And by short walk I mean you’re absolutely going to complain about it, but I’ll pretend not to notice.”

“Perish the thought,” Alastor replied, letting Vox guide them toward the exit. “I’m the picture of patience.”

“Mmhm.” Vox snorted, rolling his eyes as the doors opened and the cool night air filtered in. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart.”

Alastor paused at that, just briefly- only long enough for Vox to take three steps ahead before the Radio Demon resumed walking and joined his side again. 

Interesting.

Alastor had no idea where the other sinner was getting the confidence to start giving out nicknames, but the Radio Demon wasn’t quite sure if he liked it or not yet. Just another thing to muse over after this evening was over. 

Just as the two were about to reach the doors, Alastor felt a shift. He froze mid-step and his ears immediately perked at attention.

Alastor halted so sharply that Vox nearly collided with him.

“Whoa- okay, what now?” Vox muttered, antennas twitching as he turned.

Alastor hated how his heart raced, the curse of being a prey sinner.

“Bow” Alastor hissed through a now stranded smile.

“What?” Vox blinked. “I- why would I-?”

“Now.”

The command vibrated with an edge Vox had never heard before. It was so strong that he almost didn’t register that Alastor hadn’t talked with any radio filter. 

Vox stared for a heartbeat, confused… before he finally felt it too. 

Something definitely powerful, unlike anything he had felt before. 

“Shit,” Vox whispered, and without further argument, he followed Alastor’s lead, dropping into an imperfect, stiff-backed bow. If he had been paying more attention, he would have noticed that everyone else in the room had taken a bow or curtsy as well. 

Heels clicking on the ground was the only sound echoed throughout the room.  Vox couldn't help himself from sneaking a glance.

She appeared in their peripheral vision first, impossibly tall, posture immaculate, wrapped in silken black and deep violet. In the middle of her forehead, was a weird glowy purple symbol? Her feathers were the pitch back and Vox got the deepest impression of a raven when looking at her. 

And her eyes-

Cold pools of gold, with thin white pupils, sweeping over the lobby without a flicker of emotion.

She stood before the two for a beat, before “You may rise.”

Alastor lifted himself smoothly, posture immaculate. Vox, much less graceful, scrambled to stand without looking like he was scrambling. He failed.

“Lady Namah,” Alastor greeted, still making sure to dip his head just enough to be respectful but not subservient. Alastor had to keep some of his pride. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Business, of course,” she said, clasping her hands before her. “Personal business from the Queen.”

“You honor us,” Alastor drawled. “I did not expect the queen’s own household to take notice of humble sinners.”

Lady Namah’s lips curved in a ghost of a smile. “Humble,” she repeated lightly. “A charming attempt at modesty.”

Vox coughed, accompanied a small static pop, which meant he was nervous. Alastor’s ear twitched.

The Goetic demoness extended two black envelopes toward them. Thick, wax-sealed, bearing the Queen’s crest.

An invitation.

Vox opened his mouth to say something, but the sharp increase in static beside him made his digital mouth snap shut. 

Alastor spoke carefully. “Please extend Her Majesty our deepest gratitude for her… interest.”

Namah’s eyes flicked between them before settling once more on Alastor as she inclined her head,  “It would be wise of you both to accept. Her Majesty does not extend invitations lightly.”

Alastor’s smile didn’t falter, but Vox saw, for the first time since he met him, the faintest line of tension pulled tight at the corner of the Radio Demon’s jaw.

“Of course,” Alastor replied smoothly. “We would never dream of disrespecting the Queen.”

Vox hurried to add, “Naturally. Total honor. Big fans.” Static crackled. “Huge fans.”

Namah didn’t spare him more than a fleeting, unimpressed glance.

Her interest was Alastor-shaped.

“It is scheduled one month from today,” she continued. “You will each arrive separately… but you will be presented together.”

Vox choked. “Presented-?!”

A single golden eye slid in Vox’s direction, and he shut his mouth immediately.

Alastor didn’t look at him.

Namah gave them one last sweeping look, one that lingered an extra second on Alastor, though he couldn’t read the reason,  and then she glided away, disappearing back into the corridor.

The room let out a relieved sigh.

Vox looked at the envelopes in Alastor’s hand like it might bite him.

“…Holy shit,” he whispered.

Alastor hummed. “Indeed.”

Vox turned to him sharply. “Do you understand what this means? A private audience? With Lilith? People would kill for this kind of access.”

“Oh yes,” Alastor said with a pleasant smile. “I imagine they would.”

Vox’s screen showed all his emotions, overwhelmed glee, ambition, panic, all zipping through him like channels flipping too fast.

“We have to prepare,” Vox muttered. “I need to figure out wardrobe, and strategy, and what she wants, and- oh Hell, she knows you but not me. That’s. That’s-”

Alastor slipped his envelope neatly into his coat pocket.

“Vox.”

“What?”

“We have dinner plans.”

Vox blinked.

Then laughed.

“Yeah,” He said, taking the envelope from Alastor's outstretched hand, “let's go.”

Before they left the building, Alastor changed his promise from earlier this evening to a vow. 

One day, he would know what the Ars Goetia’s h̵e̷a̴r̵t̶s̵ t̵̘̦͆͠ḁ̸̪̅͊s̶̟̳͒ẗ̷̗̬́ē̸̗d̸̠͉́ ḽ̵̳̔ị̴̓k̶͎͐̀̈́ȩ̶̙̐. 

The night had turned bitter.

There was no sun nor moon in Hell. There were the two celestial bodies in the sky, of course, one being Heaven and the other the representation of the Pride Ring they lived in. But neither offered illumination. Day and night were dictated by the shift of light. 

Tonight, the world was drenched in indigo, streaked with neon bleeding off signs and passing cars. Shadows pooled thick in the alleyways, and the air had a sharp, metallic cold that bit at exposed skin.

Vox, naturally, didn’t feel the cold. His mechanized body could control his body temperature easily enough.

Alastor felt it and ignored it.

He kept his posture tall, cane tapping in a steady rhythm as the two walked. His earlier weakness was tucked away neatly, buried beneath his poise, pride, and the familiar comfort of his tight control.

A Queen’s summons.

Oh, he understood exactly what that meant… better than Vox ever could.

But tonight, Alastor had no desire to dissect Lilith’s intentions. Not with his energy already scraping low, not with his hands only now ceasing their tremble.

Instead, he let Vox’s anxious babbling fill the walk.

“-and it has to be formal but not too formal, accessible but not pandering, confident but not challenging‐ Alastor, are you even listening?”

“No,” Alastor said pleasantly.

Vox threw his hands up. “Unbelievable‐”

“On the contrary,” Alastor murmured, lips curling, “you are entirely predictable.”

Vox sputtered static and stomped ahead a few steps, dramatic, shoulders hunched as he muttered, “I hate you.”

The Radio Demon merely smiled, letting the silence stretch comfortably between them.

“You okay?” Vox asked suddenly, too casually to be casual.

“I am perfectly fine,” Alastor replied, his voice clipped. “A bit of theatrics from the Goetia is hardly enough to unsettle me.”

Vox snorted. “You froze like-"

“I did no such thing.”

“You did-”

“No such thing,” Alastor repeated, louder, and his radio filter rised quite a bit. Vox made a small crackling noise that meant fine, fine, I'll drop it.

They turned a corner.

Alastor saw the building Vox had chosen for the evening. A squat little place with buzzing signage that read HELLA GOOD GRUB in half-flickering letters. A red neon devil chef winked above the door. From the way Alastor’s understood it, it looked styled from the 1950s.

Vox spread his hands. “Ta-da.”

Alastor lifted a brow. “Charming.”

“I told you the reviews were killer,” Vox said smugly, opening the door for him with a small, exaggerated bow. “After you, sweetheart.”

Alastor paused.

There it was again.

Sweetheart.

What a strange little habit.

He wasn’t sure if he disliked it or not yet, but either way he was too tired to think about it now. 

The diner was a chaotic clash of aesthetics. Bright red vinyl booths, checkered floors, chrome accents polished to a painful shine, and hand-painted murals of demons in chef hats flipping sizzling cauldrons instead of pancakes. The walls were smothered with clippings of old newspapers, signed photos of washed-up celebrities, and menus written in chalk that glowed faintly with enchantment. The whole place hummed with the energy of late-night regulars: smokers in corner booths, a trio of harpies loudly debating sports stats, and a pair of imps clinking glasses over something suspiciously glowing.

Of course, all of them froze when they realized who just walked in. 

Alastor ignored them as he and Vox walked to a table. 

They slid into a booth near the back. Alastor took the seat facing the room, naturally. Vox sat across from him, propping an elbow on the table like he had been here a hundred times before.

A waitress appeared almost immediately with two laminated menus. Her forced smile wavered at the ends, eyes flicking nervously between them.

“Welcome to Hella Good Grub,” she said. “Uh… kitchen’s still open. Let me know whenever you’re ready to order.”

Then she all but ran.

Vox snorted. “Real warm welcome.”

Alastor didn’t look up from the menu. “Your presence tends to have that effect on people.”

Vox’s screen flashed a quick glare. “My presence? Excuse me, Mr. Living Paradox of Smiles and Murder Vibes, I’m the approachable one here.”

Alastor hummed, noncommittal, flipping the menu open though he didn’t bother actually reading it. “If you say so.”

Vox leaned forward, tapping a metal finger on the table. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you pretend you don’t notice people reacting to you.”

“Why shouldn’t I? I find it very entertaining.” Normally, sometimes it was a bit tedious. Especially when he went on his walks.

“Yeah, well- some of us are trying to build a brand that doesn’t involve people wetting themselves every five minutes.”

Alastor let the corner of his grin twitch upward. “A lofty ambition.”

Vox groaned loudly and dragged a hand over his faceplate. “You’re impossible.”

“On the contrary,” Alastor said, tone light as a radio jingle. “I am exceedingly consistent. Predictability is a virtue.”

“That’s the last word I’d use for you.”

Alastor allowed himself a small chuckle. The sound was quieter than usual. Vox noticed.

The Radio Demon wasn’t sure he was liking the fact Vox was starting to notice the little things.

Vox drummed his fingers again before clearing his throat. “Seriously though. You good? Earlier looked like… a lot.”

Alastor’s eyes flicked up, his eye going sharp. “If you ask me that one more time, I’ll assume you believe I’ve grown frail.”

Vox held both hands up. “Hey, hey. No insults intended. Just- processing, I guess. That was Lilith-level stuff. That’s all.”

Alstor paused, for the first time in Vox’s presence he was starting to get annoyed. 

But before Alastor could snap at the other demon, he found a small section in the menu separated from the rest. 

Vox seemed to know what he found. “Didn’t know what you were in the mood for,” he said casually. “So… figured this place covered your dietary range.”

“Thoughtful,” Alastor said, tone dripping with amusement. “A rare trait for you.”

Vox kicked him lightly under the table.

Alastor blinked. He wasn’t used to people touching him, let alone this playfully. One the count of one hand really.  

He filed that away.

Alastor dropped the menu to the table, letting Vox’s transition go for now. “Tell me about Bastian and his work.” Typically he couldn’t care less about his fellow sinner’s business, or any business really, but he didn’t want to talk about the Queen anymore. 

He knew it was inevitable though, he would need to instruct Vox how to act with “her majesty.” last thing he needed was for the Queen to get the impression that he and Vox were some kind of unit. A pair. A package deal.

The very thought made something cold and unpleasant coil low in his chest.

Absolutely not.

He could already imagine the implications, the politics, the whispers, Hell forbid, the expectations. The Queen seeing him as aligned, partnered, or worse, influenced by Vox would create all sorts of irritating ripples in the hierarchy. And if the Overlords started treating them as a duo?

It would be disastrous.

He refused to be anyone’s accessory, least of all Vox’s.

So yes- teaching Vox the proper etiquette around her was inevitable. Necessary damage control before the situation spiraled beyond even his precise control.

Vox blinked at him, clearly surprised by the sudden pivot. “…Bastian? Seriously?”

Alastor tilted his head a fraction, smile razor-thin. “You seemed invested earlier. I assumed you had a reason for humoring the man.”

Vox scoffed, dramatic as ever, leaning back in the booth until the vinyl squeaked beneath him. “Humoring is a strong word. He’s… more like a very loud golden retriever with blueprints.”

Alastor waited.

Vox sighed, shoulders dropping as he relented. “Fine, fine. You know how I’ve been trying to get my tower built?”

“Your monstrosity, you mean?” Alastor replied lightly, narrowing his eyes with amusement. “Yes, I recall. The one with so many screens it could probably be seen from every circle of Hell on a clear night.”

Vox shot him a glare that was far too fond to be sincere. “It’s going to be iconic.”

“It will be an eyesore,” Alastor hummed, “but an ambitious eyesore.”

Vox lifted a napkin from the basket next to them and pointed it accusingly. “Anyway. As I was saying before someone decided to insult my architectural genius, I need to get someone to build it,”  He finished with a dramatic groan, tossing the napkin aside like it had somehow offended him. “And unfortunately, that requires dealing with the architecture world. Which is full of egos, idiots, and egos wearing suits.”

Alastor steepled his fingers atop his cane. “And Bastian is which of those?”

“Yes.” Vox deadpanned.

Alastor let out a quiet, amused hum.

Vox continued, animated now that the topic was his own obsession. “Look, the guy isn’t completely incompetent. He actually gets modern design, clean lines, sharp angles, lots of steel and glass. The problem is he thinks everything should look like a contemporary art museum mated with a tech-startup lobby.”

Alastor made a face. “How dreadful.”

“Thank you. Finally, someone with vision,” Vox said, motioning broadly with both hands. “I do have other options, the Mob for one. I still need to keep on their friendly side until I push them out. But that might complicate things,” Vox finished, grimacing as he leaned back in the booth. “They’ll want a cut. A big one. And once you let the Mob sink their claws into a project, they never take them out. Even after you pry the bodies off.”

Alastor chuckled softly, eyes half-lidded. “Yes, I imagine it’s difficult to evict termites when they believe they own the house.”

“Oh, exactly,” Vox huffed. “And, of course, I could spend the time building my own crew from scratch. But that also means I’d have to train them, supervise them, and pray they don’t stab me in the back the second I look away. And honestly? I’m too busy for that. I have a brand to maintain, contracts to juggle, ratings to-” He broke off mid-gesture, realizing Alastor had been quietly observing him the whole time, fingers lightly drumming on the table. "Shit, sorry, I'm rambling." 

Alastor honestly couldn't say he hated when Vox rambled. There was something… entertaining about the way the TV demon’s energy refused to be contained, even if it was a little chaotic, a little reckless. It reminded him that despite everything, Vox still moved through the world with a kind of reckless, radiant confidence that was rare in Hell. 

Keeping the television had been so far one of his better decisions.

“You know,” Alastor began, “it occurs to me that your approach might be slightly… backwards.”

Vox blinked, static flickering over his screen-face. “Backwards? How do you mean?”

Alastor tapped the tip of his cane against the table, slow and deliberate. “You seem far too concerned with appearances and networks, with the right names and favorable reactions. Yet the substance, the actual work, the integrity of your project, is barely a second thought.”

Vox froze mid-gesture, “…Well, of course it matters. But style is substance in this world.”

Alastor leaned forward slightly, the faintest shadow curling beneath his shoes. “Ah, yes. Style is substance, until the substance collapses under scrutiny. Then, all you have left is style without foundation. Do you truly wish your tower to be remembered as a spectacle or as a monument?”

Vox hesitated, antennas twitching. The usual flood of static-laced self-assurance was interrupted by a small, rare flicker of doubt. “I… I want both. Isn’t that possible?”

Alastor’s grin thinned, sharp as a guillotine’s blade. “It can be done, but only if you place the right pieces in the right hands. And if the right hands are not your own, you must know precisely how to command them. Not through charm, not through flattery, but through clarity, precision… fear of consequence.”

Vox swallowed, flicking his screen briefly. “Fear? That seems… a little extreme.”

“Consider it motivation,” Alastor said smoothly, leaning back and letting his gaze wander toward the flickering neon beyond the window. “A project this ambitious requires that those responsible understand that failure carries weight. Not merely social, but… personal.” He tapped the envelope from the Queen back inside his coat pocket. “This is precisely how you should consider the Queen’s summons next month. It is not a stage for spectacle. It is a test, in all but name.”

Vox hummed, looking down, thinking.

Seeing her moment, the waitress returned, still shaking, pen trembling in hand. “A-are you ready t-to order?”

Alastor sat up straighter. Vox gestured toward him. “Go ahead. Mr. Predictable Virtue.”

Alastor shot him a warning glance before ordering with smooth politeness, something from the cannibal side of the menu. Vox followed with something greasy and absolutely terrible for any organic body.

When the waitress fled again, Vox leaned forward. “So. One month until the Queen’s summons.”

Alastor’s fingers drummed once on his cane.

“Mm.”

“We should start planning now,” Vox continued, voice dropping into something lower, more strategic. “Whatever she wants, she’s not just… curious, right? She’s calculating.”

Alastor knew.

He knew better than anyone.

A Queen never summoned prey without purpose.

He exhaled through his grin. “We will discuss it. But not tonight.”

Vox blinked. “But-”

“Tonight,” Alastor continued, “you are going to eat whatever atrocity you ordered. And I am going to enjoy a moment of quiet.”

Vox looked at him harder this time, really looked. It took everything in Alastor not to let his ear twitch.

“…You’re exhausted.”

Alastor didn’t respond.

Vox let his shoulders drop, the tension dissolving into something oddly gentle. “Okay.” He offered a small, lopsided smile. “Then we’ll handle it later.”

Alastor inclined his head. “Good.”

Silence settled between them, but it wasn’t unwelcome. Alastor found, to his mild surprise, that Vox’s presence did not grate even when the man wasn’t speaking.

It was almost companionable.

Alastor didn’t quite understand it.

But for a brief, strange moment in a cheap Hell diner drenched in neon, Alastor let himself rest.