Chapter Text
Coppery and pungent, like rotting meat, the smell laid heavy in the air, so much so that you could almost taste it. Grotesque and nauseating. Frankly, it was what you would expect Hell to smell like. As if one were bathing in the entrails of a hunter’s haul, butchered and left to decay in the heat of the summer, not fresh, yet not old enough for the maggots and animals to have cleaned the flesh off the bone.
His room reeked of the horrid scent. It had seeped into the walls and floor. Into the cotton fabric of the sheets he laid upon, but not only was it the scent. No, the red sheets were darkened to a rich crimson, soaked, hot and sticky with the substance. They had long been stained with blood, but fresh liquid spilled forth onto the sheets.
His clawed hands trembled as they dumbly clutched his abdomen in a last resort to slow the bleeding. The Radio Demon, Alastor, tall and opposing, intimidating despite his lanky and borderline starved frame. Once prideful and dapper with his stature, now bent disorderly across his bed. At this rate, death was inevitable. He had little to no cards left up his sleeve, and the price to pull on his deal would not be worth paying. That was if there were someone on the other end answering to begin with. No, he’s almost sure that his dealer knew exactly what had happened, and he was disposable.
He groaned pathetically, but with his shadows being the only ones to witness his low, he could be as pathetic as he’d wish. It wasn't as if they could talk to tell the story, and once he was gone, they were as good as gone as well. All that power dispersed back into the void. How disappointing for all parties, whether they’d survive his own demise or not. His head lulled weakly to the side.
The room began to spin and Alastor dry heaved, his stomach long emptied. His grey hands grasped at his ruined sheets, shakily pulling himself up and flipping over to lean against the headboard. Saliva leaked from the corner of his lips, tinged pink from his undoubtedly collapsed lung, filling with liquid and putting an uncomfortable amount of pressure on his aching heart. If only that were the worst of the damage. He could recover from it, stitch himself back together. His inhuman healing would have taken care of it in a jiffy… if it weren’t for the massive angelic wound that extended over his torso, held only together by the ever deteriorating threads of his own magic that did little to no good to keep it closed. Not that it mattered anyhow, the butchered skin was not getting better. It had worsened, hot and swollen with infection. His very flesh was dying before his eyes with every second that passed.
Alastor persisted a week after the initial battle, enduring the damage that had been done. That damned Angel had gotten him good. He had cleaned it up, stitched and bandaged, and with a couple hours of rest the pain became bearable and the bleeding stopped to his utter amazement. Now, Alastor wasn’t stupid, but he could admit to this moment being one of prideful hope, or better yet, ignorance towards the wound. His magic reserves, though strained, were far from the lowest they have been and the wound was seemingly healing without additional support. He had rejoined for the final construction of the new hotel as if he hadn’t been a hair’s breadth from death. And everyone was none the wiser.
Alastor’s situation had declined rather quickly.
To think the worst of it would come on after the damage had been inflicted, but of course, he should have expected that. Demon’s taken by angelic hands were not known to live for long after the purge, at least that was the case for the demons that weren’t quite so lucky to be taken down by the strike itself. Angelic poisoning.
It burns one's innards as if you’ve swallowed pure acid. First came the fever, chills and aches. Delirium and trouble breathing. And scorching heat, from the inside out as if your soul were being pulled apart and disintegrated. Apart from offing oneself, there was little to nothing a Demon could do to relieve themselves from such a pain, nonetheless recover from it. It rotted one's body and soul. Ate away until there was nothing but Holy light remaining.
No, despite his initial ignorance, Alastor didn’t think himself so unique as not to fall to the blade that so many others had. He hadn’t simply been biding his time in sweet oblivious bliss. He was working, and his focus was not the hotel. No, he was studying. He was doing everything in his power to do the seemingly impossible- recover .
That being said, it had only been a week and there were only so many hours in the day. It was too little time. Too much information, and yet there was nothing. Nothing regarding Sinner biology in relation to angelic steel except that it was the only means to a permanent end to one's existence and that it was rare to come in possession of.
Alastor never had a need for angelic steel before. His unique skill set was more damning than a Holy blade could ever be. One may call fate upon the special steel was far more merciful than what could happen if Alastor dug his claws into you, tearing your soul apart and devouring it. Not that many Demon’s knew that was what he did. It wasn’t a skill that existed before his falling, it wasn’t conceivable or worth pondering over as a theory to his power. It was well known that he enjoyed a tortured soul, and that he consumed the flesh of Sinners and Hellborn alike. And that he was a notorious dealmaker. Most people assumed that’s how he had his souls. A tortured deal to become trapped in the Radio Demon’s shadow. The theory wasn’t too far off from the truth, but just enough so that it didn’t rattle the status quo. As much as he enjoyed the thought of such chaos, he preferred to keep his secrets and keep them close.
Alastor liked to think of himself as careful, and typically he would not be so reckless as to reveal his little secret to the army of exorcists just like that. Just because he did not require Holy steel to destroy one's soul didn’t mean he was exempt from acquiring such weaponry. The inconspicuous blade hidden in his room was one such item. Fine forgery from the melted tip of a spear. Shaped to a butcher's blade and just as sharp as one. A heavy handle made from the strongest of Ironwood that he could get his hands on.
It would have been a silly mistake, going into the fight with the First Man without such a weapon. Perhaps he’d have yielded it if he were permitted to, but his deal was very specific on the use of angelic steel, he now understood why. With how comprehensive the full contact was, Alastor hadn’t given that particular clause any thought before. Now he wondered if perhaps he should be questioning the other restrictions. If he had more time… alas it was not his priority at the moment.
His eyes cast a look across the room, where his shadow had, of their own will, flickered into existence, frowning and crying out silently as if begging Alastor for relief. Moping and miserable as the one whom it was connected to.
Alastor opened his mouth as if to respond, only to cough wetly, his throat filling with a metallic taste. He turned away and spat the pinkish red liquid onto the hardwood floor.
“I hope you prepared,” because as short of a time as one week was, Alastor had not spent it twiddling his thumbs and sitting around. He had been working on one last ditch effort, a final hurrah.
A spell that was certainly not meant for a Sinner to perform, or meant to be performed on a Sinner for that matter. A human didn’t hold enough power to perform such a ritual, the cost of it was much too high for one and one alone to bear. The price he would have to be willing to pay was enough to kill him, quite the contradiction to what the spell was intended to do. Not that there was a spell specific to, or as simple as, expelling angelic energy and healing oneself from Holy infection. And he wasn’t in such a place to fabricate one either. No, he needed something that already existed… at least in theory.
What other choice did he have?
His Shade danced unsurely, pouting and stomping his foot soundlessly. Clearly not onboard with such an unpracticed and unpredictable idea- one that was unspecific to their circumstance.
“Whining will not get you anywhere.” Alastor chastised, “if this works accordingly, you will be fine.”
That did nothing to make the Shadow happy, and it clearly showed on the stubborn creature's face. The knowing expression that even if it were to go accordingly, there was still a chance that it would not work.
With years of reading the undetailed waves and expressions of his other half, the “ and if it doesn’t?” was obvious. There was no need for them to speak their concern, their discontent.
“Then we’re both fucked .” He growled back, baring his teeth causing his partner to hiss in return, simmering with concern and annoyance, “enough of this, you will be fine. A tad weakened I imagine, but you will find a way I’m sure.”
The mass then gestures wildly at Alastor as if to say "what about you?”
Alastor’s ears twitched nervously, “it is my only chance.”
He tilted his head, and a moment passed before the silhouette slumped defeatedly; you’re fucked. The Radio Demon chuckled weakly.
“That we can agree on, chum,” He bitterly stated, “now, no more time to waste.”
Straightening themselves, the Eldritch creature stood tall and waited for Alastor’s plea.
“This may be your final request from me, and as an offering-” The shadow stood taller, facing their fate as they leaned over their master, “-do take what you need from me. And no matter my… condition, do not short yourself.”
With the final declaration of permission, the Shade began to work, pulling upon the Eldritch magic, their eyes glowed, their body simmered with power.
Baring their teeth, they reached out with a claw, dipping it into the gouge that had opened up upon Alastor's chest. Their claws dripped in red as they went through the familiar motions, ancient and well practiced as they began to trace symbols across the man’s body, across the floor and the walls. Their motions were quick and seemingly effortless as they danced from one end of the room to the next, their actions perfected from centuries of practice, in spite of the amended sorcery that Alastor had adapted, a kin of one so ancient, but just as fruitful as its predecessor.
Alastor’s eyes flickered shut as they worked, drifting into the darkness, but the Spirit’s presence was stronger than ever as they danced, inviting Alastor to submerge himself in the shade. They worked until the color of the room matched that which had spilled across the sheets. Until Alastor had no more blood to give. Until he was unable to wake, fully submitted to the pools of darkness, unconscious but breathing.
Then they reached further.
The eldritch stitches snapping as they dug elbow deep into the torso, cracking his rib cage open, tearing into his body. Feeding upon it, scavenging and taking their fill, filling their reserves, the endless pit. They took and took, until they had grown to fill the room, blood dripping from their unhinged jaws. Until their body thrummed with power, and the symbols across the room lit with the familiar unworldly magic, one by one as they were fed.
The room shook and the floorboards creaked as the energy encapsulated the space. Books and mounted bones hit the floor as the walls cracked and bent with the weight of the magic, much too powerful to be kept within the four walls of the bedroom. The gory mass that laid upon the sheets lit up with equally as much power. Symbols burning into the remaining flesh of its victim, scaring him deep into his soul, the ink blotting and poisoning his vitality.
Then it came to an abrupt stop.
The flair of magic dissipated. The room filled with darkness, darker than that of the ocean of Envy and as suffocating as Hell’s fire. The dark pool of nonexistence that he had sunk so deep into, it flooded the living world and marked his body.
Alastor, The Radio Demon, Sinner and Overlord of Hell, had died.
The only sound in the room was the clock that was once hung on the wall above the mahogany desk, a constant and loud ticking as the second hand continued its journey around the minute hand. Persistent even as it had clatter against the desk, the delicate glass that encased the copper parts now cracked and knocked loose from its position. The frame bent and battered. The second hand stuttered and paused upon the 12 o'clock position, but it persisted and, once more, so did the sound.
Tick, tick, tick.
Much like the clock, the room was in disarray. It looked as if a hurricane had come through. Picture frames, books and knick-knacks scattered across the room, knocked down from their places, glass shards laid across the floor, like hot sand on a beach and surely just as painful to step upon. Cracks embedded in the newly refurbished walls and floorboards. And the blood - one would think a massacre had occurred. It looked as if the vibrant shades of red on the walls were painted there, a unique choice in decor. That the room was straight out of a horror picture show, one where their darling victim was found draped across their own bed by her love interest, the perfect bait. A hunter waiting in the shadows for him to approach his princess, turning his back to the dark, only to be violently murdered the moment he does so.
Leaving the ghoul to watch over the enchanted body, their intentions unclear and lacking the morals of mortality. In this case, most certainly, by the eldritch horror who nervously paced the room, who was prepared to lash out without mercy at anyone who tried to break into the room and rescue their darling damsel.
As per usual, their master was correct in his assumption. The Shade was fine . They hadn’t disappeared into the darkness, or been pulled across space. They hadn’t lost their powers, in fact, they had gained some. And for that reason, the Shadow guarded the bloodied bed so attentively. Because the absurd idea of the Sinner had worked.
The Shadow could feel the power of their deal returning to them - their other half. The deal that Alastor had made all those years ago. The power that they had gone without for almost a century, in return receiving endless offering and companionship. They hadn’t missed it, their own pool of power was nearly endless anyhow. But they were taken off guard when the magic had returned to them with interest, and no, though they felt its presence as well, they were not referring to the blasted contract their master had gotten himself into.
Alastor’s power had grown. Perhaps it didn’t take a genius, or in this case a complete power transfer to recognize such a fact, but they had not realized to what extent Alastor had managed to stretch his magic, to use his gift, to develop it. The parallel power was so close to familiar, but so different to their own. It was thrilling and made the Shade hungry for more. If this was what a mere century did, they couldn’t help but wonder about another century from now, or two.
That was if Alastor managed to get through this. If the Shade wasn’t taken down with him. They seethed in annoyance once more at the poor reminder that they were, in fact, tethered to this Demon to not only go through the best of times together, but the worst as well. Arguably, their only regret of being in such a deal. Otherwise, they were kept satisfied, it was worth the risk. And, to be fair, the fact that Alastor’s dead body cooled and congealed on the bed while his Shadow paced the room did bode well for them. They were not as sensitive to Alastor’s ailments as they previously thought to be.
They stilled, a light, almost non-existent, knock sounded at the door. Nervous and hesitant, but loud all the same. That could only be one Demon.
The Shadow melded into the dark, materializing in the shadow of their unwanted guest. Princess Charlotte “Charlie” Morningstar. Heir to the throne of Hell, a hopeless dreamer whose preferred method of torture was that through pure optimism, good deeds and forceful jubilation. A hotel to purge Hell of Sin, to convert Sinner’s from their namesake.
There she stood, dressed in her well ironed hotel uniform, fist lifted and knuckles brushing the wooden door. As untouched as the rest of the hall, no cracks, no blood and no sign of the magic implosion that had happened within those four walls.
They tapped the lady on the shoulder. Amusingly, she jumped and let out a surprised yelp, turning and pressing herself against the door in defense, as if she hadn’t just cornered herself by doing so.
“Oh,” Charlie relaxed slightly at the sight of them, bashfully straightening herself out once more to stare questioningly at the Shade with wide eyes, red as rubies, “Alastor…?”
The Shadow shook their head and pointed upward.
She knitted her eyebrows, “he’s in the radio tower?”
Nodding enthusiastically, they continued to jester, mimicking the action of speaking into a microphone.
“Oh, his radio show! I won’t bother him then, it’s just… we all heard some strange noises coming from upstairs- everyone else is in the parlor, and you know my dad isn’t back until this evening. No one else stays on this floor… or anywhere close to it… so I wanted to see if everything was alright?” She rambled, unconfidently.
The Shadow simply nodded in response.
“Okay! Great, good.” She moved away from the door, “let him know or- just let us know if you, either of you, need anything! I’ll be downstairs, we’re working on an activity for tonight, I’d love it if you joined!”
Instead of acknowledging the request with a response, they simply waved her an abrupt goodbye, ushering her to leave them be. She slumped slightly and gave a sigh, but didn’t retaliate or repeat her invitation. They slipped back under the frame of the door, ensuring it was locked as they did.
After all, they didn’t need any uninvited guests trespassing into the room, especially the Princess. They weren’t quite sure how long this process would take, that was if it were to work properly. They imagined it wouldn’t be completed in one night, and the Princess was well known for her persistent badgering. She knew not to push Alastor, but there was the chance that she would return to ask him once more about the activity, or perhaps another mundane request. However, they couldn’t help but jolt in shock as their gaze turned to the bed that had become the centerpiece of their attention.
They went unseen as they froze against the wall, where a shadow should properly be, observing the scene before them.
Where the body of their master was once, draped out uncomfortably on the bed, mangled and rotting was nothing more than a deeply saturated blanket. Gone was the body. Instead a figure sat off to the side of the bed, groggy and hunched over themselves. Their body lanky and dirty. Fabric of ruined clothing much too big for their smaller frame. And their profile is much too human for Hell. Brown hair sweeping messily across their forehead, cut short, but it didn’t prevent the ends from curling with the humidity. They had a sharp jawline and a long face, a slim nose to match. Their eyes are dark brown, thick eyelashes and brows- darker than that of their hair. Their skin was close to a deep tan. Long limbs and piano fingers that clenched at their chest as if they were having trouble breathing.
With a shock, the Shadow realized who they were, because this wasn’t merely a look-a-like, this was a human. A human who resembled Alastor’s own human form much too closely, or what they remembered of it. A silhouette that they hadn’t gazed upon in decades.
They jumped into action, crossing the room from their hiding spot amongst the wall. The figure on the bed jumped back as a clawed hand reached out to him, flattening against his upper chest before the human could do anything. Magic flowing through their form into the human, allowing him to breathe in the hot and sulfuric air of Hell, allowing their skin not to burn and blister with the unforgiving atmosphere.
With a gasp the Human’s body straightened, rigid, eyes wide as he finally took in his surroundings, starting with the Shadow who had helped him. His eyes squinted at the mass, the Shadow's own form changing to match that of the human, and a glint of recognition appeared in his face. With that, the Shadow’s suspicions were confirmed.
His master was alive. Alastor was alive. Much too alive .
Gone was his demonic features, everything that he had become when he first landed in Hell. No more looming, gaunt figure, no more sharp claws and sharper teeth. Long gone was the deer-like features and red eyes. Blackened skin and inhuman bone-breaking stance. The Alastor they were looking at was about a foot and a half shorter then he once was. Certainly nothing to scoff at, he was still considered tall by human standards, but to see him now in clothes much too large for him, sitting on a bed meant for a creature that was more than seven feet in height, it was a stark difference. He looked small.
“Y-you!” And it was a shock to hear that voice once more, gone was the radio static that unconsciously followed him, the filter that he precariously spoke through, the Shadow stood taller at being addressed in such a way, with such a voice that he hadn’t heard in years, one that went without it’s carefully concealed emotions, “but- what? What is this?”
Oh. That didn’t sound very promising. Not the fact that he was asking such questions, though a tad strange, they didn’t blame him for being somewhat shocked. They had seen a lot, but this had them surprised as well. It was the fact that it wasn’t shock, but confusion, complete and utter confusion and a pinch of fright.
That was not very Alastor like, at least not the Alastor they had come to know, that had come to be.
Then he asked something that made the Shadow want to weep or laugh, “am I dead?”
Or both. How had Alastor not thought of this to be the outcome? It was blatantly obvious now that they thought about it. What would happen when one attempted to ritualistically pull all the demonic energy from another? What would be left? From when he first fell into Hell, the seed was planted, from the reconstruction of his physical body to the corruption of his soul the demonic energy had fed from, it had taken root.
To take that away… they could only imagine one other outcome. An outcome where Alastor’s soul would have ceased to exist, that it would become consumed by the darkness that it had been transferred to. Otherwise, this made so much sense, that he would revert back to a time where his body and soul hadn’t touched the demonic energy of Hell. To where it could withstand the angelic poisoning because there was no demonic energy left to fight it. To where the angelic energy worked in a human’s favor- because Alastor was moving, breathing, standing, without an ounce of pain . The scent of fresh blood no longer filled the air. How interesting.
They supposed it made sense, angelic weaponry was made not to harm living beings, as they had not been judged a Sinner or a Winner yet. It would go against heavenly law to harm a living human. They doubted angelic energy could do so, in fact, the most that it could do would be a heavenly miracle. They didn’t think such a thing existed, however, the human was unharmed.
They were left to assume the angelic energy had not been affected by the incantation. Evidently, the Shadow could not feel anything angelic within the essence that had been transferred to them, the demonic energy that they now held. A being as dark as himself would have a difficult time processing the power of an angel.
Similarly to Alastor, their kind tended to avoid Angels. As much as this particular Shade had put on a wonderful performance during their time on Earth, they were not in fact that of the Holy kind. Alastor had known that from the beginning… it hadn’t stopped him though. One of the things that intrigued them about this particular human.
Even now, with no memories of his life in Hell, Alastor did not look at them in fear. He looked at them with trust and desperation, that they would provide him with the answer he desperately wanted. It was all so amusing, the Shadow was reminded of just why they couldn’t keep away from this human, why they stuck around, why they wouldn’t simply take Alastor’s power for their own and leave this human to figure himself out or die trying.
This was shaping to be a masterful show of entertainment. Their partner never failed to please. They grinned sharply and laughed.
Welcome to Hell!