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Dim light filled the barroom just enough to make out the silhouettes of other guests, while still allowing one to hide their mind behind shadows that lay flat against the face.
The old bar Alastor sat in was his favorite for precisely that reason. It was tucked away in an ominous alley, the kind where creatures lingered around corners, ready to tear you apart if you gave any sign of weakness.
If he hadn’t already been all the way down in hell, this is what he would have described as rock bottom.
Yet, he felt strangely comfortable there. He would never admit to having emotions beyond anger and perhaps the sharp enjoyment of mockery, but those broken souls made him feel like he was less of a monster.
Mostly, he told himself that he was simply taking whatever he needed, regardless of whose expense it was on.
The barstool beneath him creaked as he shifted, as though the wood itself ached under the weight of his thoughts as much as he did.
In front of him on the counter stood his fourth desperate attempt to drown his mind into silence. Beside him sat his most entertaining experiment yet. An attempt to feel anything other than anger or disgust toward another person, Vox.
The man was yapping as if he were standing on a stage, every spotlight trained on him, but that was neither new nor worthy of Alastor’s attention.
There had been a time when Alastor had almost stopped hating Vox, but that had been a long time ago.
Vox rambled on about the greatness of the mind and the absurdity of placing social chains on oneself when one could simply place them on others instead and make them work for you. He delivered speeches with knives for words, coated in honey, going on about the duality of mankind and how it could be exploited for power together.
Alastor knew Vox was all talk and manipulation, but quite frankly, he didn’t care.
Vox could never come close to him.
He was the type to control others, to turn them into puppets and discard them once they lost their value. Like a child tossing aside a toy, already reaching for the next.
His entire system was built on other people.
Alastor had never relied on anyone.
The clouded rage in his mind was silent and lethal, carved into his soul from the day he was born. It shaped him into the man he was in life, and continued to shape him long after death.
Where he came from, there was no crowd of money and empty promises, no safety net waiting to catch him if he fell. There was only pavement.
He would never give anyone the satisfaction of believing they had even the slightest hand in his success. Or worse even, that they had been part of it.
Alastor tuned back into the conversation at precisely right moment, just before Vox asked him a question.
“Oh, don’t make a fool of yourself, Vincent,” he said cheerfully, hoping to provoke his overly intense companion.
It worked. Vox flushed and launched into a detailed explanation of why he was, in fact, not a fool.
Alastor had already stopped listening. The past clung to him, memories at the bottom of his empty glas reflecting all the emotions he had buried.
Talking to people was easy enough. He was well trained to say just enough to escape a conversation or to ruin it, if he felt like it.
Reflection, however, and acknowledging the possible truth of his inner demons and their tongues, was something else entirely.
He shifted uncomfortably, tugging his clothes back into place and ordering another drink. That earned him a strange look from Vox.
“Damn,” Vox muttered, glancing at him from the corner of his eye as he folded his hands on the bar. “Are you trying to get wasted?”
Alastor didn’t look up. For a fleeting moment, he was caught in a single thought he had avoided for far too long but was planning on doing so eternity.
Usually, Vox talked endlessly about his plans to dominate one person or another. Calling it a conversation instead of an egocentric monologue was already generous.
But Vox was right, Alastor had stared too deeply into his glass tonight, and he was going to regret it.
“Vincent,” he said casually, a crooked grin stretching across his face as he took a comically large sip from his drink. “What would you say seems to be your greatest fear?”
Vox stared at him, utterly confused, a flicker of terror creeping into his expression. Never before had Alastor asked him something personal and certainly not without mockery or insincerity dripping from his voice.
“Uh… is that a trap?” he stammered, grimacing under Alastor’s unwavering stare.
The Radio Demon didn’t move. He simply watched. Vox began to feel as though time itself was running out. If this was the only moment in history where Alastor showed genuine interest in him, he wasn’t about to waste it. At least thats what he thought. Or wanted to believe.
“I guess…” he began, thinking far harder than he liked. “Being forgotten. Losing importance.”
The words settled and regret followed instantly. Why the hell had he told Alastor that?
But Alastor barely reacted. He turned back toward the bar, his posture giving nothing away.
The room filled with smoke and disappointment, scattered laughter from drunken brutes echoing through the tables, and the distant hum of music lingering in the background.
“Why do you want to know that?” Vox finally asked, unsettled by the sudden shift in Alastor’s mood. He didn’t dare return the question, despite his curiosity.
Perhaps that would be the night Alastor finally ended him. Then again, dying a second time tonight might not be so bad if it held the change of getting actual information about the man next to him.
“What’s yours?” he asked anyway, gathering every ounce of fake confidence he had left.
Against all expectations, Alastor didn’t attack him. In fact, he said nothing at all for a long while. Then he spoke, his sculpted smile barely clinging to his face anymore.
“How do you suppose she managed to redeem the snake?”
After a second of perplexity about the change of topic, Vox shrugged, crossing his arms in front of him. “No idea. Why?” he asked, a sarcastic tone slipping into his voice. “Scared you can’t be saved?”
The sarcasm was followed by a warning glare from Alastor, sharp enough to pierce straight through whatever was left of his soul.
The bar was nearly empty now. Open windows invited the cold night air inside, a silent suggestion to leave, as the music faded into nothing.
Their conversation ended there. Vox was smart enough not to bring it up again.
Perhaps Alastor was afraid. But not of being beyond redemption.
Quite the opposite.
What if he reached Heaven, only to face the people he once loved, when that word had still held meaning, back when he still remembered how it felt?
They wouldn’t recognize him anymore.
He was nothing but the monster they had made him.