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Alastor was angry, hateful.
To think the great and powerful Radio Demon nearly died to someone as arrogant and sloppy as Adam. Alastor had underestimated the angel, as much as it pained him to admit, but it was more painful to admit that he himself was not at his full strength either. He couldn’t give Adam a run for his heavenly money, the chains of his deal snaking around his chest and neck, threatening to suffocate him should he dare to breach his contract.
What a fool he had been, letting his guard down for a second time. To think he had sworn to himself that he would never fall to the claws of corrupt malice and power, only to do exactly that. He dove off the cliff without a second thought, only to crash into another cliff, clawing desperately onto the edge until the ground gave way. Now he stood in his desolated radio tower, relying on his console to keep him up with his cane now snapped in two.
It burned. Blistering pain angelic grace would inflict, chewing away from the inside out. Cold, sharp, flaming pain shot through his body like a thousand little surges of electrical currents. And Alastor would know what that felt like as it was a common move of Vox. Too bad the walking picture show used it so much that Alastor had built a tolerance for it. The overlord could only give such a high voltage before he ran out of energy, and considering their medias were fairly similar, Alastor had found he could fuse the electricity with his frequencies. Of course he had no qualms in doing just that, but it didn’t mean it was easy to do.
Alastor was zapped (literally) out of his musing when another wave of flaming pain wracked through his body, the deer unable to refrain from letting out a high-pitched shriek of a wendigo. The overlord slowly sank to the ground, not caring of the debris and jagged rubble slicing through his clothing and pinching his skin. It was nothing compared to the nuisance of an open wound the sinner bore.
Alastor hated this. Hated the situation he was currently in. However, it wasn’t the wound Alastor hated. It wasn’t the fact that he lost a fight for the first time in all of his years. It wasn’t even the fact he had to retreat, running away like a coward with his tail between his legs. Sure they played factors in his brewing hatred, but the main source was that he was alive. He was alive, barely holding on by a thread as his world shook and static buzzed thickly in his head.
And it was all because of his owner. As much as Alastor loathed to admit it, the sole (soul?) reason he was even alive for as long as he was was because of his forsaken deal. His owner needed him alive and…moderately well if his current situation was anything to go by. And he was certain that they were going to appear before him soon with that sharp, mocking grin.
Yes, he could just see it now. The light of his chain appearing around his neck, choking him without care as he was hauled forward into his owner’s lap. He could hear the soft-spoken yet mocking words his owner would say, cooing as they ran their sharp claws through his hair. He could still feel the pinpricks of the nails digging into his scalp, relieving and itching him simultaneously from the last time he was dragged back home. He could remember the utter humiliation he suffered from letting himself be treated as nothing but a pet that could do no harm instead of the feared radio demon like he should be.
Fuck. His head itched so horribly. Alastor drags his claws through his mangled hair, scratching at his scalp. The tingling subsided to numb relief as Alastor replaced those phantom claws with his own, but that wasn’t enough. It was never enough even as he cut his flesh down to the bone, even as he snapped the follicles of his red hair. All Alastor knew at that moment was that he needed to claw those phantoms away and with each scratch, each clump of hair, said phantoms faded.
The relief the sinner felt was like no other, even if it was rather short lived. Alastor dragged his hands away, making them twitch by his sudden forcement. The demon stared at the wispy, bundled clumps of red and brown hair, each digit twitching the longer he didn’t busy them with something.
There was something about seeing his own hair that stirred a weird sensation of relief and hate that twisted together in a fiery tornado. The dull ache in his head wasn’t quite bothersome either and rather something that landed him in a euphoric state of bliss. Like when he indulged in alcohol and got to the peaceful buzzing state. A state where he was aware of his surroundings but too out of it to care of others and keeping up his image as soothing white noise lulled him to a paradise of quiet where no harm could come to him.
Unable to forget the feeling and his claws itching and twitching with the urge to experience it again, Alastor continued to pick away. Raking his claws up the side of his head, scratching at the skin in the process, Alastor pulled on the sections he gathered at their roots. Slowly and painfully the overlord dragged his claws back down, ears twitching with every snap of a hair breaking. He inhaled deeply at the deep aching sensation of his roots and scalp being pulled harshly, his static blanketing him a peaceful buzz.
Slowly, piece by piece Alastor felt his anger fade as he lost himself in the buzzing paradise he made for himself. Not even the once flaming pain of his angelic wound could ruin it. Alastor lets his hands fall, leaning his aching head against the back of his console. The buzzing static in his head played on as he took in deep breaths, nerves finally settling down.
Eventually as the white noise dies down and Alastor is brought back to reality, the sinner realizes the pulsating burn of his wound was no more. Looking down, Alastor only found the tear of his suit, revealing the dark brown fur of his torso with the fluff poking out. When did this happen? He didn’t recall his master coming in or anyone for that matter. Maybe he couldn’t, but Alastor couldn’t find the strength to worry or care. Along with the relief of those phantom hands being gone, the sinner was glad he didn’t have to still deal with the wound.
Slowly hauling himself on shaky legs, Alastor collects his scattered mind before snapping his fingers to fix his suit. Now to return to the hotel. Collecting his still broken staff, Alastor trudged his way through the ruins of his tower in hopes to restore some energy to teleport. Pausing at the trapdoor, Alastor ran a claw through his hair, feeling that he had ripped patches out. With a little spark of magic, Alastor regrew the locks. Once satisfied he left through the trapdoor, teleporting his way to the other Hazbins.
Everything was going to be okay.