Nothing but a low noise of radio static filled the room as Alastor ended his lament with a laugh too manic for even his own liking. It was quieter than usual, yet more erratic as it ebbed and rose with his uneven breathing. His shadow stretched through the silent room, creeping up destroyed broadcast equipment and painting a monstrous silhouette onto the walls. His broken staff that connected him to his power was left discarded on rubble that had once been his frequency modulator.

Alastor clutched his chest tightly with one hand, his injury shooting a welcome feeling of pain through his body. It helped to ground him, but it wasn't enough to keep the turmoil he felt at bay.

The restrains that bound him-

Distinct, raw fear still held a tight grip on his throat-

He was choking on the feeling. His heart raced as sporadically as the sound of his breathing joined the low radio humm in his former studio. His chest felt like it was going to explode, like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room to sustain him and it just helped increase that terror that held a deathgrip on his sanity.

It felt like he was suffocating instead of bleeding out now, the wound on his chest half forgotten.

He stumbled back, the rush of adrenaline steadily being overridden by exhaustion and… something else he didn’t want to think about too hard. His heels caught on the open latch of the tower entrance, his breath hitched upon impact and he fell back, hitting the floor hard. The impact hurt but Alastor ignored it, too many other things twisting his mind to care.

He kicked the hatched close with his foot because no one, fucking no one, could find or see Alastor offer such a pathetic display of the feared Radio Demon. Cowering alone on the ground of his saveroom like a scared and cornered animal. A trail of blood dripped from his open wound as he moved further and further back, almost crawling backwards.

The shadow on the wall followed every movement suit. Erratic flickers of magic against the cold stone twisted behind Alastors crumbled form. A frown etched deep into its ghostly features, betraying its master's very soul.

Shuddering, he pushed himself back against the crumbling wall. With every breath he tried to take the pain just increased, his own fear suffocating him like never before and he didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know how to stop this feeling and learn to be able to breathe again. Was he ever able to breathe in the first place? The task just seemed too incredibly hard right now and he-

A pathetic noise escaped somewhere from his throat and Alastor pressed himself harder against the wall, chilled by the cold stone. One clawed hand buried itself deep into the ground as he clenched his fingers in a desperate attempt to find something to hold on to. The other held tightly against his chest to halt the bleeding wound, certainly not to hold himself together, definitely not. Usually upright and attentive deer ears pressed close against his head in a humiliating display of uncharacteristic docility for the person he created for everyone to see. It was sickening him.

Alastor may resemble a prey animal but he made a point to show everyone his teeth regardless. But now? He felt like a helpless fawn hiding from the sensitive noses of hunting dogs that could pick up the scent of fear from miles away.

Minutes pass like hours as he sits there, gasping, desperate for air but all he inhaled was the smell of blood after the battle ate away at even the toughest warriors. A trademark grin almost split his face apart in a last feeble attempt to stay in control, to hold onto the last bit of dignity left but he knew he was failing. His control faded further from his grasp with every cracking sound of radio static.

Rationally, he knew he was spiraling, he knew he had to calm his erratic breathing to be able to get back to his senses but that seemingly simple task just felt so impossible to accomplish. He just felt too many things at once right now to settle down, get up, and pretend he was perfectly fine.

With another gasp and hitch, his whole body shuddered. His throat hurt terribly and the hand that was buried in the ground unclenched, shaking like he was but a lesser demon. He lifted his hand and moved it up to claw at his face to stop the ongoing panic before he-

No-

No, he certainly won’t be brought to tears by defeat at the hands of an angel, one so tactless as Adam, at that. Not by the fear he felt due to his weakened state and certainly not by the limitations of his constraints.

There was just no way in this forsaken literal hell he called his afterlife that he, the Radio Demon known all throughout the Pentagram and beyond, would be weak enough to cry after losing a fight and nearly dying.

But he knew he was losing this fight with himself, he tried to ignore how blurry his vision turned, telling himself it was just the blood loss making him dizzy.

Telling and telling himself he was staying in control - he had to be, he couldn’t falter, if he started to break now there would be no way he could regain the freedom he desired so deeply.

But no matter how hard he tried or how much he attempted to suppress the shaking in his limbs, he could feel the tears slip down his faltering mask. A salty taste mixed with that of iron blood in his mouth and he swallowed hard. The lump in his throat made it even harder to breathe now and Alastor couldn’t help the painful sob that escaped when he opened his mouth to inhale.

He hated it, he hated this weakness, he hated the deal that restrained him, he hated how scared he was and he hated the lengths this fear and desperation led him to take. How could he of all demonkind be on a leash so short he felt like a dog sitting before a full bowl of food unable to turn his head down? Was he really left to starve right in front of his meal?

There had to be a way to get out of this. He had to break these chains and exact revenge for the sorry state he had been reduced to. Somehow he just needed to find a way out, backdoor, a loophole, anything that would free him from this contract.

More pathetic sobs followed the first and it took all of his willpower to not wrap his arms around his own form to still his desire for solace. Instead, Alastor dug his claws deep into his skin and bit his lips bloody. Red tickled down his chin and joined the mess his coat turned into.

With time ticking by unhurried, he felt his heartbeat beginning to slow down again. The pain in his chest dulled to simple throbbing of the irritated wound. While he usually healed fast, a wound of this level, inflicted by an angel no less, would need to be addressed. Alastor wanted to grimace at the feeling of his flesh attempting to knit itself back together. Injuries inflicted by angelic silver burned demons like an infectious disease, which voided the process of healing through demonic magic to near none. Some injuries may even be too severe to ever be healed.

He honestly didn’t want to think about the prospect of the cut that raked his chest to be permanent. The scar would already be another sharp reminder of this day that he would have to carry with himself forever.

Usually blood soaking his clothes and drying against his skin felt exhilarating, a proof of his power. He reveled in the carnage. But now, the feeling of his own blood sticking to his skin and coating his clothes made him cringe when the fabric pulled his wound.

Slowly, his condition steadied and with that, the panic he felt subsided to mere unease and exhaustion. There was no relief, no freedom in this ridiculous show he just performed but it did reduce the terror that had been eating away at him with hunger to inhale a deep breath and close his eyes.

He exhaled.

For now, it was sufficient to pull his legs up and against his chest, wrapping his arms around them lightly and resting his head on his knees. A throbbing headache began to form inside his skull and he huffed a low moan as the pain added further strain to his aching body.

To put it frankly, he felt like absolute shit, run over and cooked up twice over an open fire before being fed to rats.

Outside he could already hear the faint sounds of the hotel starting to be rebuilt again after being traumatically reduced to rubble held together by sheer spite, or maybe love. But inside his radio tower blessed silence still lingered. He knew he would have to go down there, show himself as he always would, the powerful Radio Demon coming back alive, if not victorious.
With a grin that would prove to everyone that he had it all together, that there was nothing in this hell that could strike fear into him.

And his self proclaimed friends who had crept their way into his heart like a worm into a rotten apple would make sure that was truly the case, whether he liked it or not.

What had once been Charlie's dream had turned into a collection of rainbow coloured fantasies for more than just the princess. The exorcist girl who kept sneering at him through all his efforts without noting how they slowly had become more genuine was the first. What followed was an eagerness from everyone who got to spend more time around Charlie, the cheerful attitude the demonesse held got everyone caught up in it. Like a dancer in a storm of flower petals she captivated whoever met her gaze.

He would be lying if he said he didn’t get caught, if he hasn’t gotten the slightest bit accustomed to the joyful company the hotel-crewe made and how they turned his usually tight grin genuine.

The corners of his mouth tucked down just a little into an expression a little more at rest, an unusually somber expression hidden in his arms. Behind him, the shadow appeared equally mournful, hushing behind his back as if to hold him. The fun experiences he had shared with his friends certainly would not last and he would use their trust and the deal he struck with the princess to save himself because altruism was not something Alastor had ever prided himself in.

And still…

He would join Charlie and the others for their celebrations later.

But perhaps for now…

a little rest was in order.