Chapter Text
“What just happened?” He looked down at his staff. The most powerful single object in Hell—the reason the Radio Demon was feared— was split in half like pasta. “Fuck.”
The next thing the demon knew, he was impinged by an unmatched holy force, and flung into a crumbling wall. A splatter of red exploded from his chest and lungs. He could taste the iron as it filled his mouth and throat. Where he had been struck, he had not a clue, but he knew damn well he might just accept his fate. Alastor leaned over his knees and peered at the flowing fall of his own blood as it dried into the stone below him. His eyesight had gone dark, and he felt on the ground for the remaining pieces of his staff. After hitting a rock in a frantic search, he grabbed two long, skinny metal bits, and took the assumption it was them.
“I have to disagree with you there..” The movement of sitting up forced his ears backwards and his arms tensed. “Radio’s not dead, but it is ending this broadcast.” He formed into a shadow and fled the scene.
His penumbral form had brought him to the dilapidated and dark spire that may have collapsed any hour—his radio tower. He hit the tin flooring with a harsh THUD and began his agonizing journey to the desk chair a mere seven feet away. Every inch he crossed, another jolt of fatal pain shot through his nervous system, stemming from the deep ravine on his chest. Blood pooled and crept behind him, before he finally found the energy to lift himself off the ground, and into the chair. He collapsed into the seat and let his staff hit the floor as it rolled before coming to a stop.
He leaned over his radio station’s control panel and held a shaky hand up to his torso. He lifted it off of the wound and watched as a longish stream of blood trickled off his hand and onto the floor. He panted as he frantically looked around his tower’s central (and only) room for a solution, even if temporary.
Shit. What if someone saw him like this? What would everyone in Hell think if the great and powerful Radio Demon was transcended by an angel in the first five minutes of their battle? But all the while, he was dying as he searched. Alastor hobbled around the dingy area, spreading blood along the floor like a snail as he bent over with his arm grasping his chest.
Before long, he found two old, very dusty, bottles of whiskey hidden behind a wooden crate, and a loose, rather rusty, needle. His muddled thoughts did not go too far past stitching himself up, and hopefully drowning out any pain in liquor. He felt the wetness of the bleeding in the entire front half of his battered suit. His undershirt was slashed in half from the blow, and, now, his coat tore down the center as he attempted to undo the buttons as quick as demonically possible.
He slammed the two bottles on the console and limped into the chair once again. The sound of glass striking metal rang throughout the alcove, though the song of that dreaded hotel crumbling played loudly in the background. He ripped his jacket off in a flurry of emotion, and began to tug at the fraying strings of his torn garment. He managed to pull one loose with trembling claws and pried until he had a sufficient amount of thread to stitch his scar shut until he could meet with Rosie.
The deer hated how reliant he was on the cannibal woman for his powers—for everything. He needed a repair on his staff? See Rosie. Powers not performing properly? See Rosie. Making a deal with an overlord? See Rosie! He was practically useless on his own, and with the angelic legion still wreaking havoc on Pentagram City, he was unsure as to how long he’d have to make it without seeing her.
He sharply inhaled, sputtering on the blood in his lungs, and picked up the needle. He managed to thread the eye of the tetanus-inducing instrument, not without a few extra punctures on his fingers, and laid it on the surface before him. He picked up the bottle of whiskey and disregarded the label. He uncorked the liquor and began to chug it in mouthfuls. The mix of blood and alcohol in his mouth wasn’t as unpleasant as it sounded—to the cannibalistic deer, at least.
The half-drank bottle lowered from his mouth and he gasped for air. How deep was the wound, and if it was as abysmal as he had thought, were some of his organs also damaged? Was he closer to death than once thought? All of the thoughts and worries were slowly drowned out by the near-finished bottle of rye—now a darker shade of brown in color from the blood mixing in.
Alastor sighed and laid back in his chair. For the first time in an hour, he felt his wound ease, even if a small bit. He swung the chair back to face his operational console, and lifted the needle to his chest. Panic arose in the back of his throat, but he shoved it down and pushed the object through his fur. The needle pierced his skin and an animalistic scream came from in between his teeth. Even with dulled senses, the pain was nearly unbearable.
He took a deep breath before grabbing the needle once more, and sewing the piece shut.
By the time he was finished with the very poorly done, barely-suitable stitching job, the other bottle of liquor had been opened, and half-finished. Alastor sunk into the cushion of the chair and closed his eyes. It was over, at least for a while. He exhaled through his nose and laughed quietly to himself. His mind spun in a mix of drunkenness and exhaustion. He opened one eye and watched as his dull red-and-beige surroundings danced from the intoxication.
“That.. was fuckin’ wild.” He mumbled to himself. “Oh, Al’stor, you’ve truly outdone your’selve!” He began to cackle manically before swinging his hand back to the bottle of whiskey and drinking ravenously. He turned to face the front window of his tower, before his head drooped down onto the cold metal and he laid wearily as droplets of red flowed through the threading, and onto the floor.