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It is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a secret that Alastor enjoys being feared.
He’d had quite enough of being dismissed, ignored, and degraded while he was alive, and upon his death he’d subsequently taken every possible precaution to ensure this existence would be different—no small feat for a brand new sinner, even taking into account his considerable levels of power from the outset. Terror, mayhem, carnage, all treasured delights in the service of cementing him in his position as an Overlord, and not too shabby of a job if he may be so self-indulgent. He’s very satisfied with his reputation and the gibbering horror it tends to invoke in the general populace.
The only issue is, well…
‘Everyone screaming and fleeing from your presence in terror whenever you deign to go outside’ does not allow for pleasant, aimless excursions into the city, and Alastor is slightly miffed by the inconvenience of every shop he walks into today abruptly finding itself vacated of all sentient beings. He really just wanted an iced lemonade.
Now alone in the empty coffeehouse, he sighs, watching a single, comical feather float through the air in the spot where the barista had just been standing.
Poor customer service, is what that is.
He sucks in a fortifying breath, dusts himself off, and turns sharply on his heel, attempting to keep the bounce in his step even as his mood dips with irritation. No matter! The main problem isn’t anything he’s done to provoke such responses, but rather that the sinners in this sector aren’t familiar with his casual presence yet, not in the same way that Cannibal Town is. They just need to be acclimated! And it gives him an excuse to get out more, to see the sights! Yes indeed, there are so many nooks and crannies of Pentagram City that have yet to be graced with the merry footfalls of the Radio Demon; all that changes today!
His shield of optimism lasts through the next four abandoned bookstores, cafés, diners, and bars that all conspicuously empty themselves when he steps inside. By the time he stops in front of the quaint little storefront squashed between two dour brick apartment buildings, his microphone has ceased emitting bubbly jingles and his smile is straining at the edges.
Is it too much to ask for a cup of coffee, some light socialization, and a window seat to watch and laugh at the scum of the universe while they make their tormented rounds? Apparently.
He would’ve been willing to call it a wash and retreat back to Cannibal Town, seeking out the balm of Rosie’s tittering sympathy, had it not been for the cathedral radio in the shop window that catches his attention.
It is a lovely specimen. Even through the thick panes of glass, Alastor can tell that its elegant wooden arch and fascinating spidery pattern framing the grill are all indicative of very high quality craftsmanship. His own cathedral is a hardy little thing, but it’s suffered a certain level of erosion in sound quality over the years due to all the wailing souls that he’s shredded through its speaker like a cheese grater—the wonders of his themed abilities never cease—and his own repairs here and there haven’t been able to fully stymie this effect.
Until he learns some magical means to preserve his radios’ lifespans, because he’s certain such a shortcut exists, he needs to keep acquiring new ones. And this beauty in the window honestly doesn’t deserve to be taken home by anyone but him.
Well, he’ll be civilized about it. No need to approach it like a hostage negotiation—after all, given his luck, chances are high that the shopkeep will simply set themself on fire at the sight of him and spare him the haggling.
Alastor pushes open the door and steps inside.
The doorbell chimes softly. Alastor had been so distracted by the radio that he hadn’t noticed the actual interior of the shop is shadowy, dusty, and very quiet; not a soul wanders amongst the cluttered shelves, pink tiled floors, and delightfully eclectic piles of merchandise, ranging from radios to folding cameras to—oh! Real electric refrigerators! Alastor stoops to run his fingertips over the silver handle of the cherry red freezer, intrigued. Such a pricey object would’ve cost him a year’s salary back in his day, but it seems that everyone has one these days.
Ah, the fifties. What a time to be, well, dead.
Alastor tears himself away from the gluttonous spread of electronics. Prowling deeper into the store, he plucks a pastel yellow doohickey from a nearby shelf and squints at the label. He hadn’t even known that they’d invented portable hair dryers upstairs. He’s of the opinion that not everything needs a cord and an electric pulse to be a trustworthy tool, but unfortunately, he only has a heavy influence on Hell’s market economy, not the mortal realm. He’d put a swift stop to this consumerist madness if he did.
Footsteps draw him from his reverie. Alastor straightens, brightens his smile, and curls his hands over his microphone expectantly.
The poor sinner rounds a corner, and Alastor wastes no time.
“Hello, my dear wayward soul!” he says warmly, lunging forward to grab their hand and shake it vigorously, emboldened by the lack of immediate shrieking. “I caught a glimpse of your darling radio in the window and couldn’t resist! I’d be very interested in testing the sound quality, if you’d be so amenable—I only want the best for my show, you understand, and appearances can be deceiving, ha-ha!”
Alastor only really pulls out the ‘aggressively whimsical talkshow host’ persona when he wants to dizzy someone into giving him what he wants and quickly, and the usual response he receives is bewildered acquiescence, which is why it jams a stick in his wheels to notice that the sinner whose hand he’s still clutching is… not reacting the way he’d intended.
And—he’s an odd sinner, now that Alastor is seeing him up close. He’s around Alastor’s height, dressed in baby blue slacks and a white and yellow checkered button-down tucked into his waistband, though the first three buttons are undone quite indecently. His skin is a deep, abyssal blue, and feels like gritty sandpaper against Alastor’s palm. If it weren’t for one glaring detail, he’d look positively normal.
But atop his shoulders, instead of any sort of animal or hybrid head, he’s sporting a… picture box?
Peculiar and bulky, the contraption is wide and rectangular, with a console of dials and buttons along the bottom frame and a twiglike antenna sprouting diagonally from the top. The main event is the wide, ovular glass panel that comprises the sinner’s face, which displays a grainy, black-and-white expression of mild distaste, all sharp teeth—except for his eyes, which are narrowed, severe, and cast in vivid technicolor.
“Um—” the sinner starts, tinny voice flat, but Alastor leans in close and grabs him by his wooden—plastic?—head, ignoring his noise of protest.
“Interesting,” Alastor says, peering at his reflection as it warps in the curved glass. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. What in the world are you?”
“Listen, pal,” the sinner snaps, jerking backwards out of Alastor’s grasp, “don’t fucking touch me. I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but—”
“Oh! Aha!” Alastor rears back, laughing, and slips his mic into his hand. The nerve! He’d be annoyed if it wasn’t so refreshing, considering the lackluster day he’s had so far. This fellow must be very new to Hell indeed. Static rises into a threatening drone. “You’re hilarious. Dear, do you have any idea who I am?”
The sinner stares at him for a moment, arms crossed; his searingly bright eyes move from Alastor’s manic grin to his staff, lingering on his antlers and ears, and then widen when they lock onto something just over Alastor’s shoulder, where his shadow is seething gleefully, elongating against the shelved backdrop.
Alastor sees the exact moment that recognition clicks.
But then—
“Oh!” the sinner exclaims, suddenly bursting into a warm grin, and then abruptly he’s the one crowding into Alastor’s space, seizing his hand and shaking it forcefully while it’s Alastor’s turn to blink, befuddled. “Holy shit! You’re the Radio Demon! Apologies for my rudeness, you wouldn’t believe the amount of piece of shit nobodies I’ve had to deal with today—oh, you’re a legend down here. Scariest fucking Overlord this side of anywhere, sure, but your shows are fantastic! You have a real gift with your voice, I can’t believe you actually sound like that in person too, that’s amazing!”
The flattery, earnest and authentic, sinks into Alastor’s bones like expensive whiskey, burning through his lingering discontent and leaving a warm thrill singing through him in its wake.
“Hah! The voice was happenstance, I’m afraid, but I’m glad you think so,” he says, smile broadening. “So, you’re a fan of my work?”
“A fan? Pfft. No, no, I just have an appreciation for the craft, and you have mastered your medium. It’s only right to admire the man who has this whole godforsaken ring shitting their pants in terror at the sight of him, while still clinging to their radios and tuning in to every broadcast.” The sinner weaves around Alastor as he speaks, gesticulating wildly, and Alastor finds himself turning to follow, charmed by the sheer charisma that bleeds from his every movement. The sinner quickly spins on his heel and holds a hand to his chest, smirking. “I’m Vox, by the way. It’s an absolute pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Vox,” Alastor muses, and doesn’t miss the way the man’s expression lights up. “I admit, it’s lovely to make your acquaintance as well. It’s not often I meet someone so excited to encounter me. Usually it’s quite the opposite.”
“Oh, you’ll find I’m far from usual, my dear.”
Vox’s glassy smile is hungry, leering, and fizzling strangely with static. Alastor is hopelessly enthralled. He wants to pry Vox’s head open and see inside.
“You’ve certainly caught my attention,” Alastor says. This isn’t always a good thing, but in this case, it’s a compliment. “Are you the owner of this establishment?”
“Nah. I’m working off some debts to the manager, but he’s never here, so don’t worry about him.” Vox rolls his eyes. “Stupid bastard. He thinks he’s pulling one over on me with this fucking minimum wage gig, but—and keep this to yourself, yeah?—I’ve been embezzling money from his account for months now.”
“He must be remarkably unobservant.”
“Right? It’s crazy how dumb people are when they think they own you. Like I’d ever let myself get tricked into a binding contract.” Vox suddenly leans in and hooks an arm around Alastor’s shoulders, dragging him in close, and Alastor generously doesn’t kill him for the impudence. “Hey, walk with me, Al—”
“Alastor.”
“—Alastor! I heard you’re quite the prolific dealmaker when you’re not slaughtering people live on air, and I want to get your opinion on something I’ve been working on.”
Alastor lets Vox haul him deeper into the shop, winding through a maze of dusty shelves while the man keeps a casual but firm grip on him all the way, as if he could ever hope to actually prevent Alastor from leaving if he wants to. Alastor supposes there’s no real harm in allowing it for now; neither of them are under any illusions about Alastor’s proclivities, and if Vox truly isn’t worried for his safety, he’s either suffering from a rare strain of mind-boggling stupidity or suicidal arrogance. Neither of which is really Alastor’s problem.
“Why not,” Alastor concedes easily, keeping pace with Vox. “You’ve piqued my curiosity. But you should know I don’t do anything for free.”
“Of course not. What do you want in return? I really haven’t got much at the moment, though big things are coming once I finally put a piece of fucking rebar through the boss’ throat—ah, here we are.”
Vox finally lets go of Alastor to unlock a door along the back wall, which he stands back and holds open for Alastor like a gentleman. Alastor steps inside the office, tilting his head as he takes in the small desk, chair, and numerous file cabinets overflowing with paperwork, no rhyme or reason to the organization; the desk lamp is the only light source in the room, and it glows a dim orange, throwing blurry shadows along the walls. Vox follows him inside and lets the door swing shut behind them.
“I’m not giving you my soul, by the way,” Vox warns, kicking the swiveling chair out from under the desk and dropping into it. Alastor daintily nudges aside a stack of folders and hops up to sit on the corner of the desk, crossing his ankles. “I’m not an idiot.”
“I’ll withhold judgment on that for now, but as for your concerns, don’t worry—I don’t make deals on the first date.”
Vox barks a laugh as he begins to sift through the mess of papers. “Is that what this is? You should’ve told me, I would’ve dressed up a little nicer for you.”
“You should be so lucky!” Alastor says, examining his nails. “No, what I want is nothing so dire. I want you to tell me what this…” He taps Vox on the side of the head with his mic, grinning when Vox swats it away irritably. “Ridiculous picture box of yours is.”
Vox’s expression shifts from annoyance to surprise. A thin, seeping flicker of rainbow light fizzles along the curve of his left eyebrow, which lifts so high it cuts off the frame of the glass. “Seriously? I thought you were mocking me earlier. You really don’t know what it is?”
“Advancements in technology evolve very slowly down here, my friend. In general, Hell reflects the mortal realm, but we do a certain amount of reinventing the wheel as more sinners trickle in from new decades. I’ve never seen anything like you before.”
Chuckling, Vox ducks his head bashfully. “I guess it would be after your time, hah. You died in the thirties, right?”
“Oh, yes. Difficult times, the 1930s, but it was also the golden age of the radio, so I can’t be too critical.” Alastor leans back on one hand, gazing nostalgically at the popcorn ceiling. “Crashing economies, skyrocketing unemployment, truly incredible numbers of orphans—but the RCA had just begun marketing home radios nationwide, and mind you, this was after many years of struggling against Navy censorship during the Great War. Civilian radio didn’t truly take off until the thirties. And, well…” Alastor spins his microphone. The single inlaid eye above the speaker squints at him. “I’ve done my fair share of promoting the medium down here, as you’ve noticed.”
“I don’t think there’s anybody who hasn’t noticed.” Vox slides a manila folder into his hands, leafing through it. “You have a total monopoly on entertainment, and it only took you twenty odd years. I’ve been dead barely six months and I’m still fucking reeling. I guess I always knew I’d end up in Hell; all those times I thought about having my way with the pastor’s wife while the choir sang ‘Hosanna to the Living Lord’ came back to bite me after all—”
“Vox,” Alastor interjects, feeling childishly impatient, “your head.”
“Oh, yeah! It’s a television.”
Vox raps his knuckles along the wood frame, faint blue static fuzzing around his single antenna. Alastor finds himself turning his body towards Vox as he explains the mechanics of the contraption, impressed by the casual expertise that underlies Vox’s matter-of-fact tone. It’s been a while since any singular person has really attracted the keen edge of Alastor’s insatiable curiosity like this; he’d forgotten how heady it feels, how all-encompassing, to want to focus every iota of his attention on someone he isn’t torturing to death on the radio.
And it goes beyond Vox’s strange biology. It’s Vox’s audacity, his zeal, the flattery that spills from his mouth as relentless as rain and the haughty disrespect that flickers along his silhouette, sharp and vivid and overwhelming.
His sandpaper skin, his shark’s smile, his brazen arm around Alastor’s shoulders.
Eyes bleeding technicolor against a sea of volcanic sand.
Alastor has never placed any stock in romantic nonsense about love at first sight, but he has to admit—this feels pretty damn close.
“Anyway,” Vox finishes, leaning back in his chair and grinning sheepishly. “TV’s all the rage upstairs. I mean, sure, we all grew up on radio, but I’m talking big picture—just you wait, in another twenty years, everybody’s gonna have a TV at home. The future is digital, not analog.”
“Forgive me if I don’t buy your pitch, but I admire your fervor!” Alastor says, splaying his hands. “It’s so rare that I find someone so wholly committed to their creative vision. I was beginning to think I was the last bastion of invention in Hell.”
“Ha, not anymore, babe—trust me, if I had the kind of power you’re working with, I’d change the whole landscape of this fucking cesspool.”
“Now that I have no trouble believing.”
Vox very obviously preens at the praise, heels kicking against the carpeted floor, and Alastor’s smile stretches even wider.
“You have no idea how surreal this is for me,” Vox mutters, mouth quirked with quiet pleasure as he slips a stapled stack of papers out of the folder in his hands. “The Radio Demon’s perched on my boss’ desk, chatting me up like we’re at a dive. If I had anyone to tell, they wouldn’t believe me.”
“You are lonely, aren’t you? Oh, don’t look so offended, my dear. I suspect I’m the most exciting thing that’s happened to you since you died.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t have to say it out loud, it makes me sound pathetic.”
A laugh track echoes through the air, which, adorably, startles Vox. He recovers, clearing his throat, and hastily smooths out the papers in his hands. Alastor lets his head tip fully to one side, gazing half-lidded at Vox, who makes a valiant effort not to stare too obviously at the silly slant of Alastor’s ears.
“A-Anyway,” Vox coughs, eyes darting, “I’d be grateful if you could look over this contract I’ve been working on. It’s a modified version of my employment contract—the original was just for this job, I refused to give up my soul to pay a financial debt. I think it’s looking pretty good, but you’re more of a dealmaker than me, so—”
Alastor plucks the contract from Vox’s hands and skims it. After a moment, a delighted little hmm escapes him as he sharpens his attention, peering more closely at the phrasing. Oh, my.
“Why, Vox,” he says, eyebrows raised, “this is positively conniving. Were you a lawyer in life?”
“Oh, aha, no—I was a preacher, actually.” Vox folds his hands in his lap, expression rueful. “Preached on the radio for a while, actually, in the forties, before I moved to television around ‘54. Nothing like an incendiary sermon to get people riled up and ready to fork over their life savings, I’ll say that.”
“That explains it. Well, this is a nasty bit of work, congratulations.” Alastor is honestly impressed by the sheer amount of vitriolic blowback this contract has baked into it; implemented properly, it could even maneuver Vox’s poor employer into a position where he’s forced to give up his soul, even if the contract itself doesn’t go quite that far. Vox must really hate him. “I’d only recommend nixing this last part here, under Appendix B—it would be too easy to exploit the ambiguous wording and turn it back on you.” He hands the contract back to Vox, who uncaps a pen and crosses out the line.
“Thanks,” Vox says. He tucks the contract back into its folder, sliding it into the locked drawer he’s been hiding it in. “I figured it’s safer than sorry to get a second opinion on stuff like this.”
“Of course. I usually don’t do written contracts, it’s far simpler and more satisfying to verbally trap someone, but if you have a gift with words you may as well follow that gift to its logical conclusion. And for a terrible employer, well—no holds barred, hm?”
Vox’s eyes glint in the lamplight, wicked and warm. “Damn right.”
Alastor makes the impulsive decision to wave his hand, sweeping all of the papers off the desk with his powers and settling them in neat stacks on the floor, and then slides sideways so that he’s facing Vox head-on, swinging up his heels to brace them against the arms of Vox’s chair. Vox had startled a bit at the first spark of green magic, but he quickly relaxes back into an easy sprawl, grinning up at Alastor carelessly from where he’s caged in by Alastor’s long legs.
Evidently he doesn’t have some sort of death wish, as Alastor had previously hypothesized. No, he has lofty ambitions and a future worth investing in; surely he wouldn’t seek to throw all of that away with some sort of consummate act of suicide by Radio Demon.
Perhaps, he muses with no small degree of wonder, Vox is simply one of those precious few sinners after Alastor’s own heart, dead as it is.
A kindred spirit.
What a marvelous turn of events. Alastor shifts forward, cradling his chin in his hands with his elbows braced on his bent knees; Vox leans up slightly to meet him, just as dangerous, curious, close enough that Alastor can feel the electric heat radiating from Vox’s screen. Static trickles down his spine, a needling whisper of a promise.
“I suspect,” Alastor says slowly, “that you and I have a very interesting future ahead of us. Would it be presumptuous of me to extend an invitation to dinner?”
Vox’s smile is all teeth. “I thought you’d never ask.”