Work Text:
The five-second countdown on monitors throughout Pentagram City was replaced by the deafening roar of electric guitars. Billboards, shop windows, and even the old tube TVs in the slums erupted in a single flash of bright blue flame.
The center of the screen was claimed by a face every sinner knew: a perfectly flat screen, a white-toothed grin, and eyes radiating a hypnotic trance. Vox was on the air.
"Good night, sinners!" — his voice vibrated with anticipation, laced with a faint crackle of static. "Tired of the same old red rocks and the view of a dreary Pentagram? Feel like your existence is lacking... refinement?"
He snapped his fingers. The camera abruptly shifted perspective, soaring skyward. There, in the very heart of V-Tower, piercing the crimson clouds of Hell, it loomed. Massive, steel, entwined in miles of LED strips, and crowned with a gargantuan "V" logo.
"I present to you: the 'Vox-Eiffel'!" the media demon proclaimed, throwing his arms wide in a theatrical gesture against the backdrop of his new creation. "Three hundred meters of pure superiority, broadcasting my signal straight into your synapses! This isn't just a hunk of iron; it’s the symbol of a new era. An era where style meets technology, and old traditions..."
Vox fell silent for a second, and his pupils narrowed into thin slits, mimicking digital interference.
"...simply rust in the shadow of my progress. Oh, by the way, it’s a shopping mall."
The tower flared so brightly that for a moment it eclipsed the radiance of the very halo above Hell. From every crossbeam, from every span, the image was broadcast: Vox, Valentino, Velvette.
...
The Hazbin Hotel lobby was in its usual state of chaos, but this time the source wasn't the typical destruction—it was a massive neon haze bleeding through the panoramic windows. Vox’s advertising campaign was working flawlessly; the light from his new "Vox-Eiffel" was so intense that the shadows in the room took on a distinct, toxic blue tint.
Charlie, her nose literally pressed against the glass, looked as if she were beholding the eighth wonder of the world. Her eyes shimmered with the reflected digital glow.
"Just look at that!" she cried out ecstatically, throwing her hands up. "It’s... it’s culture! Parisian charm right here in our own backyard! It’s the perfect spot for team building. We could all take a stroll there together!"
Angel Dust, sprawling in his chair with a bag of salty chips, lazily stretched with all four arms. "Screw redemption, Princess—but did you see the cocktail bars they must have on those upper tiers? If that Picture Box didn't skimp on the lighting, just imagine the top-shelf booze they've got. Husk, kitty-cat, you absolutely have to take me there. I won’t survive if I miss the biggest ritz of the decade!"
Husk, grumpily polishing a glass behind the bar, only snorted: "Angel, it's a sucker trap. They'll bleed you dry and then force-feed you forty hours of toothpaste commercials on repeat."
"Oh, come on, whiskers!" — Angel vaulted over the bar and draped himself around the cat’s neck, cooing directly into his ear. "There’s gonna be a VIP lounge, free samples, and a whole herd of sugar daddies. You wouldn’t just leave me there all alone in the clutches of those showbiz sharks, would you?"
After a minute of heavy sighs and Angel’s promise "not to hit the hard stuff too early," Husk caved, muttering something about his hopeless fate. Vaggie, who was initially dead-set against any scheme hatched by the Vees, softened under Charlie’s puppy-dog eyes. One kiss on the cheek and a fiery speech about "broadening their horizons" later, and the Exorcist's spear was finally set aside.
The real trouble awaited Charlie in the depths of the hall. There, in two armchairs by the fireplace, sat the ones whose presence was essential for "family unity," but whose egos could have filled three such towers.
Lucifer Morningstar, looking thoroughly disgusted, examined a brochure that had magically materialized in his hands. "The Eiffel Tower? Seriously?" The King of Hell pursed his lips into a pout. "That television upstart stole an idea from mortals and didn’t even bother to change the design? I’ve built entire theme parks out of pure magic, Char-Char! Why on earth would I want to look at this heap of scrap metal?"
Opposite him, maintaining his unwavering, frozen smile, sat Alastor. The Radio Demon displayed neither anger nor interest—only the deepest, most sincere contempt. Radio static rippled out from him in waves, snuffing out the blue glow from the window.
"For once, I am in complete agreement with Your Majesty," Alastor sang, flipping a page of his newspaper. "It’s vulgar. Tasteless. And, quite frankly, it smells of cheap electricity. I prefer to spend my evenings to the tune of classical jazz, rather than under the flickering of this... digital tumor."
Charlie took a deep breath. It was time for the heavy artillery.
"Dad..." She stepped toward Lucifer and took his hands in hers. "You always used to say that Hell needs to evolve. Aren't you even a little curious to see how your subjects are using their talents? Besides... the view of the city must be incredible from up there. We could take a few great selfies... I mean, portraits! Together. Like a family."
Lucifer wavered. The word "family" always acted on him like a magic spell. He shot a quick glance at Alastor, then back to his daughter. "Well... if it’s for the sake of quality time with you..." He straightened up, adjusting his hat. "Fine. Но if it smells like cheap trash in there, I’m turning that tower into a rubber duckie!"
"Brilliant!" Charlie spun toward Alastor. "Alastor? Please? The whole hotel is going! If you don't come, it's going to look like you're... well... afraid of Vox?"
A dead silence fell over the hall. For a split second, Alastor’s static morphed into the harsh screech of an old needle dragging across a vinyl record. His eyes transformed into glowing radio dials.
"Afraid?" His voice dropped an octave, taking on a chilling resonance. "My dear Charlie, I do appreciate your attempt at manipulation. It was almost talented."
He rose slowly, leaning on his microphone cane. His smile widened, baring rows of sharp, yellowed teeth.
"Well, if that screen-headed buffoon craves attention so desperately, I shall do him a favor. It will be quite amusing to see the look on his face when I give him a live demonstration of the difference between a fleeting trend and true power. Let us go. The show promises to be... a disaster."
...
The elevator, gleaming with cold chrome and neon azure, hissed softly as its doors slid open at the observation deck. The Hazbin Hotel crew stepped out onto the mirrored floor, and before them lay a view that would make any ordinary sinner’s head spin: all of Pentagram City was spread out at their feet, etched with the crimson veins of its streets, while the massive "V" logo pulsed overhead.
In the center of the hall, flooded by the light of hundreds of hidden spotlights, stood Vox. His screen shimmered with high-definition clarity, and his suit looked as if it were stitched from liquid pixels. Catching sight of the new arrivals, he threw his arms wide, and triumphant fanfares erupted from the concealed speakers.
"Oh, look who finally decided to crawl out of their dusty little shelter for losers!" Vox crooned, his voice broadcasting simultaneously in the hall and across millions of screens outside. "Charlie, darling, welcome to the future! And... well, well, even His Majesty is here. What an honor for my humble little enterprise."
Alastor took a step forward. His microphone cane struck the metallic floor with a dull thud, and a barely perceptible ripple of static raced across the walls, distorting Vox’s perfect high-definition image. The Radio Demon tilted his head to the side, and the sound of an old, scratched record filled the space.
"'Humble' is perhaps the only accurate word in this entire pile of tastelessness," Alastor purred, his eyes fluttering shut, his smile sharp as a razor. "You know, Vox, I’ve always marveled at your knack for building massive monuments to your own insecurity. So much electricity wasted just to... appear taller? How quaint. It reminds me of a tiny lapdog barking its lungs out, terrified it won't be noticed in the tall grass."
Vox’s screen flickered for a split second into a "system error" crash report, while red sparks of fury crackled and danced around the corners of his monitor.
"My 'insecurity' just boosted the Pride Ring's ratings by three hundred percent, you archaic moron!" the media mogul spat, stepping directly into Alastor’s personal space. "While you’re rotting away in your radio waves, rehashing century-old jokes, I’m building an empire. You’re just afraid to admit that your time ran out right along with the gramophones."
Vox shifted his gaze toward Lucifer, who had his arms crossed over his chest, looking utterly exhausted.
"And by the way, Your Majesty," Vox added acidly, "thank you for bringing along your... 'pet.' It's heartening to see that even the King of Hell doesn't mind rooting through the garbage of the past. I suppose stagnation is a Morningstar family trait, isn't it?"
Lucifer snapped. In an instant, his pupils narrowed to slits, and his horns briefly manifested from beneath his hat.
"Listen here, you two narcissistic idiots!" Lucifer barked, wedging himself between them. "Enough! We didn't come here to listen to your pathetic exchange of pleasantries. I am here for my daughter! We are a family, we are a team, and we came here to spend time TOGETHER, enjoying..." he swept his hand across the empty hall, "...this questionable celebration of technology. Right, everyone?"
Lucifer spun around with a flourish, fully expecting to see the supportive nods and cheers of the hotel residents backing him up—but his words simply hung there in a ringing, hollow void.
Behind him stood absolutely no one—only a few total strangers, random demons passing by without a second glance.
The second the doors slid open, Angel Dust had spotted a sign reading "V-Bar: Unlimited Ecstasy" and, without wasting a heartbeat, dragged a resisting Husk along with him. Charlie, catching sight of an exclusive merch shop filled with "peace and harmony" symbols (at least, according to the Vees’ interpretation), excitedly hauled Vaggie away, explaining that they absolutely needed souvenirs for the Hotel archives. From a far corner where the arcade cabinets were lined up, the sounds of explosions and Niffty’s maniacal laughter drifted over, mingled with Cherri Bomb’s creative swearing and some dry, scientific commentary from Baxter.
Lucifer froze, his hand still outstretched, as his shoulders slowly slumped. For a fleeting moment, Alastor and Vox forgot their rivalry, looking in sync toward the empty hall before slowly turning to face each other.
"It seems," Alastor drawled, his voice practically dripping with venom, "that 'family unity' evaporated at the very first whiff of bargain-bin discounts and questionable spirits."
"You can say that again," Vox scoffed, checking a notification on his smartwatch. "The irony is that..."
Suddenly, his screen flashed a brilliant, vivid pink. Vox flinched, his face twisting into a frantic cocktail of delight and pure panic. From the speaker came the whiny, drawn-out voice of Valentino:
"Voooooxie, babe! I need you! Some moron in the studio just spilled coffee on my favorite furs, and one of the girls is refusing to shoot without insurance! Fix it right now, or I will tear your tower down brick by brick!"
Vox rolled his eyes with practiced drama, smoothing his tie. "Ugh, Val... he simply can't handle a thing without me, can he?"
He turned to Lucifer and Alastor, a smug smirk playing across his screen. "Well then, gentlemen, enjoy yourselves. You can go back to debating whose suit looks more ridiculous. I have far more important matters to attend to than babysitting a fallen angel and a talking deer. Make yourselves at home... though it’s not as if you could afford anything here anyway."
With those words, Vox dissolved into a burst of electric sparks and vanished instantly into the nearest power outlet.
An awkward silence settled between them. Lucifer slowly straightened his hat, pointedly avoiding Alastor's gaze. Alastor, for his part, began to examine his fingernails with an air of exaggerated interest.
"So..." Lucifer began, clearing his throat. "It’s just the two of us. With you. In this tin box."
"Oh," Alastor’s grin widened to a predatory stretch, the air around him beginning to hiss and crackle with radio static once more, "it seems the evening promises to be truly... agonizing."
The silence that reigned after Vox’s dramatic exit was deafening. Lucifer adjusted his cuffs with meticulous care, doing his absolute best to avoid looking at the Radio Demon’s lanky silhouette.
"Well..." The King of Hell made a vague, sweeping gesture toward the endless mirrored corridors pulsing with neon light. "Since we’ve been abandoned to our fate in this digital nightmare, I suppose we should at least find an exit. Or a bar. Or... whatever it is these modern demons even build nowadays?"
Alastor, whose static momentarily hissed into a low hum, tilted his head sharply, his ears twitching toward Lucifer. His smile shifted, becoming—for once—almost... polite.
"Oh, Your Majesty, I am entirely at your disposal!" he sang out, dropping into a mocking half-bow. "Consider me your faithful guide through this kingdom of tackiness. Wherever you wish to go, I shall follow you like a loyal shadow."
Lucifer narrowed his eyes. Such sudden zeal from Alastor usually meant one of two things: either he was plotting something catastrophic, or he was bored out of his mind.
"You... are actually agreeing to spend time with me? Just like that?" Lucifer started forward, his skepticism thick as he moved. His apple-topped cane gave a sharp, rhythmic clack-clack against the metal floor. Alastor fell into step beside him, moving soundlessly and adjusting his stride with eerie precision to match the short King's pace. "You know, I expected you to dissolve into those shadows of yours the very second Vox vanished. Why are you still here, instead of on the other side of the tower, as far away from my 'suffocation presence' as possible?"
Alastor let out a short chuckle, sounding like the dry crackle of an old film reel.
"Oh, heavens, have mercy!" he exclaimed, pressing a hand to his chest with theatrical flair. "Do you truly think so poorly of me? I simply thought it would be dreadfully irresponsible to leave our diminutive majesty all alone in such a vast and convoluted place. What if you were to get lost among all these flashing screens? Or, heaven forbid, accidentally press the wrong button and find yourself transformed into a digital advertisement for laundry detergent? I should never forgive myself!"
Lucifer came to a dead halt and fixed the demon with a heavy, suspicious look from under his brow—the classic "from the bottom up" stare dictated by their height difference.
"Since when do you care whether I’m alone or not?" he shot back skeptically. "Usually, you look as though you’re dreaming of feeding me to those shadows of yours at the very first opportunity. Why this sudden concern, 'faithful guide'?"
Alastor didn't even blink. His dial-like pupils flickered ever so slightly, catching the cold blue glint of the neon corridor.
"It’s quite simple, Sire," his voice smoothed into a velvet purr, laced with a delicate hint of irony. "Should anything happen to you in this establishment, Charlie would be inconsolable. And a distressed princess makes for such a tiresome atmosphere at the hotel! Besides..." He leaned in closer to Lucifer, his grin sharpening. "Watching the expression on your face in this 'temple of progress' is a far more exquisite entertainment than even the finest jambalaya."
"You are insufferable," Lucifer grumbled, though he resumed his walk regardless. However, a telltale golden hue betrayingly dusted his cheeks. The King truly hadn't expected such words from someone he considered his rival.
They bypassed the "V-Fashion" zone and the "Digital Zoo," eventually emerging onto a sprawling terrace designed in a bizarre, eclectic style.
Suddenly, Lucifer froze. His pupils dilated, and his breath hitched in his throat.
Right in front of them, a sign pulsed with a vibrant glow: "L'Canard Électrique"
It was a themed café where literally everything—from the door handles to the shape of the light fixtures—was crafted in the likeness of ducks. Blue neon ducks swam through virtual ponds projected onto the walls, drake-shaped waiter droids scurried between tables, and in the very center stood a fountain spewing sparkling lemonade around a colossal golden duck wearing a crown.
"Oh... my... Devil..." Lucifer breathed out, his voice a hushed reverie. If his tail were visible, it would undoubtedly be wagging with pure, unadulterated delight. "They have ducks with little antennas! And television ducks! This is... this is genius! This is the only worthwhile thing in this entire building!"
The King was practically flying toward the entrance, but he faltered right on the threshold. He turned back toward Alastor, fully expecting to see a look of utmost, soul-deep revulsion plastered across the demon’s face.
"Listen," Lucifer coughed awkwardly, smoothing his coat in a desperate attempt to reclaim his regal poise. "I get it. This is... a specific kind of place. You're undoubtedly about to say this is moronic and go off to find a jazz lounge or a kitchen that serves raw meat. So... beat it. I can handle things here on my own. See you at the exit in an hour."
Lucifer had already braced himself for the Radio Demon to vanish, dissolving into the shadows. However, to his utter astonishment, Alastor didn't even flinch. Instead, he simply adjusted his monocle and, with an inscrutable smile, swept past Lucifer and into the café.
"Whatever are you talking about, Your Majesty?" Alastor pulled out a chair adorned with yellow feathers with the casual air of a man who owned the place. "I did promise not to leave your side. Besides, I am deathly curious to discover the taste of coffee in an establishment where the aesthetic is... ahem... so 'vibrant.' Do sit down. We mustn't keep these mechanical poultry waiting."
Lucifer stood there, mouth agape, watching as Alastor—the living embodiment of nightmares and old-world sensibilities—unfalteringly made himself at home in a duck-shaped armchair.
"You... you're seriously staying?" Lucifer asked suspiciously, taking the seat opposite him.
"Most assuredly," Alastor replied, picking up a menu shaped like a rubber duck. "Someone must ensure you don’t buy out the entire inventory and transform the Hotel into a satellite branch of a bathtub. Order away, Sire. The show must go on."
...
The King of Hell watched with childlike wonder as a tiny meringue, shaped like a yellow duckling, bobbed peacefully in his coffee. Alastor, meanwhile, stared with an inscrutable expression at his own drink—something blood-red and viscous, served, much to his profound chagrin, in a glass featuring a curly straw in the shape of a swan's neck.
The silence was broken by a rhythmic clink: Lucifer had begun mechanically tapping his spoon against the rim of his cup, drumming out a jaunty march.
"You know," Lucifer said suddenly, still not lifting his gaze from the floating meringue, "I have one particular duck at home. It’s crafted from the purest obsidian, and when you squeeze it, it belches hellfire and bellows the anthem of my pride. It took me three centuries just to calibrate the pitch."
Alastor slowly shifted his gaze toward the King. One of his eyes twitched, mimicking a jagged glitch of static on an ancient television set.
"Three centuries?" he echoed, his voice dropping to a register that was dangerously polite. "On a... singing gargoyle in the shape of poultry? Truly, Your Majesty, the scale of your ambitions knows no bounds."
"It is not just a bird, it is art!" Lucifer finally looked up, his eyes flashing with a manic, competitive glint. "I have a gladiator duck, an accountant duck—it has tiny little abacuses, Alastor!—and even a 'Sinner Ducks' series. I’m actually working on one right now... hmm... with a very distinct smile and radio antennas. But it keeps exploding. Apparently, the material is just too... unstable."
Alastor froze, his glass paused just inches from his lips. "What a tiresome coincidence," he hissed through gritted teeth, while ominous, eldritch symbols flickered around his head for a fraction of a second. "I’m quite certain that particular model would be exceptionally popular... as a target for shooting practice."
Lucifer seemed completely oblivious to the veiled threat. He had hit his stride now, fueled by a manic sort of "duck-driven" momentum. "— And I have a theory! Have you ever stopped to wonder why ducks are so perfect? They have it all: they walk on land, they swim in the water, and they fly in the sky. They are the universal soldiers of creation! If I were creating the world all over again, I would..."
"Would make everyone flat, yellow, and prone to quacking?" Alastor interrupted, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his cane. "How absolutely riveting. I’d suggest giving them rows of serrated teeth and a passion for devouring those who chatter incessantly over breakfast, but I fear that might clash with your... 'aesthetic.'"
"Oh, come off it, you’re just jealous! You don’t have any hobbies besides scaring people and listening to the screams of suffering souls," Lucifer leaned across the table with a conspiratorial air. "Speaking of screams—have you ever tried recording a quack and playing it in reverse? If you slow it down tenfold, it sounds exactly like a choir of fallen angels. It's quite relaxing."
Alastor took a deep breath. Inside him, two desires were locked in a violent struggle: to summon his shadow demons and tear this wretched café to shreds, or to finish his godforsaken drink. To his own surprise, he chose a third option.
"In reverse, you say?" Alastor suddenly relaxed, his smile widening, but it became somehow... more sincere in its madness. "You know, Sire, that sounds almost as ridiculous as Vox’s attempts to dictate fashion. Tell me more about this model that keeps exploding. If we were to add a touch of sulfur and tune the detonation frequency to A-minor... it could become a quite melodious spectacle."
Lucifer beamed. He hadn't expected the Radio Demon to show even a flicker of interest in his engineering endeavors. The next half hour passed in an atmosphere that was—by Hell’s standards—surprisingly peaceful. Lucifer became deeply engrossed in sketching rubber-duck aerodynamics on a napkin, while Alastor interjected with biting, yet technically precise comments on how to make the explosions more "artistic."
It was a surreal sight: two of the most powerful entities in existence sitting amidst a sea of neon birds, locked in a fervent debate over the mechanics of squeakers. For a fleeting moment, it almost seemed as if they could become friends... or, at the very least, manage not to attempt regicide or soul-tearing for the next five minutes.
"...and then I said to him, 'Peter, that isn’t an airship, it’s a flying bathtub!'" Lucifer dissolved into fits of laughter, wiping a stray tear from his eye.
Alastor let out a dry, but remarkably human chuckle. "Truly, Sire, there is never a dull moment in your company."
The silence that followed Alastor’s chuckle was, surprisingly, not heavy. It felt like the lull between radio stations—a soft hiss of static where, for a fleeting moment, each found a respite from their eternal roles. Lucifer leisurely stirred his drink, watching as the meringue duckling gradually dissolved, leaving white, swirling trails across the surface of the coffee.
"You know," Lucifer said, his tone suddenly turning somber, "sometimes I miss the days when things were... simpler. Before all this neon, before the pixels, before the second-by-second rating updates. When all you had was raw clay, an imagination, and an entire eternity to make it come alive."
He raised his cup, inspecting it as if it were a priceless artifact rather than a piece of cheap merchandise from a Vox-owned café.
"I was a creator once, too, Alastor. In the very beginning. But here, in Hell, creativity always devolves into... this." He swept his free hand across the room, gesturing to the hall filled with mechanical quacking. "Into consumption. Into noise."
Alastor, who until that moment had been observing the play of light across his microphone staff with a touch of faint disdain, slowly raised his eyes. His smile didn’t vanish, but it lost some of its edge, as if he had momentarily tuned his transmitter to a much lower frequency.
"Simplicity is the refuge of those who lack imagination, Sire," the Radio Demon spoke softly. "But I understand your meaning. In my world—the real one—sound had weight. A broadcaster’s voice was truth, and the crackle of a vinyl record was the heartbeat of the room. Now, however..." He grimaced, casting a sideways glance at a passing drone blaring advertisements for energy drinks. "Now, everything has become too accessible. And when something is available to every common sinner, it loses its soul."
"Exactly!" Lucifer exclaimed, bringing his cup down onto the table with a spirited clack that nearly sent the last of his coffee flying. "That is the heart of the problem! Vox thinks he’s conquered the world because he’s everywhere. But if you are everywhere, you are nowhere. You’re just background noise. But a good little duck..." He drifted back to his favorite subject, but this time, his voice carried a weight of genuine philosophy. "A duck is self-sufficient. It doesn’t need ratings. It just... is. It gives joy without demanding a single thing in return, except for the occasional squeeze."
Alastor let out a soft sound, one that was suspiciously similar to a sigh of resignation.
"Your attachment to these rubber products borders on the pathological," he remarked, meticulously adjusting his monocle. "However, I must admit, there is a certain... honesty in your obsession. It is far less exhausting than the endless thirst for approval that radiates from our absent host of the tower."
"See! I told you!" Lucifer grinned triumphantly and took a final, long swig of his coffee. "You’re starting to get it. A few more outings like this, and I’ll give you an exclusive specimen: a deer-duck with a microphone. I’ll even make sure it doesn't explode... well, or that it only explodes on holidays."
Alastor arched an eyebrow, looking down at the King’s empty cup.
"I shall leave that generous offer to your conscience, Your Majesty," Alastor remarked, his voice regaining its rhythmic, radio-like quality. "But since your... 'elixir of inspiration' has come to an end, don't you think it’s time we find our stray charges before they reduce this spire to rubble? I heard a peculiar crashing sound from the electronics section a few minutes ago, and something tells me Niffty has found a new 'bug' to exterminate."
Lucifer set his cup down onto the saucer with a sharp clack and stood, adjusting his snow-white hat and taking a moment to pat the snake on its head. His mood had visibly brightened.
"You're right. It’s time to save this place from my family. Though, in all honesty, Alastor..." Lucifer squinted mischievously as he headed toward the exit. "That coffee was exceptionally lousy. But your company turned out to be... tolerable."
Alastor followed after him, his shadow gliding across the neon floor like a long, dark stain, momentarily blotting out the vivid blue glow.
"Careful with the compliments, Sire," he sang, the sound of static in his voice returning, distinct and brisk once more. "Otherwise, I might begin to think you truly intend to invite me to the next exhibition of your 'duck menagerie.' And that, I’m afraid, is something even I might not survive."
They stepped out of the café, shoulder to shoulder—the diminutive King in white and the towering Demon in red—leaving behind a world of rubber beaks and digital happiness to plunge back into the chaos their team had almost certainly unleashed on the other floors.
They rounded the corner, expecting to see demolished counters or the trail of Charlie’s chaotic shopping spree, but instead, they stumbled upon a dead-end corridor decked out in defiantly acid tones. Above the entrance, a sign flickered, mimicking static: "RADIO TRASH: THE ERA OF TELEVISION."
Lucifer froze, and his shoulders began to quiver with small, rhythmic tremors. Right there in the storefront, put on a garish display, were plush deer with clumps of fur torn out, doormats featuring a caricature of Alastor’s face, and toilet paper where every single roll was emblazoned with the Radio Demon's personal crest.
"Oh-ho-ho, no… Alastor, are you seeing this?" Lucifer snorted, covering his mouth with his palm. "‘Deer Stink—air freshener with the scent of rot and defeat’? This… this is simply brilliant in its stupidity! Who came up with this? Did Vox personally sit there with a pencil between his teeth?"
The King of Hell laughed until he was nearly doubled over. To him, this was just another display of modern Hell’s pettiness—silly, ridiculous, and utterly harmless. He was already opening his mouth to crack a joke about how Alastor had finally achieved the kind of popularity he deserved, but the laughter suddenly died in his throat.
Alastor did not move. He stood there, drawn tight as a piano wire, while his shadow on the wall began to elongate unnaturally, writhing like a living thing. His smile was still in place, but it had become flat and frozen—a porcelain mask on the verge of shattering.
Lucifer followed his gaze. In the depths of the store, on a massive high-definition monitor, a short clip played in an infinite loop. There were no caricatures there. There was only raw, brutal reality.
Footage of the battle for the Hotel. The moment when Adam—that narcissistic, holy-light-radiating bastard—delivers the blow. On the screen, in slow motion, you could see Alastor’s face contort in shock, his faithful staff shattering into two useless splinters, and the Radio Demon flying backward in disgrace, leaving a trail of black blood in his wake. The clip ended with a close-up of his broken microphone and Vox’s mocking voice-over laughter: "Where’s your show now, old pal?"
This footage wasn't some crude edit or a security camera leak. No, the image was too lush, too polished—every glint of light on Adam’s mask and every drop of the Radio Demon’s blood looked terrifyingly tangible. It was a flawless, hyper-realistic animation, rendered using the full power of the Vees' studios. Behind this masterpiece lay more than just spite; it was a product of cold calculation and the finest technology Pentagram City had to offer.
Who exactly had a hand in this?
All of Hell understood: this was the handiwork of the Vees.
This wasn't just a cartoon. It was a digital death sentence, engineered by professionals to transform the legend of Alastor’s invincibility into a high-budget punchline. The rendering quality was so breathtakingly high that the viewer could literally feel the bone-deep crunch of the staff’s wood shattering against their own skin.
The Lord of Hell remembered perfectly well one irritating peculiarity of the Radio Demon: Alastor was impossible to capture on camera.
Any attempt to film him turned into a mess of static, distorted silhouettes, and white noise, as if reality itself protested against this old nightmare being digitized.
That was exactly the motive behind recreating this moment in an animated style.
The atmosphere in the corridor shifted instantly. The temperature plummeted, and the air crackled with static electricity. Alastor’s eyes transformed into radio dials, twitching frantically as if trying to lock onto a signal, while a low, guttural roar of interference emanated from deep within his chest. This wasn't resentment over some stupid merch. This was a bleeding wound on his pride, laid bare for the amusement of millions.
Lucifer felt something tighten painfully in his own chest. It was a strange, forgotten sensation—a mixture of sympathy and rage. He knew what it was like to fall. He knew what it was like to be humiliated by someone who considered themselves above you. And to see this haughty, yet in his own way noble demon standing before a screen that captured his greatest downfall…
Lucifer’s fingers tightened around the handle of his cane. His eyes flared crimson, and for a fraction of a second, six wings unfurled behind him. With a single snap of his fingers, he wanted to turn this store into ash. He wanted Vox to feel what it was like when your triumph is reduced to dust.
But the golden chains of the invisible contract, binding him hand and foot in this cursed place, flared with a sharp pain at his wrists. He was the King, yet he was shackled. He could not simply destroy an Overlord’s property without a compelling reason, not without shattering the fragile balance Charlie was clinging to so desperately.
"Alastor…" Lucifer called out softly. His voice had lost all its mockery.
The Radio Demon didn't answer. His fingers spasmed around his cane, and cracks began to spiderweb across the metallic floor.
Then Lucifer did something he hadn't expected of himself. He took a step forward and stood directly in front of the monitor, shielding the screen from Alastor with his own body. He looked small compared to the giant display, but his presence suddenly filled the entire space.
"Hey, Bambi," Lucifer said, his hand coming to rest on Alastor’s shoulder. His touch was warm—almost searing—even through the heavy fabric of the suit. "Don't look at that. It’s just an image. Adam was a jackass, and he’s dead. But you… you’re still here. And you’re still getting on my damn nerves just by existing. That means you won."
Alastor slowly focused his gaze on Lucifer. The interference began to subside, fading back into its usual background hiss.
"Sire," Alastor’s voice sounded surprisingly clear, stripped of any radio effect, "are you attempting to comfort me? How… touching. And utterly humiliating."
"Shut it," Lucifer shot back, without a hint of malice. He turned back toward the screen and, with a sly grin, snapped his fingers.
The magic didn’t destroy the shop, but it did something else entirely. All the anti-merch in the store suddenly transformed. The caricatures of Alastor remained, but now every single one of them was holding a tiny rubber duck. And on the video, instead of the moment of defeat, a filter suddenly overlaid the footage: Adam was now dressed in a pink tutu, and his finishing blow dissolved into a shower of confetti, all to the sound of cheerful quacking.
"That’s more like it," Lucifer said, proudly adjusting his hat. "At least now it's actually funny."
Alastor looked at the screen, where Adam—clad in a tutu—hopped about absurdly to the sound of squeaky toys. His eyebrows shot up, and then he let out a short, genuine chuckle.
"You are incorrigible, Your Majesty," Alastor said, his voice regaining its rhythmic, melodic quality. "Your sense of humor is just as archaic as your reign."
"But you’re smiling for real, aren't you?" Lucifer winked. "Come on. If we don't find Charlie in the next five minutes, I’m afraid she’ll end up buying one of these toilet paper rolls herself, just to 'support a small business.'"
They moved further down the corridor. The tension had vanished, replaced by a strange, barely perceptible sense of camaraderie. But before they left, Alastor—unnoticed by Lucifer—gave a casual flick of his wrist, and one of the monitors in the shop quietly imploded, showering the floor with sparks.
"A sudden short circuit," he chirped in response to the King’s questioning look. "The wiring in this tower is simply abysmal, don’t you find?"
Leaving the sparkling wreckage of the shop behind, Alastor and Lucifer moved further along the glass walkway. The strange sense of solidarity that had sprung up between them still vibrated in the air, but both were studiously pretending that nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Their silence was broken not by jazz and not by quacking, but by the distinctive sound of something exploding.
A split second later, Niffty came flying around the corner, her tiny legs moving in a blur, followed by a panting Baxter and Cherri Bomb.
"I told you if we overloaded the 'Space Invaders' system, they wouldn't be happy!" Cherri grinned wildly, adjusting a bag on her shoulder that was bristling with fuses.
"It was a scientific experiment!" Baxter hissed, adjusting his glasses and brushing the remnants of blue sparks from his lab coat. "I simply wanted to see if their motherboard could withstand a direct discharge from my ray gun! Spoiler: it could not."
Upon seeing Lucifer and Alastor, the trio skidded to a halt. Niffty immediately latched onto the hem of Alastor’s coat, peering at him suspiciously as she checked for any fresh stains.
"Oh, look at that," Cherri squinted, her gaze darting between the radiant King and the coolly composed Radio Demon. "What an interesting picture. You two haven't strangled each other yet? How is it that you're out for a stroll like a couple of besties instead of tearing this tower to shreds in the first alleyway you found?"
Alastor opened his mouth, likely to insert some scathing remark about the "burden of escort duty," and Lucifer had already drawn a breath to counter him, but they were cut short by a clear, ringing voice.
"Guys! We finally found you!"
Charlie and Vaggie emerged from a side passage leading to the shopping arcades. The Princess of Hell was quite literally buried under a mountain of bags emblazoned with "Vox-Shop" logos. Vaggie, looking like a bodyguard who had long since accepted her doom, carried several more bags, out of which sprouted neon headbands, glow sticks, and all manner of plush junk.
"Dad! Alastor! You have no idea how much interesting stuff is here!" Charlie said, struggling to set her bags down on the floor as she wiped sweat from her forehead. "We found a section with 'Eco-Friendly Redemption' supplies! Well, technically they’re just notebooks made from recycled plastic with Vox’s face on them, but it’s such progress!"
"Yeah," Vaggie grumbled, adjusting her spear. "And we also stopped by the 'Smart Home' section, where the kettles tried to give us a lecture on the benefits of television. I had to... slightly deactivate one of them."
The entire group huddled in a circle, everyone talking at once. Cherri was laughing as she recounted how Niffty had tried to clean the prize-dispensing robots in the arcade by ripping out their wiring, while Baxter complained piteously about the abysmal quality of the local microchips.
"And what about you?" Charlie turned to Lucifer and Alastor, her smile practically glowing. "How did you spend your time? Find anything interesting? Dad, did you see the duck-themed café? I saw the sign and immediately thought of you!"
Lucifer and Alastor exchanged a glance. The images of the "Anti-Merch Shop" and that strange, almost cozy conversation about exploding squeakers were still fresh in both their minds. Lucifer was the first to look away, shoving his hands into his pockets and staring intently at the toes of his boots.
"Oh, you know..." the King of Hell muttered evasively. "We just looked at the architecture. Vox definitely has some issues with his sense of taste. Nothing special."
"Quite right," Alastor chimed in, his voice once again sounding like a static-laced recording, masking any and all emotion. "A mundane stroll through a junkyard of modern technology. Nothing that would merit your precious attention, my dear Charlie."
The silence that followed Charlie’s brief report was broken by the measured thud of heavy boots and the sharp click of heels. Emerging from a cloud of pink vapor drifting from the direction of the elite lounge was Husk and Angel Dust. To everyone’s surprise, Husk didn’t look like a cat who had fallen into a vat of whiskey, and Angel was walking remarkably straight—though the mischievous glints dancing in his eyes promised a catastrophe of planetary proportions.
"Well, well," Angel drawled, theatrically adjusting his gloves. "And here we were thinking we’d have to call Animal Control for aggressive demons just to pull apart the two biggest alpha males in our little den of iniquity."
Husk merely leaned against a pillar in silence, arms crossed over his chest, and fixed Lucifer and Alastor with a look of undisguised interest. The two of them, however, didn't even react to the arrival of the "missing" duo. Having stepped slightly away from the main group, they stood turned halfway from the others. Lucifer was passionately arguing a point, gesturing animatedly, while Alastor, head tilted, listened with an expression as if he were witnessing the greatest drama of the modern age, rather than a lecture on the properties of rubber squeakers.
"Hey guys, you've gotta see this," Angel whispered, pulling out his smartphone in its flashy pink case. "I managed to snag a few shots while we were looking for a shortcut to the bar."
Everyone immediately crowded around the spider: Charlie, Vaggie, Cherri, and even Baxter. Niffty was jumping higher than anyone else, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of the phone screen. A synchronized gasp rippled through the group, full of bewilderment and a strange sense of awe.
In the first photo, taken by Angel through the panoramic glass of "L'Canard Électrique," Lucifer and Alastor were seated at a flipper-shaped table. The King of Hell was captured perfectly—he was passionately sketching something on a napkin, his posture conveying a relaxed ease rarely seen in a monarch. But where the Radio Demon should have been sitting, reality was quite literally glitching out.
In place of Alastor, the image held a jagged, elongated smear of aggressive static, as if someone had burned a hole straight through the camera's sensor. The black-and-white ripples pulsed, warping the space around the chair, while digital noise fractured into shattered red pixels that resembled the sparks of an old radio. His face was unrecognizable—nothing but a chaos of interference and a barely perceptible, ghostly contour of a frozen smile piercing through the distortion. Yet, in the very alignment of those glitches, in the way the "noise" leaned toward the King, there was something extraordinary. Despite the technical nightmare, it was blindingly obvious: this wasn't their usual standoff. Alastor—or whatever the camera had turned him into—was looking at Lucifer with a chilling, almost human attentiveness that even the strongest radio signal couldn't mask.
But the second photo caused a total sensation. Taken from behind in a long corridor, it captured them just after the incident in the anti-merch shop. Because of the angle, it looked as though Lucifer and Alastor were walking scandalously close, and the King of Hell’s hand was frozen in a gesture that looked like a friendly pat on the back (or, as it seemed to Angel, like they were just about to hold hands). Behind their silhouettes, Vox’s shop sign was burning beautifully.
"O-o-oh..." Charlie pressed her hands to her cheeks, her eyes filling with tears of the purest, most crystalline delight. "Vaggie, do you see?! They’re... they’re communicating! They’re socializing!"
"Yes, Charlie, it’s... unexpected," Vaggie forced out, watching as Alastor murmured something quietly to Lucifer at that very moment, causing the King to give a little hop as he burst out laughing.
"Hey, Lovebirds!" Cherri Bomb barked, unable to stand the mounting tension. "You two aware that we’re all supposed to be, like, hanging out together?"
Lucifer and Alastor flinched in perfect sync, as if they had been yanked out of a deep trance. They turned slowly toward the group. Lucifer blinked, staring at his beaming daughter.
"What?" he asked, sounding utterly bewildered. "Did something happen?"
"Daddy, it’s so wonderful!" Charlie threw herself at him, squeezing him in a tight hug. "We’re so happy for you both! You’ve finally found common ground!"
"What are you talking about..." Lucifer tried to wiggle free, but then he noticed that Alastor had frozen beside him, staring at the phone screen that Angel had helpfully turned toward them.
A heavy silence fell over the hall, broken only by the crackle of static emanating from Alastor. His pupils shrank to pinpricks, and his smile stretched so wide that the faint audible creak of his jaw could be heard behind it. Lucifer, peering at the photo where they were sweetly seated in the duck café, slowly began to turn beet-red—from the tips of his ears all the way down to his collar.
"Angel..." Alastor’s voice sounded like the rasp of a rusty saw against bone. "If you do not delete that digital refuse this instant, I guarantee your next contract will be signed with a toothless beast from the seventh circle of Hell."
"Oh, come on, Al!" Angel chuckled mischievously, hiding the phone behind his back. "You look like a couple on their first date. One’s grumbling, the other’s rambling about rubber duckies. It's a match made in heaven—or, well, you know!"
"I... we... it’s not what you think!" Lucifer flailed his arms desperately, straightening his hat which had slipped to the side. "We were simply discussing... strategy! Yes! A strategy for the destruction of this... tasteless establishment!"
"Yeah, right," Husk scoffed, scratching his ear. "A strategy for sipping coffee through a swan-shaped straw. Very menacing, Sire."
Vaggie gave Lucifer an approving nod, which was the final blow. Earning respect from the stern former Exorcist was the last thing he expected to get after a trip to a café.
"It was an extremely productive use of time for the sake of maintaining the hotel’s morale," Alastor hissed through gritted teeth, his radio interference now creating a halo of black sparks around him. He looked at Lucifer. Their eyes met. For a split second, a memory flickered in both their minds—of the two of them, standing side-by-side, watching Adam's screen go up in flames.
"Alright," Lucifer coughed, trying to reclaim his dignity. "Since everyone is here and everyone is... armed with blackmail material... perhaps we should leave? I think I can hear Vox returning, and his screaming is going to sound even worse than Alastor's jazz."
"I couldn't agree more, Your Majesty," Alastor said, with a gallant flourish of his cane, pointedly avoiding looking at Angel, who was already busily broadcasting the photos to the Hotel’s group chat. "Let us depart before our presence makes this tower even more popular."
...
The exit from the "Vox-Eiffel" tower resembled a triumphal procession mixed with a hasty retreat. While sirens were already wailing at full blast on the upper floors—Vox had returned to his domain and, by all accounts, had discovered the "duck modification" of his shop—the Hazbin Hotel crew was already standing on the sidewalk, inhaling the familiar, sulfur-scented air of Pentagram City.
Charlie walked ahead, clutching a bag of notebooks to her chest, her face glowing with a quiet, peaceful happiness. Vaggie, her shoulders finally relaxing a bit, walked beside her, occasionally casting a glance at the princess full of tenderness. Angel and Husk trailed behind, continuing their low-voiced bickering over cocktail quality, though Angel would giggle every now and then as he re-scanned those notorious photos. Cherri, Baxter, and Niffty had already started some new game using "trophy" parts scavenged from the arcade.
But the real magic was happening a little further away, separated from the general noise of the group.
Lucifer and Alastor walked a short distance apart. The neon glow of the tower lay behind them, and now their figures were illuminated only by the crimson sunset of Hell. The King of Hell turned a small rubber duck between his fingers—the only one he had managed to discreetly snatch from that very table in the café.
"You know," Lucifer broke the silence, not looking at his companion. "Aside from the fact that I had to spend two hours in the company of the most arrogant egotist in this place... the day wasn't the worst."
Alastor let out a soft, melodic sound, in which radio static blended with something resembling genuine reflection. He adjusted his monocle and looked back at the spire of Vox’s tower, which now seemed like nothing more than a ridiculous toy against the backdrop of the vast, endless sky.
"You are surprisingly self-critical, Your Majesty," he sang with his usual needle, yet without the former venom. "However, I must admit: your knowledge in the field of explosives and... quacking objects proved to be a bit deeper than I dared hope. It was... curious."
Lucifer stopped and looked at the Radio Demon. In that gaze, there was no longer a desire to prove his superiority. Instead, there was a strange understanding, new to them both. They were both relics of another era, both valued style over substance, and both, in the depths of their souls, were infinitely lonely in their power.
"Alastor," Lucifer said, holding out the little rubber duck. It was unusual—red, with tiny radio antennas instead of a crest. "Here. Take it. Consider it... a war trophy. And a reminder that even in the most repulsive places, one can find a decent cup of coffee. Well, almost decent."
Alastor froze. For a fleeting moment, his shadow stilled as well, ceasing its restless writhing. He slowly reached out with a thin, gloved hand and accepted the gift. The duck let out a tiny squeak in his fingers—a ridiculous, high-pitched sound that, for a single heartbeat, drowned out the entire roar of the city.
"Hmm. I must say, this is an egregious lack of taste, Sire," Alastor said, neatly tucking the toy into his coat pocket. "I shall certainly place it in the most prominent spot in my radio tower. If only to remind myself every time just how dangerous it is to agree to your little escapades."
They smiled at one another. It wasn't the smile of friends in the conventional sense—it was the smile of two worthy adversaries who had suddenly discovered that they were united by far more than what divided them.
...
When they reached the Hotel gates, Charlie turned around and saw them—her father and her most enigmatic mentor walking side by side. They weren't arguing. They were simply silent, and that silence was filled with something warm and right.
"We’re home!" Charlie announced joyfully, throwing the doors wide open.
That evening, the Hazbin Hotel was unusually quiet. Everyone had drifted off to their own affairs, carrying a piece of that strange day with them. Angel and Husk remained at the bar, debating whether or not to post the photo to the public network (eventually deciding to save it "for blackmail on a massive scale"). Niffty was busily polishing her new arcade trophies.
And Lucifer, sitting in his workshop as he crafted yet another batch of ducks, caught himself thinking that Alastor’s evening broadcast, drifting from the old radio receiver on the shelf, seemed particularly melodic tonight.
At the same time, in the radio tower, Alastor was sorting through his records when his gaze fell upon the little red duck on his desk. He gave it a light squeeze, listened to that characteristic squeak, and, with a subtle shake of his head, switched on the jazz.
The world of Hell remained the same—cruel, vibrant, and loud. But in one old hotel, two of Pentagram City’s most dangerous beings realized a simple truth: just because someone irritates you beyond belief doesn't mean you can't share a cup of lousy coffee with them.