Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

HD, sounding and teabagging are all terms Alastor has learned after his first week’s stay at the Hotel. 

HD – high definition – is a type of video camera quality. The quality Charlotte and her partner requested Alastor film the Hotel’s video advertisement in.

Sounding is a… sexual process involving the urethra of a man’s penis.

Teabagging is yet another sexual term. He refuses to recall its definition.

He is not happy about any of his newfound knowledge.

Especially the latter terms. Why cretins, damned or not, have to make every word have a sexual connotation is beyond Alastor. It does not help that Angel finds ways to use them that somehow conceals their depraved definitions.

“Teabag is a noun, my good fellow, using it as a verb is unfit for this, or any, context,” followed by a disgustingly graphic explanation is going to make Alastor deface the Hotel’s entire lobby one of these days.

He would’ve sent Angel on a little hiking trip if it weren’t for that being against everything Charlotte stands for. While Alastor himself is allowed to partake in the Hotel’s betterment without seeking redemption, much like Husker, Niffty, and, quite frankly, Angel Dust (so, everyone), he is strictly Not Allowed to harm the staff (plural) and resident (singular).

However, any sadism he partakes in outside of the hotel’s associates, though frowned upon by her highness, is still on-the-table.

Not like violence done to those outside of the establishment resolves his gripes with the spider. Angel Dust has already tricked Alastor into learning two horrendous terms, and Alastor can tell he has nefarious plans for tricking Alastor into learning more unpleasantries. 

He and Husker are Angel’s only sexual harassment victims due to the his homosexual nature, but it persists because they’re easily provoked. Husker’s reactions, to Alastor's benefit, are typically more theatrical. So, Husker bears the brunt of it. Unfortunately, that hasn't taken Alastor off the hook. And it's not like it doesn't get a large rouse out of Alastor, either.

That fact will not change. Alastor puts on many facades, but tolerating this hypersexuality that plagues sinners is a line that needs not be crossed. 

For this, he avoids Angel Dust. 

That’s not to say Alastor has taken the abuse without retaliation. Angel is soon going to have a frustratingly difficult time keeping his drug stashes hidden from a certain moth demon. And there may or may not be a rotting talisman beneath the spider’s floor that may or may not attract the resident rat’s nest.

All in all, Angel’s time at the Hotel will be nothing short of miserable if he fails to learn Alastor is not to be trifled with.

Well! Other than pulling said silly little pranks on the Hotel’s residents, which Alastor has done his fair share of without provocation – It is just too laughably easy to ruin the moth demon’s day –, it has been a rather uneventful week. 

Alastor’s contributions to the Hotel’s reparations began and ended with him summoning his shadows to perform the physical labour. Now, all left to do is wait until his shadowmen complete the task –which they are doing splendidly! One week and the Hotel is looking much better. It is no longer a vertical vineyard, and the first three stories have been completely patched up. Their exterior, at least. The first floor was previously fixed up by the Princess and her companion, but the other floors require a total overhaul to be rendered functional. 

The night of day one, Miss Morningstar appointed him one of said first-floor rooms. He reckoned resisting would lead to incessant nagging, so he agreed. To her delight, it is now refurbished to his liking and home to his wardrobe and other inconsequential belongings. He even attached his Bayou-themed hideaway there! Unfortunately, Charlotte and Vaggie ( what a putrid name ) were both too disturbed by its contents to accept a tour.

Despite all that, he spends little time there. The Princess has made it habit to barge into the abodes of those she has business with. And locking a door doesn’t prevent her from obnoxiously knocking until she elicits a response.

So, if not running errands, he spends his time in his radio shack. 

Its addition was the only refurbishment Alastor himself took charge of, and it was quick work. Just a simple warping of the studio and a crude support structure nailed to the Hotel’s Eastern wall. 

He didn’t bother adding a physical entrance to the studio from the Hotel. Niffty no longer needed access for cleaning the remnants of a daring broadcast, and it was best off-limits to the other residents. Namely, the Princess.

That is where he was now, lounging as he drank his morning coffee. The smell of sweet cedar wafted through the room as jazz played from one of Alastor’s many radios. He basked in the comforting familiarity as he overlooked Pentagram City. 

There was no sun, but the hellscape changes brightness in a crude day-night cycle imitation. Right now, when the sky turns from a dark mulberry to a blood red with amber hues, was the closest you could get to earth's brilliant sunrises. From this height the heart of the city could be seen, albeit just a distant speck illuminated by the morning light.

Views like this were rare. 

Alastor stayed like this for a while, appreciating the sight and his coffee, until far, far off in the distance, the weary gait of a trudging shadowman stole his attention. 

There’s the long-expected arrival. 

He had been faintly worried the shadow had failed its task, with how long its escapade took. 

On day two, Charlotte proposed that Alastor, appointed hotelier, make a video advertisement for the Hotel’s cause. Repulsed, he had suggested a radio advertisement, which Vaggie vehemently refused. No reassurances could dispel her fear that Alastor would intermittently promote the Hazbin Hotel between anguished screams. 

Not that that wouldn’t be an effective advertisement campaign!

In the end Alastor relented to their ridiculous request, bid them adieu, and then neglected the task in favour of running some errands.

The advertisement itself was filmed on day three. It took Alastor no more than a half-hour. Even then, it was five minutes of filming preluded by twenty five minutes of figuring out how to use the damned photo box without his presence destroying its functionality. He ran through half a dozen of the cursed items before managing to even turn one on.

He inherently disliked the task, and the technological difficulties did nothing but cement his apathy towards the final product’s quality. Not that he didn’t add his natural charisma and flair! But an effective infomercial he did not make. 

As for editing, Alastor would not touch that feat with a ten-foot pole. He's sure learning the needed technological skills would result in him destroying half of the city in a fit of rage. So, naturally, he summoned a shadow to do it for him. 

His shadows can only mirror skills Alastor himself possesses, but shoving his responsibilities onto others is one of his most practised abilities. So, he plopped the camera into a shadowman’s hand and booted it out to the city with instruction to find someone– anyone not associated with the Vees– to edit the silly video. 

Seeing how that was four days ago, the shadow must have had quite an adventure. He suspected it was majorly spent seeking a videographer who doesn’t have some sort of connection to Vox and co. Idiots they are, they have a universal chokehold on Hell’s media industry.

His detestation for the video arts has already been long decided, but this experience was the proverbial nail in the coffin. Where was the authenticity? Editing , how preposterous. With this video nonsense you could put any nobody behind the camera. Their performing capabilities not capped by their own skill, but instead the editor’s. 

On the radio – before it, too, was infected by this plague – it was all one-take, as it should be! Alastor put a great deal into perfecting his image, so to speak. Changing his lexicon, perfecting his accent, extensive networking – it took tremendous effort to have a face fit for radio! 

Even for his earthly pastimes as a hobbyist musician. There was no relying on fixing it up in-post. No, any mistakes were for all to hear and ridicule! Thus, discipline and confidence was essential.

The best musicians recorded their arts once and only once, if at all. They knew their creations like the back of their hand, after all! Imagine getting to see the great Cab Calloway, only to find that he needs five takes and a shoddy compiler to create a good product. Heavens, that would be terrible! The rest of Hell certainly did not share the same mindset, however, with how rampant the broadcasting of mediocre individuals has become.

Well, it's pointless to let such silly little realities folly his mood! He ended his train of thought in favour of appreciating the view and his morning brew.

—

Alastor finished his coffee once the shadow had completed its trek to the front door. He teleported his dirty mug to the kitchen and warped himself to the lobby to commemorate its arrival. 

“Hello my good fellow!” Alastor took the video camera, pleased to see that it was just as proper as when Alastor first manifested it. Impressive. “Great job out there!” Alastor made note to use this shadow more often before dismissing it to its realm of darkness.

He walked over to the bar and set the camera down with a thud, disturbing the sleeping bartender.  

Husker, curled up on a stool behind the bar, was hunched over the counter with his head buried between his arms. His ears twitched in Alastor's direction.

“Hello Husker! Up bright and early, are you?”

Husker, unamused, did not reply. 

Alastor had ordered for him to be on bartending duties starting at 6:00 am sharp every day.

He paid no mind to the lack of a reaction, “Care to update me on the Princess's location on this fine Hellish morning?”

Husk grumbled and raised his head to squint at the lobby’s grandfather clock, “It’s six ten , she doesn’t get up this early.”

"..." Radio chatter faintly played as Alastor waited for a continuation. This hour was early for most, but not all.

Husk sighed, returning his head to rest between his arms, “ … her girlfriend’s in the gardens out back.” Husker’s tail swished in the direction of Hotel’s side entrance.

“Wonderful!” Alastor pushed the camera until it pressed against Husker’s fur, “Take care of this while I’m gone.”

Husker peeked at the offending object, before looping a finger around the camera’s strap. “Heh…" the cat's eyes flicked onto Alastor, "Can’t believe they got you to do something like this.”

Husker had no tells, but Alastor knew his property well enough to know when it was fishing for puzzle pieces. 

“Well, you know what they say: can’t teach an old dog new tricks! And I could never render myself comparable to such a detestable creature!”

Husk stared at Alastor, still fiddling with the strap.

Funny, Husker’s biggest tell was his lack thereof. 

“Well! I’m off to collect Miss Vaggie. Do inform Charlotte of the advertisement’s completion if she comes to,” Alastor said as he walked away from the bartender. “And do try to keep up appearances! Don’t want to soil the reputation of the Hotel to its copious populous!” Alastor gestured to the grand lobby, empty save for his radio’s laugh track.

Husker replied with a grumble and returned to his beauty sleep.

With that, Alastor walked out into the back gardens. 

There isn't enough foliage to be properly considered a garden , but the area holds great potential. With some seeds and patience, this place could grow to rival the royal gardens. Not in size, but in quality.

He walked between empty flower beds, boots sinking into the red hellgrass, until he reached the end of the hill. There, he stood next to the trunk of one of the garden’s few trees.

In the valley below, Vaggie was training.

Limbs like the wind, she moved with a fluidity that contrasted her brutish personality. 

Rife with passion and vengeance, she trained like she was surrounded on all sides, mercilessly cutting down surrounding foes. 

…With her angelic spear. 

(( very very interesting ))

Those who can hold their enemies close, and their angelic weaponry closer. As powerful they are, the tools hold no loyalty, their immense power always capable of being turned against oneself. 

Vaggie is no different, her spear never left unattended.

But this… 

Alastor did not know a single soul that would dare train their arts with a pure angelic weapon, no matter their skill level. One mishap all it takes for a fatal wound. 

But there Vaggie was, twirling the spear in profound arcs, footwork and spearwork in perfect unison. She cut, slashed and stabbed invisible foes, moves as unpredictable as they were coordinated.

It was an unquestionably impressive display. 

And he supposed it was not surprising the Princess would have angelic connections other than her Father.

He dematerialised and danced along her shadow, waiting for the perfect time to strike.

( Alastor, in both his lives, was never the type to govern his decisions based on mere suspicion. )

His previous position was downwind of her, so it wasn’t until she performed a precarious jump with her back to the tree that he appeared behind her and announced his presence, “Good morning dear Vaggie!”

Broken out of her trance, her head whipped around, losing her footing as the spear slipped from her fingers.

“Shit!”

Vaggie fumbled for her weapon, almost falling in the process. 

She was facing away from him when she regained hold of her spear, but it made no difference. Eyes unfocused, he relied on olfaction. 

Using the breeze as guidance, he sidestepped so Vaggie was directly upwind of him. And to his delight, under the smell of woodlands and city smoke, a sickly sweet aroma wafted from her direction.

Just a glance…

A speck of gold was all he needed to see. 

“ Este pendejo. Alastor.” She spat out, spinning around to defensively point the spear at him. “What do you want?”

Heavens, just a little scare, and she is positively fuming! He supposed she wasn’t used to defiant figures such as he. Or perhaps angels were too stuck up to find camaraderie in a good lark. 

He closed his eyes and slowly walked in a circle around her, keeping track of her speartip through its emitted heat and magic. He never failed to remain wary around her and her weapon. It was unlikely, but there was always the possibility of her foolishly attempting to kill him.

“I am simply here to inform you of the advertisement’s completion!”

Like a cornered animal, she vehemently kept the spear pointed at him as he circled her. “You couldn’t wait thirty minutes? I was in the middle of training.”

“Well, you have been incessantly pestering me about its progress, so I saw fit to update you in a timely manner!”

“ Maldito imbécil, sé que no te importa una mierda este hotel. Yo cago en la puto leche de tu madre —Ugh!” she slashed the ground with the spear in frustration, “I’ll go get Charlie.” She glared at him, “It better be good, or so help me I will kill you.”

Alastor did not like that statement coming from an angel.

“Do try, my dear, I do love blowing off steam by devouring lowly sinners!"

“UGHH!” She turned and stomped away.

—

Their viewing party didn’t end up happening until after noon. Vaggie had taken her time fetching Charlotte, and, once up, the Princess insisted on waiting so everyone could watch it together. Niffty didn’t take long to come to, but Angel Dust isn’t the type to greet the dawn with a smile… or any time before noon, for that matter.

It wasn't until everyone had convened around the television that Alastor began the video.

…

It was a wonderful mess. 

The video was assuredly not high-definition and the camerawork was nauseatingly shaky –( what is the point of editing if such problems are not fixed ). The only crisp aspect was Alastor’s voice, clear as it would be over his normal medium.

Alastor himself was focused on Vaggie’s expression contorting further and further into one of pure rage; it was far more entertaining than the advertisement. 

Once the video finished, Alastor clicked the television off with his staff, “So, what do you think?”

Vaggie jumped to respond, “I'm sorry. What the fuck was that?”

Charlotte, unaware of he and Vaggie’s earlier interaction, put a calming hand on her partner’s shoulder, “Uh, Yeah… One note. Alastor, I mean, first off, thank you so much for making this. But um, maybe the tone is a bit off. We want people to want to come here. This makes it look, um… ”

“ Bad ,” Vaggie finished, “The word you're looking for is bad .”

“Funny. I was going for hilarious,” Alastor mused.

“It didn't explain anything about how we're trying to save demons from extermination, which is the whole fucking point," Vaggie was quick to retort,  " And you bothered me this morning for –”

“Vaggie is right,” Charlotte interrupted, oblivious to the true magnitude of her partner’s annoyance, “Alastor, the commercial was to let sinners know we are trying to help them.”

“Well, my dear, I haven't been active in hell for some time and everyone remembers me from my radio show, the proper medium to express oneself. But, you insisted on this noisy picture box advertisement,” He pointedly glanced at Vaggie, “So, I had a little fun with it.”

The moth just about lost it, “Oh, fun ? You had a little fun with it?” She stood, hand movements intensifying as she got more worked up. “This is not what we want to represent us. When you showed up here a week ago, you told us you would help run this hotel. Instead, you're mocking us. Nobody's gonna wanna come to a place that a powerful overlord like you thinks is a waste of time!” Before Alastor could reply, her attention was stolen by Angel Dust’s raised hand. “What.”

“If you're filming a commercial…” Angel started. Alastor didn’t enjoy listening to Angel Dust’s antics, so he thought about Other Things, only zoning back into the conversation when the spider pointed at him.

“I swear– if you film me going at it with Mr. Fancy talk creepy voice here, you'd be rolling in participants willing to stay at this tacky hotel.”

And this is why Angel is not to be listened to.

“Ha! Never going to happen.” Alastor shot one of Angel’s coke stashes into oblivion.

“Angel, I appreciate you wanting to use your special skills to, um, attract folks to the hotel, but I really don't want to exploit you in that way… ?” Charlotte explained.

“Oh, please , baby. This body was made to be exploited. I got the arms, I got the stamina, I got the legs. I got the lung capacity,” Angel laughed, “Oh, I got the legs. The gag reflex, the holes, the chest fluff everyone thinks are tits…”

Charlotte chuckled nervously in response, saved from having to formulate a response by her phone ringing, “Hold that thought! I'll be right back.”

She walked to the other side of the room as she took the call. 

Angel and Vaggie continued their conversation, and Alastor pretended to listen as he eavesdropped on the Princess' call.

“Hello? Dad?”

“Heyyyyy Charlie!”

From this distance, her Father’s voice was muffled, but Alastor suppressed his ears’ urge to turn to better hear his words. He didn't know Lucifer's perceptive abilities, and Alastor wouldn’t dare risk getting caught tapping into their conversation with his powers. Though muted, what he could hear was sufficient.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Soooo,,,, — —en up to?”

“Oh– Uh– I’m working on my Hotel! Um, I don't know if you saw the interview I had about it on the news?”

“Hm?”

“Ha ha, It’s better if you didn’t anyways… It was kind of a mess. But uhm yeah! It’s a Hotel for rehabilitating sinners! I think it’ll really work! I don’t, uh, know if it will, but I have faith! We have a resident, too! And a few staff members… uh… don’t worry about who they are –But we’ve been using this old hotel Mom used to run! We’re in the process of fixing it up and it already looks a lot better!”

“Mhm mhm… That sounds great, honey.”

—Angel gesturing towards Alastor pulled his attention back to he and Vaggie's conversation. “Hey, I have a question. If freaky face over there is so powerful, then why can't he just make people stay here?”

—“Does it?” Charlotte replied to her Father. —

Still focused on Charlie’s conversation, he replied to Angel to keep up appearances, “Oh, trust me,” his antlers grew, illuminated by green magic, “I can~”—

“Uhm, nevermind. So… Dad… What did you call for?”

“Ah, well, Heaven reached out to me for a meeting, and I was thinking maybe… you could do it? You know, I have Important Things going on and, uh. Well, you know how I feel about meeting with Heaven.” 

“Really?! Are you serious?”

“Oh! Uh, if there's a problem I’ll do it.”

“No no no, this is perfect! A meeting with Heaven?! Oh my gosh! I can show them my plans for rehabilitation! Maybe even get them to delay the extermination!”

“Sounds great, honey!”

“When’s the meeting?”

“Ah! … Yeah, about that… They requested the meeting a few days ago, and it totally slipped my mind until now… It’s uh, It’s today . Right now today. Is that fine? You would have to go to the Embassy now.”

“No, no! That’s fine. Yeah, I can totally, yeah. I'll head over there right away. Okay?”

She hung up the call.

“Yes…YES!” Charlotte ran over and grabbed Vaggie's shoulders, “Vaggie! Holy shit!”

“Ah! What?”

Charlotte explained what Alastor had already heard to her girlfriend, her excitement building as she did so.

It was foolish of the King to send his daughter to Heaven, for any reason. Much less so just because he was “busy” .

It filled Alastor with rage. 

The King of Hell , afraid of a little bureaucracy? Too overwhelmed with the notion of facing his brethren, so he instead sends his daughter into the fray?  

Life is a game of politics and deception. Avoiding that fact is futile. No wonder Heaven had gotten away with enforcing the yearly exterminations, if The Lucifer himself was this spineless.

Leaving Charlotte in charge was no better. Her negotiating skills left much to be desired; too naive to understand the vicious mechanics that compose others. 

Vaggie tried to talk some sense into Charlotte, but to no avail, the Princess dead set on diving into the meeting with no further precaution. 

The residents could only watch as Charlotte gallivanted out of the Hotel, starting her trek to the inner city for Heaven's meeting.

Alastor was sure it would go terribly.

The City’s outskirts are manageable. 

The rest of Hell is far too loud.

Unending screaming matches, territorial brawls, cries of pain – or is it pleasure ? – proves to be very overwhelming. Especially when one’s hearing is that of a young deer.

In the forest his hearing is a blessing. One snap of a twig and, oh! There’s dinner! –It does wonders for keeping his hunger at bay. But such neuro-filtering fails him outside of said environment. The city has far too many steps, too many cars, too many unnatural noises finding too much purchase in his brain.

Well, nothing a little conditioning can’t fix! Can’t integrate into society if unable to handle the noise, of all things! 

Thus, he was exploring one of the marketplaces. There was a fair amount of bustle as sinners haggled prices, but it was a walking area, and he appreciated the lack of vehicles and their noise. 

He never thought he’d be able to oh so clearly hear each stroke of an engine. It was abhorrently unpleasant.

Speaking of unpleasantries, his eyes landed on a group of shark-looking sinners. Their dapper suits poorly concealed their gun holsters, to which he cringed. Alastor was here to better his sound tolerance – discluding gunshots.

On first venture to the inner city, he had had the pleasure of witnessing a shootout. It had left his ears ringing for days.

Alastor quickly put distance between himself and the gang. Fights were bound to break out wherever you were in Hell, but he had yet to encounter such malarkey on this day. He would like it to stay that way.

While walking past, a wallet dangling from one the sharks' pockets piqued his interest. Hell’s use of money was surprising – very contrarian to what he thought of it before. Why, his mortal self never would have thought Hell was ordered enough to be plagued by the horrors of economy!

A few paces later, loan sharks well behind him, Alastor had an inexplicable urge to hold his right hand out. Not thinking much of it, he obliged, holding it out in expectation of receiving an item. Once he did, a black tendril dropped the aforementioned wallet into his hands.

Interesting.

He tucked it away and hurried his walk.

Among many things, the tendrils were new. 

While they were not as bothersome as his other powers, they were certainly the most peculiar. It was a strange phenomenon: controlling them was simultaneously second-nature and resolutely impossible. They work as an extension of his body for interacting with the world, but offer no sensational input. Apart from visual cues, he is unable to determine their movements. And controlling their position conveniently disappears whenever he consciously focuses on it. Many times he’s called upon this power only for it to escape his grasp like flowing water.

This was the first time it had ever worked. 

So that's the mechanistics. Just want and they will perform.

He turned a corner into a connective alley. Safe from the shark pod's gaze, he thought about the wallet once more. 

Felt it weighing down his jacket pocket.

Eyes closed and hand held out in front of him, he wanted .

The pocket's weight disappeared and, moments later, his hand curled around an object.

He smiled and entered the new marketplace, twirling the pickpocketed wallet between his fingers.

Radio chittering, satisfaction bloomed in his chest.

How rewarding.

– 

It was an aimless walk, but he made good fun of stealing trinkets here and there with his tendrils. Secretly swiping sinners’ prized possessions and sending them off to timbuktu was deliciously fun (if it caused several brawls in his wake, well… Alastor was none-the-wiser). This continued until the marketplace became dilapidated apartments, and further until the scenery became that of pastel townhouses.

Cannibal Town. 

The cutesy hand-painted sign contrasted the county’s menacing name.

Alastor had no doubt the words were true (a town of people-eaters was far from outlandish in this new world) and he proceeded with caution.

A group of sinners looked over as he entered the town’s borders. He sent them a smile and they reciprocated, all bearing pearly canines flecked with blood.

Cannibals, no doubt. Friendly cannibals.

Several congregations of them littered the street, and the sound of laughter rang throughout many jovial conversations. There were even youngsters running amok, steering clear of the older sinners as they roughhoused in the streets. 

Surprisingly human, it reminded him of New Orleans. 

It helped that this bunch shared similar features, more so than Alastor had seen. He himself was the only one bearing animalistic features in sight, and he was already fairly humanoid compared to most sinners. The cannibals looked far from human, what with their universally washed out skin tones, razor-sharp teeth and inky depths for eyes, but it was a surprising consistency.

He continued wandering, sharing many good afternoon's and occasional small-talk with the frolicking cannibals as he did so. 

Soon enough, a little corner shop labelled The Sewy Spot : bespoke tailoring caught his attention. He was in desperate need of a new suit.

He thumbed the wallet once more, peering inside at the green papers. There were enough bills to be considered a fair amount by Louisiana’s standards, but he has yet to learn Hell’s currency system. 

Well, no harm in finding out!

A bell rang as his tendril opened the door, and the smell of dusty mildew wafted from within. The building was dark, and a faint buzzing emanated from the dim lights. 

Near the back of the small shop sat a short sinner reading at the register’s counter. Light brown hair styled in neat finger waves that flowed into an updo. Her skin and eyes were of the same dull and inky black as the other Cannibals, and her smell of daisies contrasted the shop’s musk. 

The sinner paid no mind to him, too busy reading a book at the counter. His eye twitched at the blatant laziness, but he ultimately ignored her severe lack of customer service. He could do with silence as he perused the shop’s displays.

He walked up to the counter. Behind it was a wall displaying a variety of fabrics types. Satin, matte, wool, none of them looked short of high-quality. The desk itself was wooden with a glass top protecting several pricing charts. 

The shop owner still hadn’t looked up from her book.

“Greetings, madame!” Not bothering to interpret the prices, he opened the wallet and tipped it in her direction, “This enough for a custom work?”

“Hm?” it took her a moment to peer into it from over her novel. Once she did, she released a bout of laughter, “You must be new here! That’s a hefty sum you’ve got there! –” 

How frightfully convenient! This day is shaping up quite nicely.

“ –How’d you wind up with something like that?”

His smile sharpened, “Oh, nowhere important. And, yes! I am new to this realm. Getting quite sick of this decadent attire of mine, I may say. Much too hole-y for me!” A laugh track accompanied his barked laughter.

“Ha! Well, you've come to the right place. Edith Franklin, at your service!" she leaned over the counter, book foregone. "You good with it right now? A suit, correct? Same way you’ve got right now– two-piece, three-by-two, notch lapels? 

He nodded in response to her rapid fire questions. 

“All-righty!” she ushered him to stand on a pedestal at the side of the reception desk. “What is that, half-lining? Here, gimme your jacket.”

None of the previous carelessness in sight! She really is eager to get down to business.

He shrugged off his suit jacket and handed it to her. Franklin didn’t seem to mind its multiple tears.  

How dreadful to have been seen wearing such atrocious clothes! He shuddered.

“Okay, okay. Pinstripe. No vents. Some padding, moderate taper…” she waved her arm at him “Take the rest of your garments off while I do this, I’ll take your measurements soon.” 

Franklin continued inspecting the jacket, Alastor observing her movements as he made no move to follow her orders. 

This, she noticed, “Garments off , I work custom, boy. Bespoke . I need your exact measurements.”

Giving up his jacket was a rarity. He was still wearing a dress shirt and two undershirts, but he felt exposed enough. “Ha ha! That is fine, take the measurements over my current attire. Any needed modifications will be my burden. I am quite the seamstress, I’ll have you know.”

She glared at him. “That’s not how I work, bud.”

His smile tightened, voice a symphony of piercing frequencies, “It is not a suggestion, dearie.”

Her movements paused. 

“Alright, fine !” She pointed up at him, inky eyes piercing his, “But I’m charging you extra, you can clearly afford it.” She turned back to continue fiddling with the jacket. “And you better do a good job fixing it up later– I can’t have you ruin my reputation by parading around town in a subpar two-piece.”

“I assure you, there is nothing to worry about!”

She huffed, and they got started.

–

Tailoring, at its core, relies on physical contact of some kind. Ample communication and sufficient warning was essential for his earthly tailor fittings. To Franklin, however, this is “not how she works,” and she seemed to relish in testing his tolerance for physical touch. 

He didn’t bite Franklin's head off because one, she was an impeccable tailor, if not incredibly rude; and two, possibly picking a fight with all of Cannibal Town, however big or small, was not something he was willing to risk. 

But gee! She really was a tailor like no other. Partly due to her sex – all suitmakers he’d had previous were men – but predominantly due to her prowess. Three appointments and two fittings was the typical for a suit's creation. But here he stood, crimson worsted wool striped with cerise accents hugging his figure. Underneath the overcoat he bore a broadcloth dress shirt, cerise as well, with a maroon petrine cross embroidered on its breast (This addition was non-negotiable, Franklin insisting that the symbol down here is pseudo-patriotic and unassociated with Saint Peter). All of this coupled with maroon dress pants completed his rather pleasing hellish appearance.

The outfit was created at a speed like no other. After taking his upper body’s measurements – a process saturated with much bickering and thinly veiled threats – she took to creating the garments. Fabrics and threads had flown to her from all directions. Dozens of tools appeared at her command for her use while countless others performed their own separate tasks. 

He was tremendously curious as to how she could simultaneously control so many objects. So much so he almost asked What’s the trick? He’s made leaps in controlling a singular tendril just this day, but attempts to achieve higher feats still made his head spin. 

He ultimately refrained from exposing his inexperience. Practice is what it boils down to, anyways.

Now back behind the counter, she was back to her grouchy self. No more flamboyance as she furiously scribbled out the price of her tailoring services. She ripped out the notepad’s paper and slammed it down. “This’ll cost ya six stacks. Half-o what ya’ve got in there,” Franklin said, nodding at the wallet. 

He handed her the wallet with a smile, “Keep the change! For your wonderful hospitality.”

“Ha! I’m not about to owe you nothin’.” She took the needed amount and attempted to shove the remaining money back into his hands. He refused by backing away from the counter, arms tucked behind his back.

Static reverberated, and his smile glowed.

“ Threatening me to take your money?” 

“ …”

The lights flickered and buzzed alongside Alastor.

“Fine, if you so insist!” She glared and made a show of putting the bills into her register.

He laughed “I never threatened anyone! And the money is in better hands with you. No strings attached.”

“Good to hear and I’ll quote you on that. But I won’t accept nothing like this again. I’m not some poor sinner beggin’ for scraps.”

“I assure you, that was not my intention.”

“Yeah, yeah. Interesting character you are. Anywho, still exploring Cannibal Town? You obviously haven’t made your way to the cream of the crop. Go on down that way –” she pointed to her right, “and go to Rosie’s Emporium . She’s a good friend of mine.”

“Duly noted. Thank you for your wonderful services, Miss Franklin. This will not be the last you see of me!”

“I don’t care.” She settled back in her chair and picked up her novel, “Now get! Scram!”

He chuckled and made his way out.

—

(( The streets were empty. No cannibals to be seen.

Unfocus. Listen. 

The breeze.

Mechanical whirring.

A creak. 

Whispers.

Eyes flit. 

Shadows cower.

He was being watched. ))

—

The emporium was a fine dining shop, of sorts. 

The building’s architecture matched the town’s pastel rouge theme, and its interior was lit by natural light through its grandiose windows. There was a large array of products on display: clothes, books, artwork, but the star of the show was most definitely the food.

The shop smelled like a bakery, despite the array of meat products proudly displayed. Faceskin charcuterie, eyeball hor d'oeuvres, fried “pork” belly – It was nothing short of overt. 

Alastor only took a small gander at the shop's offerings before a voice rang out. “Why, hello there!” He looked over at the reception desk in the middle of the shop, there sat a sinner, face shadowed by her large brimmed hat, “Welcome to the Emporium, and welcome to Cannibal Town!”

“Hello and good afternoon! Miss Rosie, or so I’ve heard?”

“In the flesh! And your name is?”

“Alastor Lacroix, pleasure to be meeting you!” he said as he walked to the counter. She was tall, taller than him, and her eyes had a depth of shine to it that the other cannibals’ hadn’t. “What a fine shop you have here, Miss Rosie! Quite an inviting atmosphere.”

“Oh, you flatter me. What brings you to my shop on this fine afternoon Mr. Lacroix?”

“I’m afraid I’m quite new here, Miss. Both to Hell and this wonderful town!”

“Oh goody! It’s always fun showing newcomers around! Fancy a cup of tea?”

“No thank you.” 

“Suit yourself. ” She popped behind the counters’ curtains, for a moment before her head peeked out, “How about coffee?”

He considered it. “If it is no bother.”

“Heh. Knew it,” She winked before ducking behind the curtains once more. 

Alastor kept his arms folded behind his back. 

There were four large windows behind his person. 

Even without confirming it with a glance, he had no doubts that it allowed a dozen gazes keep their eyes on him. 

Once the aroma of a fresh brew wafted from within, Rosie reemerged with a tea tray. “Follow me.”

She led them to one of the building’s tables for two. He glanced back at the desk, empty now that Rosie had left her post. “Tuesdays are slow.” she explained with a wave, “I doubt anyone else’ll come in.” 

Mmhm.

She sat down and he followed suit, sinking a few inches into the chair’s lush padding. 

“I see you’re wearing some of Franklin’s work! Good decision, young man,” she declared as they both got comfortable.

He preened at her acknowledgements. “Yes! I was in desperate need of new garments, and she is quite skilled.” It really did feel much better walking around in appropriately untarnished attire. 

“That she is! Best tailor in Pride, I’ll tell ya! Oh, too little sinners know of the talent my people have. They see Cannibal Town and get frightened right off! How silly– we don’t eat folks without getting to know them first!” She giggled and took a sip of her tea. “Eh,” she shrugged, “at least it means we know any visitors have a common interest,” she said, giving him a knowing look. 

Oh, whatever could she be implying!

“Well, my Mother always taught me not to judge others,” he replied, feigning obliviousness.

“Ohoho! Your Mother must have been a good one, raising a young man as polite as you.” Her fingers tapped against her teacup, “Though, it is rare I receive visitors that aren’t interested, to say the least. So humour me.”

“Well…” he picked up his cup of coffee, foregoing the available sugar and cream. “I seem to have been rebirthed with… certain tendencies.”

Rosie threw back a laugh, “And there it is! You newbies, always so shy about it. So what if you eat a person from time to time? Meat is meat! People just love making a big deal of it. Maybe there wouldn’t be so many cannibals if people didn’t run their mouths so much.”

“Hm. I’m surprised to hear Hell’s inhabitants have problems with such practices.”

“Oh, tell me about it! A sinner could massacre a whole block of people, and then turn around and judge me for making a bit of human stew. All the while they let their victims rot out in the street. How wasteful!”

“I suppose sinners are all human at the end of the day. Everyone needs some reason to think they’re better than their neighbours.”

“Ha, yes! Can’t escape the moral hierarchies people like to put in place.”

6“There’s always someone around the corner to blame for your misfortune.”

“Exactly!" She took another pause, giving him a sly look. "I like you, kid.”

It was one part endearing, one part unsettling. 

( He can see in the corner of his eye that the streets are still empty.

He still feels their eyes on him. )

"Likewise." His grin is genuine.

The conversation comes to a natural pause and they both take the opportunity to sip their drinks.

The coffee was bitter, just how he likes it.

"If I may…"

"Go on," she replied, beckoning him with a pinky.

"There is one thing I have been curious about since my arrival."

She smiled, "That’s quite little, compared to most.”

“I’ve managed fine learning as I go, but I have a feeling this inquiry holds a complicated answer–” 

( And he had a feeling it would be crucial in determining his next steps )

“ –What happens when a sinner is killed?”

“Hoo-wee! Your intuition's right about that. That there is not as straightforward an answer as they come. Alastor –May I call you that?”

He nodded.

“Alastor, it depends. You haven’t been ‘killed’ yet?”

“In Hell? – " 

Is this a trick question?

– ... No.”

“Ah! Impressive! Most sinners learn that when ya die here it ain't permanent through firsthand experience.”

He cocked his head.

“I’ll explain. Sinners are allowed to tear each other apart an’ kill each other by any means. It’s part of our punishment! The whole ‘fate worse than death’ thing– we aren’t meant to enjoy our time here. We do, anyways, but we have Lucifer to thank for that,” She glanced upwards and scowled, “For not being sadistic like his brethren.

“In most cases, sinners get injured and they just heal right back up! I could cut someone in the jugular, hang em upside down to drain all their blood, and in a couple of days their neck will heal on up and they'll come to, right as rain! We don't even have a proper saying for that. They’re not conscious, but they aint dead, or dying, even. Most sinners just refer to that as 'a bad injury.’

“But,” she shot down his incoming reply with a finger, “if I cut his head clean off, or his torso in half, then he'd reanimate completely elsewhere. Lotsa sinners call it different things, but not death. I’ll get to that later. Here in Cannibal Town, we tend to call it ‘gone camping.’ ” She snickered, “Sinners tend to reanimate in the outlands surrounding the city. You should remember it from when you popped in here.”

Alastor nodded. He didn’t remember it from his first days in hell, but he has spent much time in said outskirts since.

“Whenever a demon is ‘killed,’ ” She air quoted, “they pop up in the woodlands, and it typically takes ‘em a day to a week to get back to their spot in the city. Like a little camping trip!" She giggled some more, and Alastor smiled. 

Her laugh, girlish and carefree, reminded him of his Mother’s.

"It's just one of our many silly little Hellish idioms,” She smiled, “I’m quite fond of it.”

Alastor thought back to Franklin. She was far more lax in his presence than he had hoped. “So, it’s a minor inconvenience, at best.”

“Eh, Not exactly. Property is a valuable resource, and goin campin is a fast way to lose it. It’s nothing compared to death , that’s for sure, but it’s more than an inconvenience.

“Most of us in this town do share that mindset, though! This quaint corner of Hell is unique in that aspect. There’s more order here than you’ll find in most-o Pride’s sub sectors."

"Very. I can hardly go on a walk through the city without bearing witness to senseless acts of violence. This has been the only proper community I have seen yet."

“And few others you’ll find! We’re a tight knit group here. Closer than close. It helps that none of us are squeamish about death, keeps conflicts about skirmishes low. It is Cannibal Town, after all! Many a times a resident’s self control slips and his neighbour disappears. But it’s no biggie, in a few days his friend will be back, no hard feelings– It’s how we got through a famine a few decades back!

“Oh, look at me–I’m rambling! Forgive me, it’s all such a fascinating concept, and I get to play around with it more than most, what with being Cannibal Town’s Overlord.” 

Her eyes, deep pools of ink, stared into his. They caught no light. Even so, he could see the fluid rippling within. 

Overlord… 

And there it was. The creeping feeling of unease building to a head. Overlords were ruthless forces of destruction, from what he’s heard. For this he doubted his suspicions of her status– but it was now undeniable. He had walked into the hornet’s nest, and was sitting with the queen.

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat, brow quirked.

“Ah!” Her eyes broke from his, looking to the side as she took a sip of her tea. “Apologies, I seem to have lost my train of thought. Where was I? Oh, yes, ‘death’ versus real death. ” Alastor tamped down his feelings of unease, but kept his finger on the trigger to flee. 

‘Death’ may be nothing more than a small inconvenience for a wanderer such as he, but he can read inbetween the lines. 

To ‘die’ is to be weak.

“I am both more and less familiar with this topic,” Rosie continued. “Angelic weapons are deadly. Wounds from them are not meant to be and are not recoverable. Once you succumb to them, it’s over. No rebirth, nada.

“What day is it, the sixteenth?” she looked up in thought, “Yep! The sixteenth– the Extermination happens in two weeks. Everyone usually goes haywire a week before it, you’ll learn more about it then.”

The Extermination… He’s not sure he liked that notion. 

“ …Will I?”

Apparently this so-called extermination was a jolly good time, if Rosie’s unwavering cheerful demeanour was anything to go off of. “Yep! No point in me tellin you about it, you’ll see enough of it yourself. Be careful, of course! But, I’m not too worried about you. Very composed for only a month’s worth of adjustment, I must say.”

A month’s worth of adjustment.

( Inky black eyes. )

He never told her that.

Now, confidence is key for everything one does. Alastor knows this well and true. But that cannot overshadow wariness. And it must be known when you’re treading in deep water. 

Cannibal town is a close knit community. That’s immensely powerful in a world of solitary disorder. With community comes protection, and Franklin was far too lax in Alastor’s presence for this protection to not be immense. 

Even so, his muscles thrum with thrill.

“I am not aware of Hell’s etiquette, Miss Rosie, but I find clairvoyant intrusions incredibly rude.” He glared into the abyss of her eyes, daring her to use the power again.

“Hoho!” She put her teacup down and rested her hands on her lap. “ Clever. You’ve got some spunk, kid.”

“As one must be, to thrive in this dog-eat-dog world!” He exclaimed, maintaining eye contact. “But I emphasise: do not attempt such debasement again.”

“You’re making some hefty demands for your position. –

( He could see movement in the streets.

The cannibals were gathering. )

“–There’s ambition, and then there’s foolishness. If you want to become one of Pride’s controlling figures, you’ll have to tread that line very carefully.”

She has control over the town's population. Through a likely mix of magic and sheer power structure.

It took him roughly three minutes to walk here from Franklin's shop. That's plenty of time to relay information. But he revealed no specifics of his powers in either woman’s presence.

There are three-hundred and twenty-seven radios scattered throughout the boundaries of the town. An average of 3.56 sinners are within each one's vicinity.

He could win.

“I can handle myself.”

Just for a moment he saw her expression falter, and his smile grew. He could barely contain the buzz building beneath his skin. And how his mouth watered at the prospect of a challenge. 

Maybe he was getting a bit too comfortable with his new impulsivity.

“Oh, I believe you can. But you’ll be getting into a lot more trouble than you're bargaining for.”

“I am simply intolerant of those I do not know digging through my memories.”

“Alright.” She tapped her nails against her cup. “How about we make a deal? I don’t intrude on your thoughts, and you don’t start a brawl in my Town. I’d like to continue this conversation as friends.”

He thought about it. "We will do no harm to one another, and I am permitted to exit your town unscathed once our chat is over.”

“Ha ha!” She grinned, "You're gonna do mighty fine down here, boy."

She raised her arm, claws outstretched for a shake.

“That's a deal."

Every day, at the peak of the sky's brightness, mechanical creaking echoes throughout Pentagram City. 

In a twisted mockery of a bell's chime, the embassy's counter will click once, signalling one less day until the impending genocide. 

It is a dreadful event, but, alas, life continues as their days left to live are counted down. Live today like there’s no tomorrow, my dear! Because, after all, one day there won’t be!

Today is different.

Today, thousands of sinners gathered in the embassy's square. Hundreds of cameras pointed at the counter, broadcasting dozens of angles watched by millions.

At 11:57 am, all of Hell was still, breathless, with sick anticipation of what was to come.

The Hotel’s residents were gathered in the lobby. The Hotel’s front door open, permitting a clear view of Pentagram City. The only visible part of the object of interest, Heaven’s Embassy, was its reflective spire. 

Alastor, leaning on the bar’s countertop, observed the metropolis at a quiet he had never before seen.

The other residents were focused on the lobby’s TV, which played a continuation of the previous evening's newscast. The one where 666 News announced the next extermination’s premature arrival.

The countdown strictly changes at 12:00 pm, so there was no factual evidence at the time of the broadcast. Thus, the station was met with a mockery like no other. An extermination every six months? Ridiculous! They had remained consistent for millenia, why would that change now? 

The Hotel, of course, already heard from Charlotte what had occurred during her little meeting; Adam’s lethal promise. But words, even that of an angel, are not evidentiary. They would only truly know that Heaven's plans are true, would happen, if it was reflected in the countdown. 

For this, they sat in trepidation.

Every sinner hoped the joke would stick. That 666 News was playing some twisted prank. They were hoping for the countdown to change once and only once, as is expected, and then the denizens of Hell could tear apart Katie Killjoy and her spineless co-anchor for the unwanted scare.

Alastor thought it funny seeing Killjoy's pained expression, her wordless anticipation pasted into the corner of the news’ live stream.

Everyone wished she was wrong, that the extermination's early arrival was untrue. 

It showed in her eyes that Killjoy hoped the contrary – that their intel was true. The genocide of Hell’s population secondary to her reputation.

How foolish.

…

At exactly 12:00 pm, the counters’ first digit slowly rotated from 353 to 352 with a commanding click .

…

And for the first time in the history of Hell it kept going .

Charlotte ran to the front door with a cry, her partner close behind. 

Alastor closed his eyes. You didn't need to see the counter to know Hell's fate was sealed. 

The mechanical clicks rang throughout the city, travelling closer and closer before echoing throughout the Hotel’s walls.

It clicked, and clicked, and clicked. 

Counting down every day ripped away from the sinner's lives. 

Even Killjoy's face dropped into one of abject terror. Sinners were terrible, but angels were ruthless. 

If the angels could frequent Hell as often as they so please, there would be no life to live. Only death and destruction as Heaven finished their purge.

This reality cemented with each resounding click.

… 

click – 185

…

click – 184

…

click – 183

…

click – 182

…

And there it stayed.

The city erupted into a sea of panic.

Alastor's tendril unplugged the TV. The aftermath would be impossible to avoid in the coming weeks– no point in witnessing it through a screen.

The Hotel sat in silence, the only noise was that of the clicks' remnants echoing throughout the building’s walls.

What a grim new normal. 

Charlotte stood at the door, paralysed with the notion that she caused the doom upon her people. Failed in not only negotiating the normal extermination schedule, but preventing Hell's doomed fate. 

Alastor couldn't help but know that there were more intrinsic stakes.

And he couldn’t help but think things were finally starting to make sense.