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There was silence at first, then came the noise.
Cries of offended outrage— Vaggie and Cherry, both glaring up to the sky in shared dismay— Cheers of excitement— genuine from Charlie along with a clueless-but-no-less-enthusiastic Nifty who just wanted to join in the celebration— A general sense of utter and sheer confusion— Lucifer and Baxter shared looks of bewilderment and curiosity— Laughter bordering on hysterics carried with the beat of a fist on a wooden surface— Husk. Of course he'd find this funny. All laced with a potent does of disbelief.
Then there was the static. Ignored despite the ear piercing quality that slowly shimmered down into white noise. The perfect backdrop for such mind numbing event.
'What event?' one might ask. 'What could cause such cocktail of responses all at once from the colorful residents of the Hazbin Hotel', another might add.
Well, to put it in the simplest terms and avoid a— most likely futile— attempt at summarizing a long story packaged within charged emotions and tremendous conversations, the inciting indecent was redemption.
Vox's redemption.
Vox the Overlord of Media. Vox, the leader of the formidable and vile Vees. Vox, who'd earned his supposed eternal damnation fair and square with serial killing and a mass murder-suicide. Vox, who'd nearly burned Hell and Heaven with stolen holy flames in the wake of a colossal mental and emotional breakdown that had been 70 years in the making and experienced unheard of levels of ego death there after.
That Vox.
And he was redeemed. Just like that. With a flair of golden light, sudden and quick and blinding. One second he was there, the next he was gone. Up to the pearly gates he tried to force his way through. To the squeaky clean roads he wished to walk on. Among the holy and noble souls he wanted to control. In Heaven.
Vox is in Heaven.
He did it. Somehow he did it. How did he do it? He wasn't suppose to do it.
Oh God, Vox was redeemed.
Redeemed and gone.
And Charlie is over the moon because of it. Why wouldn't she? Not only was this another Sinner to enter Heaven, he was an Overlord. An Overlord who was considered to be unredeemable by both above and bellow. Angel, Sinner, or Hellborn, no one can deny the effectiveness of he hotel anymore. If the it managed to redeem someone like Vox, them anyone can try and expect succuss.
All in all, and even with all the rightfully bewildered responses, this is a massive victory for Charlie. For them all.
Once everyone had their fill of expression and vocalizations of opinions, and the static shock melted off of their shoulder into textured sludge, chatters filled the foreground but the white noise remained in the background, low constant drone going unnoticed under the cover of questions and excited words too quick to catch.
What an unusual day. Lucifer looked in Alastor's direction, who hadn't moved a single muscle from where he was standing— or in his face, expression frozen in an open mouthed smile, eyes wide, postured leaning heavily on his cane. For once, Lucifer can't fault him. He's probably the most shocked out of everyone.
Deciding to play nice this time in the sprit of this— frankly absurd— happy event, Lucifer nudged Alastor's elbow with his staff— see, he was even being considerate enough not to touch him directly! Charlie will be so proud— and said "Good for you, guess you won't have to deal with your flat faced stalker anymore, eh, eh?"
He expected a pleased 'humm', or an 'about time' or even a 'not how I expected this pest problem to be resolve but why not!', you know, just things that Bambi would say in this scenario before walking away to do Father knows what and carry on with his day like nothing Hell-shattering happened.
Except that was not what he got. The white noise persisted even when Lucifer pushed with his staff a bit harder, poked more and more in a rate that he knew for a fact would be the panicle of annoyance. Still just white noise, maybe some odd radio static here and there. As if Alastor's head was completely empty, thoughts halted, unable to proceed pass the point of surprise. Honestly, it started to unnerve him a little.
"Uh, Char-char," He called to his daughter "I think the bellhop is broken." Another poke, strong enough to nearly topple the red monolith to the ground "I think he's…" Lucifer searched for the right word "buffering?" That doesn't seem right. "Can a radio buffer?" He looked at her
Charlie turned to Alastor in concern, suddenly able to hear the hissing of static coming from him. "Maybe," She hesitated, getting closer, smile frozen on her face in that nervous way it does when she wants to keep up the spirit "Maybe he just needs a moment?"
"I don't know, sweetie," Lucifer reply with skepticism, still poking at Alastor even when it's clear that it won't get a response "I think he's jammed or something." He went for another poke before his darling daughter placed a hand on his staff to stop him, such a sweet girl. "I don't think this is helping, dad." her smile turned found when it was directed at him.
"I'd say," they both turned to find Cherry Bomb standing behind them "Let's ask the creepy TV dude but I guess that's out of question now, is it." She crossed her arms shooting the Heavens a quick glare.
Before either of the Morningstars could respond the air went still and, most importantly, silent. They never realized how… present, the sound was until it were gone. The vacancy was all too clear, heavy in an oppressive way. Alastor still didn't move. Then his ear twitched.
Charlie elected to take this as a good sign and moved closer. "Hey Al?' She carefully called to him "Are you… OK?" No response. Another twitch. Then-
A second explosion of noise, this time cause by one man. Cheers, applause, laughter, as if someone entered a stage, and Alastor's head turned to her with a crack to flavor the surrounding sounds. "Of course I am! Why wouldn't I be?!" He turned his body "Contrary to popular believe, I do appreciate a well executed, carefully curated prank!" The invisible audience 'ohh' ed and 'ahh'ed at the 'revelation'.
Charlie traded looks with her dad before looking back at Alastor and repeated, in a tentative, semi-fearful voice "Prank?"
"Why yes my dear!" Alastor threw his arms in the air in a true showman fashion "Pranks, jests, practical jokes, a little fun! Whatever you call it these days!" He laughed "A tasteful trick always tickles the ribs" His voice seemed to hide a double meaning within the grainy filter of static, and she didn't want to linger on it for long. Not when there was some sort of— misunderstanding? Could this be called such? It was obvious what happened before all their eyes, was it not?
She leaned closer, but not too close, trying to look him in the eye as she asked "What prank? What do you think is the joke here?" She has an idea but she wanted to be sure. She had a feeling that she might need to dredge this carefully.
The look Alastor gave her was so condescending she raised her hand to stop her dad and Vaggi from saying something. "The one Vox, so, very obviously, is pulling, of course." He answered with certainty, and now all eyes are on them, thankfully, they all had the sense to not say anything yet— Husk went as far as to cover Niffty's mouth, just in case.
Alastor must've sense something regardless and proceed to roll his eyes "I must say, that was quite the show he put there!" He pointed his staff where the miracle happened just few minutes ago "All that light, and practical effects. I have no idea where or when he hid all his little tools and machines, and without me knowing, too!" He let out a chuckle that sounded more like the changing of stations on a radio than a voice, staff landing in it's usual place in front of him "Then again," Alastor thought out loud, and Charlie wondered if it was for their benefit or his own "He always claimed that visual medium is his specialty. I suppose I could admit that he might have a point. A small one. Every now and then." He didn't sound bitter at that, oddly enough.
"Alright!" Alastor raised his voice, and that made them jump "Show's over!" He started to turn around the room as he called out "You got our positively amusing reactions, and your laughs. you can come out now, Vox!" He sounded chipper. Charlie looked to the others and everyone was either exchanging looks charged with mixed emotions of discomfort or just staring at Alastor like he lost his mind. Charlie, for one, felt lost on how to navigate this situation.
"Come on Vox! Aren't you going to take a bow? It is rude to leave your audience waiting!" He walked around the room, projecting his voice more "I know you hosted enough shows to know that. Don't tell me that the little time you spent away from the cameras had made you forget! I would be even more disappointed in you than I already am if that is the case!" He paused a little, ear flicking minutely, then continued with his punch line "Which is something I never thought is possible. You sure are full of surprised today, sweetheart!" His phantom audience laughed at his joke.
Charlie can't take it anymore. This was- She didn't know what to name it, sad, unexpected, a spectacle, a spiral? Either way, she need to tell Alastor while holding his hand. Metaphorically, of course.
"Hey, Alastor?" She gently tried to grab his attention but was immediately brushed away with a 'Not now Charlie.' before he continued calling out to some one they all know won't hear. Another look around, and some looks morphed into outright pity. That was not a good sign.
"Alastor" she tried again, with more firmness but he just ignored her this time, telling that air that 'he' can't go slacking off now. Third time's the charm.
And it was, if only because her dad, Lucifer, the king of Hell, and most importantly, someone who never got along with Alastor decided to just use a verbal blunt force trauma to delver the news through Alastor's skull "He can't hear you, so stop with the ugly noise. Your voice is giving me a headache." he mumbled the last part.
Charlie flinched, but it worked. Alastor stopped calling for Vox "Whatever is it that you mean, your highness?" He didn't turn to them and from this angle only Husk and Niffty can see his face. Whatever his expression is, it had even Niffty concerned. That was a bad sign.
At least she has his attention now. They can slow down, be more cautious, handle this with care. "Al, Alastor, I don't think that was a-" She pressed her lips together for a moment before finishing "prank. I don't think that was a prank." She repeated for a good measure.
Another flick, lower, she never realized how expressive his ears were "What do you mean by that" his voice retained a normal, although a bit less cheerful tone. No one could tell there was a storm brewing below if not for the more than usual statics lacing them. Air is charged with noise and ghost of electricity. A distinct hum. "I mean that- well, how do I say it?" She muttered under her breath, loud enough for a well intended father to hear and 'help'. "She means that he got redeemed." Well, it was out in the air, not that it didn't saturate it to begin with, and this time, he seemed to feel it too, if the feedback was to be believed. "What?" It seems that Alastor didn't believe it.
Her dad, still in his helpful mood decided to drive the point further "I said he was redeemed. Keep up, Bellhop, you were here when it happen, weren't you? You saw him literally ascend and move into my old home."
Alastor's shoulder begin to shake, and for a wild, unbelievable moment, Charlie thought that he was crying, but no, he wasn't crying, he was laughing like he heard the best joke out there. "Ah, you are either messing with me on your own accord, or Vox had managed to somehow convince you to get in on this increasingly ridiculous joke of his." Alastor wiped away a tear from his dry eyes "He really should stop now. This is getting less amusing and teetering on annoying. It'd be a shame if he ruined this with his ambition, as he does everything."
Charlie decided to soften the blow and approached Alastor with light steps and lighter voice "I know it is hard to believe but dad is telling the truth." That got him to look at her again, is that a good sign? She can't tell even as his eyes turned to mock surprise and hurt "You too, Charlie?" He gasped dramatically, and went as far as to place his hand on his head, fingers threading through red strands. "Now what in the world did that silly Picture Box tell you to get you on board with his antics? I simply must know!" More laughter. This is more difficult than she thought.
Before she could say something more another voice beat her "They are not fucking with you, Alastor. So get your head out of your ass and listen for once." Husk had bravely thrown his hat in the ring not flinching as the static accumulated around him, almost as physical as a hord of insects "My! I knew your use of vulgar language is indiscriminate, Husker, but I thought that you knew better than to let lose around me." Was Alastor getting taller? Oh, his eyes are doing the dial thing, and yes, he was getting bigger "Someone should wash that tongue of yours with soap if not just rip it ou-" "Vox is gone." And pause. On Alastor's words, on his growth, on his static, something about the way Husk said it must've gotten him to listen, or maybe it was because, out of everyone in the Hotel, Husk is the least likely to help Vox with anything unnecessary— even if they had few honest heart to heart— let alone something as feverous as a prank.
Whichever it was, it got Alastor to stop.
It was tense. The air was heavy. The grainy feeling of statics is sand and pebbles on skin. No one dared to breath as they waited for Alastor to finish processing. Hoping that he will skip over to acceptance rather than moving to the expected anger.
Alastor didn't say anything. The weight of the situation was getting to a point where it would fold the ground and crumble the ceiling. Husk, armed with a piacular mix of cynicism, depression, and— with Vox gone— knowing Alastor longer and better than anyone in this room, maybe even Hell, pushed further "Don't believe me? Why not check for his signal? You both always had this freaky frequency thing going on between you two even when you actively tried to tear each other limb from fucking limb."
It was an admittedly sound suggestion.
One that Alastor seemed to follow as his ears started to move, rotating and tilting to face different direction— adjusting— like he was listening for something no one else could. Like a pair of antennae being moved whichever way to pick the best signal. His eyes are still dials and they are moving in a way she never seen them do before, not the ticking of a timer running out in frequency format, but like they are actually being tuned onto something with increasing speed.
They know what he'll find— what he'll not find— even without the increasingly jittery— almost frantic— way his everything moved. They know without the need to hear Alastor's own permanent audience whispering and murmuring like their show is not going how they were expecting it to. They knew without looking at the shadow's frown they barely caught as it zipped by. They knew. All of them.
Now they just need for Alastor to know.
And he did. He did in a waterfall of statics, hitting the floor and leaves nothing but silence in their wake. The static is gone, so suddenly, so unexpectedly.
Just like Vox.
And then Alastor is gone too.
Melting into the shadows, sinking below. An opposite direction.
And even then, the room did not breath.
Screams.
Not an unusual sound when in the presence of the Radio Demon. But sometimes there is also the quite, when everyone is either dead and no one left to make a sound, or when the fear is so potent and thick it chokes the noise out of their throats, the air out of their lungs. But it was getting less and less, just as the screams are getting loader and louder, so much so they become a siren that heralds his approach. His hunger. His emptiness.
A rain of noise to mimic the missing brand of static. A wall of sound to block unpleasant wavelengths of unwarranted thoughts. A sea of voices to drown out the urge to do- do something. Something useless. Something unreasonable. Something completely and utterly pathetic.
Like turning Pride upside down. Like finding a way to terrorize the other rings until they fuzz out. To find his own way to preach the Heavens in a moment of insanity that mirrors Vox's.
Even thinking of that name bring up frustration with no bounds or outlet, for the rightful target is apparently somewhere Alastor cannot touch. Let alone go to.
And he refuses to find a way. He refuses to follow. Not through the same channel Vox used, certainly not. He had already humiliated himself enough by visiting that tower. By going through every floor personally to make sure his shadows did not miss a single thing. By confronting Vox's very confused business partners and demanding that they tell him that Picture Box's whereabout at once. By being the first to tell them the ridiculous news, thinking that they would understand, laugh at the impossibility of it, agree that it must be some joke that went too far if not just tell him where that imbecile went. But no. They just looked at him blankly before asking if Vox is truly gone, and then racing all the way to the hotel, leaving Alastor with the undeniable urge to scream.
But it doesn't stop there. He is still humiliating himself, standing in front of the bar where his last drink with Vox was, where it all fell apart and everything changed, where Vox changed everything then had the gall to act like he didn't do anything to instigate the beginning of the end.
Alastor hadn't been here in years.
He went in anyway.
It's not like he'd run into him. It's not like he'll open the door and see him sitting in their— now his— usual spot. Being all foolish and sentimental and weak. Waiting for Alastor to show up, thinking that things would go back to how they were based on something as flimsy as location.
Vox isn't there, and Alastor does not order his drink to wash away the nonexistent disappointment.
The barkeep is wise enough to keep his mouth shut and just do his job.
Good. Alastor is in no mood for ideal chatter. Especially here.
Couple of drinks. Couple of hours. Time moves on. People come and go. That noisy door squeak away with every face that shows itself, floor board cry with age and different weights. Alastor pays them no mind. His ears did not perk at each sound. His shadow does not keep an eye on the door. He is not waiting for anyone.
He does not glance at the vacant seat besides him with increasing times as the night goes on.
His does not broaden his range to catch any signals. That would be foolish. He won't catch any.
His range might be vast, but it won't reach Heaven.
He scoffs. Heaven. What a joke.
That place must be a fraud. It really is. letting someone like Vox in.
Because people like him never belongs there. People like them never belong there.
In the low lighting, filled with a buzz that has nothing with the missing statics, in a familiar place, Alastor was able to admit that he and Vox share that much.
Shared. Past tense. Because he's not the unredeemable monster Alastor related to. Because the princess and her staff had fixed him, and Alastor wanted to tear his hair out because despite what everyone says and think— despite all the impressed masses, and new found hope, and the flood of sinners wishing for redemption— Alastor knows what they actually did. That they ruined him.
They ruined his Vox.
They ruined him so much that he is gone somewhere Alastor cannot go to drag him back.
He can't bring him back.
And just like that, it sunk in.
Vox is gone. He left him. Left Alastor behind.
And it was the crack in the ice, with the sound of the glass in his hand and the feeling of the blood on his balm.
Vox Left him.
His scalp faintly burns.
He had outgrown him. Became the bigger person Charlie told him he should be to move on.
Lights are dimming. His vision is tunneling.
And Alastor can't even accuse him of not trying.
Jumbled sounds are distant and muffled
Because Vox tried to talk to him. In his time in the hotel. He approached Alastor, carefully, not circling him like the shark he fancied himself as. Asked if they could talk, about their past, about that day, about why Alastor reacted so strongly because he 'just wanted to understand, Al.'
More blood on his balm. Wood splintering and giving under his claws.
And what did Alastor do? He laughed. Again. Just like last time. A broken record repeating the past with jagged edges. He made sure to twist them even deeper.
"Maybe it's not that there are no friends in Hell, maybe it's just that I don't want to be your friend. Maybe no one wants to be your friend."
And Alastor sees yet another permanent crack being made on Vox's heart. The eyes were truly the windows to the soul, and Vox's had always been particularly clear, all thin glass and no curtains. The frame never mattered.
Vincent. Vox. he was always the same. It was ironic. It was charming.
Alastor never wanted him to change.
Yet he was the one to push him to. Oh, the irony.
He can't blame Vox or the princess, can he? No, no. They have some blame to carry. Just like him. It was a collaborative effort.
The dark red of Hell's 'night time' seeping through the considerably sized hole on the ceiling's glass dome, leaking and mixing with equally dark blood staining the floor.
Maybe that would get this establishment to close.
The thought chipped on yet another part of him.
He gained his freedom, and the universe saw it fit to have him lose so much. He hasn't felt such loss since his dear mother.
And doesn't that say something.
She is in Heaven too…
Heaven. It takes from him. What a Godly place it is. Wasn't Hell supposed to deal these punishments?
He is not surprised. Heaven had always had an undeniable edge to it. The most dangerous type. A cruelty hidden by layers upon layers of shining gold and soft clouds. After all, what mercy is there to expect from a place that would toss its own brightest creation into a place of eternal damnation for the slightest of missteps-
And the clarity rings.
Because if Angels can fall and Sinners can rise, then who to say that the Sinners cant's fall as well?
Who to say that it won't take the smallest of sparks to lit up the sky with a lovely fallen star? One of electric blue and unforgettable voice and never ending statics.
Vox would make a striking sight as he descends in a blaze that matched his ambition to his rightful place.
They might have ruined him, and Alastor might have broken him, but he can also fix him.
Because if Alastor can't come to him, can't hold that fascinating picture box for a head, can't look into those exquisite eyes, can't guide him with a gentle hand on the lower back or ruthless claws on the arm, then he'll just make Vox come to him, the same way angels fell from the sky.
Because Alastor knows that Vox was never meant to ascend, to live among the pure and virtuous. He was a creature of sin and temptation. Of sharpness and blood. Of all that is wrong with humanity, bundled in a glowing bouquet for him to appreciate.
Alastor should have done so when he had the chance.
It is no issue. He knows better now.
He'll make sure to have a beautiful vase for when he take him back.
Vox will merely put on a new show, that is all. And Alastor will make sure that it won't end this time.
