Chapter Text
Ah, it was as repose as it could ever be considered, in a place such as Hell.
The scarlet hues of the sky affronted by the clouds of ash that embed themselves into the desolate view. A startling sight, but one that the people can gradually get accustomed to.
An unsightly tower juts into the serenity of the sky, its crimson colours blending into the background, and its jagged, debilitated structure looks as though it was stuck hazardously onto what stood below. The windows tinted cerise, and within echoed a sound that broke the deafening silence.
“…Crap…!”
Alastor grit his teeth in anguish, hurling insults into the abyss in a desperate attempt to numb the aching pain that blossomed across his lower chest area. A wide gash, raking across his shoulder to opposite hip, seemed to be the cause of his profound frustration. A wispy string of thread, radiating an ominous neon green, attached to a needle, works its way through his emaciated form.
As Alastor wrestled with the needle, attempting to finish his, quite frankly, perilous method of healing himself, the sudden sound of sluggish footsteps could be distinctly heard trudging along the spiral staircase, coincidentally leading up to the very room the radio demon resided in. His ears perked up in alarm, eyes widening as he scrambled to collect the scattered assortments of medical equipment on the floor (or, to put it mildly, what Alastor considered medical equipment, which more likely resembled a sewing box) and make the room look fairly… normal.
Inevitably, however, the deer’s heel slid on a rather large roll of thread, and in the midst his panic ended up sprawling face-first on the splintered floorboards. Groaning in irritation, he slowly lifted his face off the ground, in concordance to the shrill noise of the deteriorating door to his radio tower swinging open.
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Husk really isn’t paid enough to care.
Truth be told, he isn’t paid anything at all, courtesy of having your soul owned by one of Hell’s most notorious overlords, but no matter, his point still stands.
Honestly, his afterlife would be so much easier if he could just wallow in his own misery, the only sight being the bottom of a shot glass, or maybe just toss him the whole bottle of whiskey to chug, much better.
Point is, Husk doesn’t give a flying crap about anyone else’s feelings, or whether this grubby hotel still stood another extermination, or whether Angel Dust was still alive to make another crude joke… hang on a second.
Now, it almost sounds like the old cat’s in denial about his true feelings, but he can assure you, he’s lost all ability to care for anyone the day he ended up in this hellhole.
…Right?
It must be all those redemption lessons taking their toll on him, he’s too sober to sort through all these complicated emotions. A nice finger of rye would do the trick, though he was sure he’d need a couple before he’d even begin to feel drunk.
He swiftly drew the bottle from the cabinet with calculated precision, remembering to grab a shot glass and pour the drink into it instead of directly downing the bottle itself. This unfortunate predicament ensured due to the last time Charlie chastised him for doing it, telling him how it was, finger quotes, “unsanitary”, and how Lucifer, after seeing Husk perform it in action, was trying to avoid visiting the bar…
…Hold it.
Since when did he ever listen to what the Princess asked of him? Her words always went in one ear and out the other, either that or he purposefully tuned out her ramblings.
Damn, he really needed this drink.
Filling the glass, its pouring came to a stop not even halfway through the crystalware, prompting a gruff voice of complaint from the alcoholic.
The rye was not near enough to make him even a little bit tipsy, let alone drunk enough to pass out. Doesn’t matter, he’ll pick something else out, why not take a shot of bourbon for a change?
Just as Husk was doing the right thing and minding his own business by refilling the glass with bourbon, Charlie bursts out from around the wall’s corner, with a clipboard in hand and eager smile etched on her face.
Ah, here we go.
“Hi Husk! So, ever since the hotel got reconstructed I’ve kinda been going around checking if everything’s up to date, and so far the bar is the next station on my to-do list!” She took a deep intake of air, before spiralling once again.
“Okay, so how’s the bar been doing? Sorry, that was rude of me, I should’ve asked how you’ve been doing first! So how have you been? How the bar been treating YOU?” She waited expectantly for an answer.
Husk gravelly responded, “Afternoon, Princess. Bar needs a refill on rye, nothin’ more. And you’re good.” He waved her off, her subtle hint of worry being replaced by a bright beam.
“That’s great! I’ve actually been meaning to get Alastor out of being cooped up in his room all day, so it’d be great if you could go and ask him for a refill on that alcohol!” And just as Husk was about to object to her decision, she scribbled on the clipboard, tongue poking out in concentration, and skipped off merrily, already focused on her next task.
He groaned in agitation, sliding his palm down his face and at the same time contemplating his life choices that lead him up to this very moment. Why did it have to be him, out of all people, being tasked with manning the bar? For God’s sake, it was probably the Boss’ fault in the first place that the hotel currently lacked rye whiskey, the old chap loved the stuff, the same old chap that landed him in this current predicament in the first place. When he first arrived, he didn’t even have enough time to properly mourn the impressive victory he was about to pull for that gambling round before he was abruptly dragged to this blasted hotel, sigh.
Better get this whole ordeal over with.
If this is the last time he walks upon this damned landscape, bury him next to some cheap booze. Maybe he can take it to the next afterlife or whatever, if there even is one after Hell.
He hastily began his journey upstairs, dreading every footfall that bounced off the walls, the creaking of the withering floorboards letting out a shriek of desperation, as though they were warning him of the agony that would ensue if he kept heading in that same direction.
Stubbornly, he carried on, the echoing of his footsteps becoming a mere background noise compared to the thudding of his dead heart, beating against his ribcage and threatening to jump out of his body. Still, he persevered up the winding staircase to the impending doom that awaited him.
Husk took a deep breath, face to face with the intimidating barrier, before he gritted his teeth and twisted the doorknob - crap, he should’ve knocked first, too late to back out now - a single feline ear twitching slightly in confusion as he heard panicked scrambling in the room behind the door, yet, he persisted, pushing it open further until he was given a front row view of inside the radio tower.
“…What the hell?”