Chapter Text
Holy arms.
Holy arms be damned.
The pain of the angel’s insulting wound lanced through his body. Alastor sucked in a breath. Everything had gone according to plan. Until it hadn’t. Until his own pride had gotten him closer to death than he had been in almost a decade. Death was far too feeble a fate. His power had thankfully, begun to knit the wound together. Agonisingly slow. If it had been before he’d ensnared himself into the deal, he would have been able to last longer against Adam. He would have –
‘Never mind the past.’ He hissed, claws scraping further into the already ruined metal wall.
There was no point brooding over mistakes. No point in allowing it to cloud his judgement any further. He willed his focus to return, his mind to sharpen into the weapon he’d made it. His thoughts turned to the hotel. Or rather, what was left of it. A pity, he rather enjoyed the decor. Charlie and the other sinners hadn’t bothered to look for him. No surprises there. Had they thought he was really going to stay and die for them? Of course not. It was a laughable notion, at the very least. At the worst it was almost insulting. The stitches at his mouth threatened to break and tear apart. His smile wouldn’t falter. Not yet. He would still smile. Adam had been mistaken. Radio certainly wasn’t dead. There was another glorious broadcast on the horizon.
That hotel. Everything about the Hazbin Hotel had seemed to be the root of Alastor’s problems. Though it had brought so many wonderful opportunities. Now with it gone, there was the question of looking forward. Though there wasn’t much to look at currently. Between the shattered panes of glass and the ruined antenna his tower was beyond repair. It would be a while before Hell heard him again. He needed to tend to his wounds. The agony still laced through his body. Every movement hot as a lightning strike. His magic still bubbled under his skin. The horrid feeling like an uneasy itch. It would be several days at least before his flesh and sinew knitted together again. Alastor slumped into his chair, which was surprisingly still standing. His hands still clutched at his broken microphone stand. In time that too would knit back together. The two pieces of his old life stared back at him. Such power held within, seized from him in an instant by that wretched angelic shit. It had been unnerving to finally hear his own voice. Not to hear the voice of The Radio Demon. He’d almost forgotten what he’d sounded like before the broadcasts. Before the screams, and not just the ones in hell.
Alastor had chided Adam for being sloppy, for being undisciplined, but despite his skill it had been Alastor himself that had grown too comfortable. He’d been content in his power and had thought himself nigh invulnerable. How could he have been so stupid? His power had been practically stripped from him, he wasn’t as strong as he thought he was. He needed to get out of the deal. He was a bird in a gilded cage. The chains that held his soul grew tighter with every breath. Husk’s face flashed in his mind. Tethered and chained to Alastor’s own hand. He knew better than most just how deep those hooks dug into one’s mind. It was why he’d made sure to remind Husk of his place. The bartender thought his noose was tight? He had no idea just how much worse it could get. The hotel, and everyone in it was just a means to an end. Who better to lodge with that the self-proclaimed Princess of Hell? Even if it meant Alastor had to try a little harder to keep Lucifer himself on his toes. His mind raced, and he remembered the deal the little princess had struck with him. For someone so powerful, she was still so young. Full of that trusting and naive splendour Alastor once held. She saw everything with open eyes and a kind heart. Perhaps it was because Charlie had never been human. She’d never known what it was like to suffer through the worst of it. Charlie Morningstar had never been mortal. She would never know death as intimately as the living. It was why Alastor was certain she’d make good on her end of her bargain when the time came. She didn’t know any better.
A good man would have guided her. A decent man would have helped her. Alastor had let any true good within him die down in the mortal world. Every weak part of him he’d killed that night. What was left was the most ruined, the most powerful part. His armour impenetrable, his shield the wicked smile that never left his lips. The smile, he’d told Charlie had been a weapon. A facade to fool your enemies. But now, staring at the empty radio tower, Alastor wondered if he even knew what lay behind his own twisted grin. Perhaps he was better off not knowing. He was a rabid dog. Starving and salivating, hungry for a power that would bow to him and him alone. There would be no one else at the top with Alastor. There were to be no more mistakes. No more lapses in his judgement. No more vulnerabilities. Only his own goals.
The wound still ached. Though the burning hole in Alastor’s pride tore through him worse than any hellfire. He’d spent days lamenting. Every corner of his mind filled with a rage and pain he’d not known in decades. There was no place in his future for such emotions. They’d cloud his judgement, get him killed. This time for good. It wasn’t something Alastor had even considered, and not something he wanted dwell on. So why could he not stop thinking about it? It mattered not. The ruined tower held nothing for him now, it was time to reach out and see what shook loose.