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Charlie stared dumbfoundedly at the pile of boxes towering over her.
Up to that point, her day was going well, all things considered. She had lunch with her dad, led some bonding exercises, and fished Niffty out of another toilet. Afterwards, she wandered around the hotel to make sure everything was in order. Extra stack of fluffy towels? Check. Pamphlets for newcomers? Check. Giant hole in the wall? Ch—
“I’m telling you, it wasn’t me this time!” Cherri complained, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “It was those flying metal cunts!”
The wall they’ve replaced several times now had, once again, been knocked down by some outside force. They really needed to put up a sign to discourage property damage. The lack of smoke was a testament to Cherri’s innocence, but it made cleanup no less of a hassle. Vaggi pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a long, withering sigh.
“Alright, what’s this then?”
She gestured to the absurd number of packages sitting in the middle of the lobby. Thanks to the flashy V logo stamped on every corner, everyone knew where the boxes came from. But aside from that, there was no telling who they were for or what was even inside.
“Should we open it?” Charlie asked tentatively.
“Might be a bomb,” Husk mumbled from the couch, nursing a beer bottle.
Which…wouldn’t be ideal, but Charlie was nothing but curious! Before her girlfriend could talk her out of it, she opened one of the boxes. The room collectively held its breath, waiting for something to happen. When nothing exploded, Vaggi moved closer to see what had Charlie so starstruck.
“Are those…plushies?”
Dozens of plushies were squished together, an innocent depiction of Hell's most famous trio. They bore their signature looks, and yet, the toys were completely different from the other products that the Vees usually plastered around their district. Charlie picked up a Velvette plush and had to stop herself from commenting about how nice the polyester felt. She gave the doll an experimental squeeze.
“Beauty is pain, babes!”
Vaggi grimaced and warily glanced at the other boxes. “What the hell are they scheming now?”
As if on cue, the television turned on by itself and played an advertisement. Instead of a shark-like smile greeting them, an equally frightening presence appeared on screen. Velvette sported a simple crop top and parachute pants, radiating confidence and mischief as she took center stage. Pink and purple bled into the background, accentuating her small figure.
“Hey, my lil’ puppets,” Velvette spoke sweetly. “Ever wanted to hang out with the baddest bitches in town? Well, now you can!”
With a flick of a potion bottle, a plushie magically dropped into her awaiting hand. “To celebrate our recent change in management, we’ll be running a limited-time offer on our ‘Devilhearts’ collection. With every purchase, you have the chance to win a complimentary Vplush.”
Photos popped up behind her, featuring random sinners ecstatically posing with different variations of the plushies. From lunch dates to nightly ventures, it was obvious that the toys were already a smash hit.
“As always, we appreciate you all for the support. Trust VeeTek, the only company you’ll ever need.”
Velvette blew a kiss and ended the commercial with a wink. When the screen faded to black, an awkward tension lingered in the air. Husk was the first to eloquently break the silence.
“The fuck was that? Trying to save face? No one’s gonna fall for that shit.”
“You’d be surprised, pussycat.” Cherri pulled up Sinstagram and scrolled through the trending tags, showing how #Vplush was dominating all other searches. Hate comments were effectively drowned out in favor of those who were raving about the dolls. “Those bastards know how to run a strong campaign.”
Vaggi scoffed. “It’s just a ploy to distract everyone from Vox’s rampage.”
“Maybe this is their way of apologizing?” Charlie replied with a gentle lilt.
“By turning themselves into marketable plushies?”
“Exactly!”
Charlie noticed the stares that the others exchanged amongst themselves, but it was overshadowed by her unwavering optimism. “Think about it this way, guys. At least they’re promoting something that has a good use. There’s no harm in selling a few toys.”
Wordlessly, Vaggi picked up a Valentino plush and squeezed it.
“I look sexy between your legs.”
Charlie cringed, but before she could say anything, Cherri marched past her and snatched the box. “These lil’ shits are good for something alright.”
She tossed the box into the fireplace and poured alcohol on top of it. The flames licked away at the cheap material, leaving behind a thick wad of sludge. Husk raised his bottle in solidarity, the only indication that he cared about what was happening. Although Vaggi would have preferred a more dignified solution, she had to admit that it saved her the trouble of looking for firewood. She saw the reluctance in Charlie’s posture and patted her arm reassuringly.
“Don’t worry, hon. We’ll handle it.”
Husk grumbled, but luckily, he was in the mood for a bit of arson. “What kind of idiot would carry these things around anyway?”
𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪
Meanwhile, an overlord meeting was in session. Despite having many issues to discuss, not a single soul cared about what was on the agenda. Instead, all eyes were trained on Alastor. Or rather, the thing that was hanging onto him.
A Vox plush sat inconspicuously on his shoulder, small and charmingly out of place. Alastor’s expression hadn’t changed in the slightest, but he reveled in all the attention. The only one who wasn’t put off by his antics was Rosie, who was munching on some severed fingers. She looked more exasperated than usual, but who was she to deny free entertainment? Across from them, Valentino’s eyebrows were raised so high they almost disappeared from his bald head. He tried to sneakily take a photo, only for his phone to fizzle and break in half.
“Motherfucking—” Valentino slammed his palms against the table and stood up, one hand reaching inside his coat. Before he could draw his pistol, Carmilla Carmine’s voice cut through the office.
“That’s enough,” the weapons dealer snapped. She stole a glance at Alastor and cleared her throat. “If you have any grievances with each other, take it outside. I won’t have this meeting devolve into a circus act.”
“I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing,” Alastor chirped, his smile widening just a fraction.
“Sure you don’t,” Valentino snarked and begrudgingly slumped back in his chair. “You make a habit of flaunting other people’s merch?”
“A ringmaster needs a clown to entertain the masses.”
“Oh fuck you—”
A particularly loud sip interrupted their argument. Everyone turned towards the source, watching as Zestial finished the rest of his tea. Once he set his cup down, he observed Alastor with a hint of mirth.
“Thy allegiance is as confounding as ever. Dost thou not work for the crown?”
“Me, work under Lucifer?” Alastor chuckled and waved his hand dismissively. “Perish the thought! My presence at the princess’s hotel is a leisure, nothing more. It should go without saying that I work for no one.”
The subtle jab didn’t go unnoticed by his fellow cannibal. Rosie smirked and bit viciously into her snack, droplets of blood dripping down her chin. On the other hand, Zestial looked even more intrigued. “Then, pray tell, wherefore dost thou harbor a trinket from thy sworn enemy? Hast thou forgiven past transgressions, or is this a tale of revenge?”
Alastor’s eyes took on a crueler edge, the fresh sting of humiliation weighing heavily on his chest. Now that the airwaves solely belonged to him once more, the attending overlords were waiting to see what it meant for their unstable alliance. As much as the Vees liked to pretend that they were still a united front, their influence was stunted by Vox’s failure. In such a weakened state, it would be so easy for Alastor to step in and bring their tacky empire crumbling to the ground. He rested his chin upon laced fingers, preening with unfathomable delight.
“I’m sure that pathetic amateur is still licking his wounds. What’s the fun in playing with a broken toy? It’s more amusing to watch him crawl back into relevancy.”
“You’re one to talk,” Valentino jeered, barely suppressing a flinch when the air popped with static. “Old bitches like you wouldn’t last a day without riding our dicks.”
Hatchet, who had the misfortune of sitting right beside Alastor, poked the plushie with no regard for his self-preservation. Without warning, a shadow tentacle crushed his waist and threw him against the window. The glass gave way and sent the demon plummeting from the highest floor, his screams fading into the distance.
“Alastor,” Carmilla huffed disapprovingly.
The man in question tilted his neck at an impossible angle. “You said to take our grievances outside and I did. People should be more careful with their words these days.”
He absentmindedly ran a finger across plush Vox’s head, as if sharing a secret that only the two of them were privy to. One could have mistaken the gesture for fondness, but if anyone were to say that out loud, the Radio Demon would eviscerate that poor soul on the spot.
“This insignificant little creature is just a reminder of what Vox has become—a spectacle for an audience to gawk at.” He then gestured at Valentino. “And you are the figurehead of a doomed endeavor. Without those associates of yours, you have no leverage at this table.”
The pimp’s face burned a deeper shade of purple, his fury on the verge of combusting. Maybe he should have let Vox incinerate the rest of the city, consequences be damned. That way, he didn’t have to hear this cabrón talk anymore. Seriously, he would be doing everyone a favor! But in spite of all this, Velvette’s voice echoed insistently in the back of his mind.
“Do not start shit with any of those hags. I don’t wanna clean up any more messes, you hear me Val?”
His babydoll would be pissed if he died (not that he would) and left her with a mountain of paperwork, but he really wanted to put a bullet in that deer’s skull. Ugh decisions, decisions…
Against his better judgement, Valentino stewed quietly in his seat. An angry Velvette was not something he wanted to deal with, and he preferred his employees to be intact before tonight’s filming. Picking up on the moth’s uncharacteristic placidity, Alastor beamed and clapped his hands together.
“Glad we’ve come to an understanding! So long as you know your place, I won’t interfere with your business. Is that clear?”
Which came as a shock to most of the other overlords. A power vacuum was waiting to be filled, and instead of staking his claim, Alastor was offering the closest thing to peace with no strings attached. Suspicious looks were thrown around, but the majority agreed that only a fool would turn down this kind of proposition. However, Valentino would rather shoot himself than accept mercy from that red-clad geezer. Patience wearing thin, Alastor’s pupils morphed into radio dials and the lights flickered overhead.
“I said, is that clear?”
The darkness thickened and coiled around Valentino’s chair. His skin prickled, the sensation close to spikes raking down his body. A sadistic giggle brushed against his antenna, and he had flashbacks of the petite bug that stabbed anything that moved. He scowled and crossed his arms, feeling the phantom pains from their previous encounter. And people had the audacity to call him dramatic.
“Tch, whatever,” Valentino forced out through gritted teeth.
In an instant, the darkness retreated and the atmosphere felt lighter. Alastor gracefully adjusted his bowtie and summoned his microphone. “Since we’re on the same page, I must be off now! A gentleman can’t be late to his appointment.”
The shadows rose from the floor and whisked him away before anyone could react. Alastor reappeared in front of a colorful diner, its patrons enjoying a calm, afternoon lunch. When sinners spotted him, a chorus of screams broke out and the establishment was empty within a matter of seconds. He ambled over to the counter, scanning the menu while the cashier tried to melt into the wall.
“What do you recommend, my good fellow?”
The worker hesitated to respond, afraid that suggesting a burger with one too many pickles would be the end of him. He shakily pointed at the options on display, only to be struck with the realization that the overlord wasn’t even talking to him, but to a fucking plushie. Rumors said that the Radio Demon was insane, but this was a whole new level. Oh God, he was going to die again, wasn’t he?
Alastor hummed and slid over a few coins. “A smoothie, if you will.”
His drink was made in record time, and the cashier announced his five-minute break before locking himself in the freezer. Alastor sauntered towards the booth by the window, using the napkin dispenser as a makeshift stool for his miniature doll. A strawberry and blueberry smoothie sat between them, two curly straws poking out from the pile of fruity toppings.
Alastor rarely indulged in sweets, but an artist needed to make some sacrifices for his craft. Just as he expected, a drone flew down the block for its daily patrol. Its lens immediately focused on his figure, trying to memorize every detail. He coyly slurped his drink, pretending that he didn’t notice the pest hovering nearby. Plush Vox leaned against the other curly straw, painting a strangely domestic picture for any passersby to see. The drone glitched angrily, practically pressing itself against the glass so it could absorb the entire scene. It was bound to attract unwanted attention, and from the corner of his eye, Alastor saw several sinners taking photos of him and snickering amongst themselves. Well, that just wouldn’t do.
“Looks like we have to cut this date short.”
Alastor used a handkerchief to pat the nonexistent stains on plush Vox’s mouth before putting the doll back on his shoulder. His shadow stretched along the ground, grinning hungrily at the promise of violence. The Radio Demon mirrored its expression, his gaze sharpening with predatory glee.
“Care for a dance, sweetheart?”
𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪
Vox’s day could have been going better.
No, scratch that, it could have been going a lot better. After his best bioengineer unceremoniously quit to join the princess’s glitter parade, he was left without a functional body. It was bad enough that his approval rating was at an all-time low, but now he didn't have the means to move around by himself.
Valentino and Velvette didn’t bother to keep him in the loop anymore. Ever since they demoted him from CEO, they’ve made executive decisions without consulting him first. Sure, he could gather information from his security cameras, but it would be nice to hear from them directly. Guess they were still mad about the whole trying-to-kill-everyone-for-that-deer thing. He could admit that he lost his marbles for a while, but come on, who hasn’t started a holy war or two? People were acting like he murdered their firstborn!
At the very least, not everyone hated him. After VeeTek (a lamer version of VoxTek, in his humble opinion) debuted its first project, his ratings were steadily climbing back up. It seemed like some folks were willing to ignore his crimes to farm internet brownie points with the Vplush. His version was made specifically harder to get so that it would drive the FOMO crowd crazy. Any attention is good attention, right? All he had to do was play the waiting game.
Since the public wasn’t ready to welcome him back just yet, Vox spent most of his days inside his office, either monitoring his staff or spying on the denizens of Hell. His head was propped up on a fluffy cushion, a shark plush keeping him company. He morosely sipped on a bendy straw, slowly getting through his sixth soda can. Holographic projections surrounded him, highlighting different parts of Pentagram City. Turf wars, gang fights, back alley deals—couldn’t demons be more original? The entertainment industry was suffering without him in charge.
One of his drones flew by a familiar diner, catching a glimpse of someone sharing a smoothie with a toy. In the list of “Saddest Things Ever,” that most definitely made the top five. Just as Vox was about to switch camera feeds, the lens captured a distorted blob of red in its peripheral vision. He spat out his drink, startling his assistant who was reorganizing his desk.
“WHAT THE FUCK?!”
There Alastor was, loitering in his district like it was a perfectly normal thing to do. The smoothie was the one he ordered when the deer was his prisoner, and it even had the same exact lovey-dovey straw (no, he was not being delusional about that). Vox hijacked the drone and made it fly closer to the window, unable to believe what he was seeing.
Alastor. With a plush of Vox.
Alastor.
Before he could make sense of the situation, his rival stood up and handled the plushie with utmost care, securing the toy on his shoulder. The Radio Demon glanced at the camera and smirked before the video became corrupted. Vox stared at the giant error message, his outer casing inexplicably heating up. Whether it was from rage or something else, it didn’t matter.
“ETHAN, GET THE LIMO!”
𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪
A shadow tentacle pierced through the last sinner, causing the demon to gurgle on his own blood before collapsing onto the concrete. Alastor crushed the phone under the heel of his shoe, grinding the infernal contraption into pieces. As his puppet minions feasted on whatever body parts were left, a gaudy limousine came to a screeching halt beside him. An eel with electric blue hair rushed to the passenger door and gathered something in his arms. Once Alastor registered what was on the velvet cushion, he broke down in a fit of laughter.
“Shut up!” Vox snarled, though it lacked any sort of intimidation.
So Alastor did what any person would do and laughed even harder. It wasn’t everyday he had the chance to see a media tycoon reduced to such a sorry state. Vox counted the long, excruciating minutes, wondering if he could coax Carmilla into making another cannon for him. Eventually, Alastor recomposed himself and bent forward to drag a claw down the TV screen.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, my dear!”
Vox buffered for a moment. “Cut the shit Al, I didn’t come to hear you gloat. What are you doing on my turf?”
“Do I need a reason to pay you a friendly visit?”
This time, it was Vox’s turn to bark out a cold, unkind laugh. “Friendly? That’s rich coming from you of all people. We both know you don’t do friends.”
Alastor straightened his back and blinked. “You seem to be quite hung up on that part.”
“I’m not—” A thin layer of TV snow covered Vox’s screen. He couldn’t tell if Alastor was being purposefully dense or finding new ways to insult him. Either way, he didn’t have the energy to deal with it right now, feeling the weariness from the last few weeks catching up. “Ugh, forget it. Go back to your stupid hotel and rub elbows with Lucifer’s brat. It’s not like you have anything better to do.”
Alastor grinned impishly. “On the contrary, I was enjoying my day out with this tiny creature. Isn’t it cute?”
Vox glared at the offending plush, a mix of incredulity and despair consuming him. “Why do you even have that thing?”
“It’s a more tolerable version of you. Less annoying and easier to look at.”
“WE HAVE THE SAME FACE?!”
The radio host acted like he didn’t hear anything. He pinched the plushie and dangled it between two fingers. “Though I have to ask, why are you smaller in comparison to your partners? Is this your way of admitting that they contribute far more to that clown show of yours?”
“That has nothing to do with it! Size isn’t everything, you know?”
Alastor quirked an eyebrow. “Of course a man like you would say that.”
There was a beat of silence before the nearest streetlamp exploded into countless shards. Alastor sidestepped the falling debris, his lips curling with immense satisfaction. And here he thought his old pal had lost his spark, but he had nothing to worry about. Furious cyan overwhelmed the television in its entirety, pixels jumping erratically from one area to another.
“You insufferable sack of—”
Alastor subdued him with a boop of his microphone. “Come now, that’s no way to speak to a valued customer. I come bearing a serious complaint about your product.”
“I can’t care less about what you think,” Vox deadpanned.
“Oh, but you should. For a brand that’s built on perfection, you don’t seem to have an eye for detail.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Vox cursed himself for answering so quickly. Why should he expect a genuine response from the same guy who broke their deal with fucking wordplay? He didn’t care, really. He was just…collecting feedback. Improving on defective products would boost his ratings faster.
Yeah, that was it.
Alastor smiled knowingly, half-lidded eyes not straying from Vox as he cradled the doll closer to him. His mouth grazed along the edge of the toy, imitating a ghostly kiss. Vox stared with rapt attention, his processor stalling a few seconds behind. There was the burn of something achingly familiar, but the overlord refused to acknowledge what it was. When Alastor spoke, it was low and intimate, his voice carrying a cadence that was disturbingly similar to affection.
“I prefer my toys to be more accurate to the source material.”
Suddenly, the demon unhinged his jaw and bit straight into the plush. A single, fierce pull tore the doll’s head from its cotton body, spraying bits of fluff in all directions. The deer’s sclerae shifted into pure black, replacing the tenderness with something completely feral. A guttural sound punctured through the droning static and joined the cacophony of laughter that taunted them from the shadows. Ethan stayed rooted in place, keeping his tremors to a minimum. If he thought about bolting back to the limo, he had no doubt that his boss would demote him from assistant to shark bait.
Alastor dropped the plush’s mutilated body with a flourish, letting it bounce onto the cushion. Remnants of white stuffing clung to his lapels, to which he casually picked them off and shaped them into a crude, bouquet of flowers. He placed the mock arrangement in front of Vox, his knuckle faintly brushing against the other’s face.
“Try not to lose your head next time we meet again, mon cher.”
Vox stared at Alastor.
Then at the disfigured plushie.
Then at the ugly mess of flowers.
And then he bluescreened.
“Sir? Sir!” Ethan squeaked frantically.
Alastor cackled and went on his merry way, leaving behind the bumbling fools on the sidewalk.
𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪
Within a couple of days, anything related to the Vplush mysteriously vanished without a trace. News outlets stopped promoting it, videos were taken down, and a good chunk of sinners found themselves blacklisted from all social media platforms. The conspiracy crowd flooded the internet with their theories, spurred by Velvette’s vague post about how “emotionally constipated old men ruin the fun for everyone else.”
Back at the Hazbin Hotel, business was thriving. Charlie finished wrapping up a group therapy session before dropping by the lounge. Husk and Cherri were at the bar, taking turns feeding Fat Nuggets a bowl of nuts. It was a bittersweet moment, and the princess took the chance to sit in one of the empty stools. She offered a handful of almonds, prompting the pig to waddle over with his stubby legs.
“We’ll get Angel back, don’t you worry lil’ fella.”
A jolly tune interrupted her train of thought. Alastor descended from the staircase, surprisingly in a good mood after all that had happened. His complexion looked much healthier and he wielded his powers with striking efficiency. Despite not reclaiming his position as hotelier, he still strutted around like he owned the place, much to Lucifer’s chagrin. On the bright side, residents were less likely to resort to violence while the Radio Demon was close by.
“What’s got him so happy?” Husk muttered.
Cherri shrugged. “Beats me. But I heard they’re making merch of tall, dark, and creepy over there.”
The feline looked like he aged another twenty years. “They’re what?”
A brief scroll through Sinstagram showed a new hashtag trending. The official VeeTek account posted a teaser with #AVcollab in the captions, garnering millions of views within an hour. All that was attached was an image with a black overlay, but anyone could tell what it was referencing. A plushie with large ears, twin antlers, and a microphone staff—it was unmistakably Alastor.
“Ah shit,” Husk whispered under his breath, dreading what was about to come.
“What seems to be the issue, Husker?”
Alastor, sensing a disturbance via soulchain, teleported himself to the bar. Husk tried to signal to Cherri to put away her phone, but it was too late. The ambient music abruptly cut itself off, plunging the lobby into suffocating silence. Alastor’s grin remained, but it sharpened into something jagged and dangerous when he saw the poster. A rhythmic thrum vibrated through the floorboards, rattling glassware and souls alike. The air grew heavy with the scent of ozone and blood, thick enough to choke the life out of any lingering conversations. Cherri didn’t flinch, but the fine hair on her arms stood on end.
“Relax, Smiles,” she drawled, her voice cutting through the tension like a dull blade. “Just checking the headlines. Didn’t realize you were so sensitive about being on screen.”
Despite the bravado, her thumb twitched against her thigh, hovering near the fuse of a bomb that was hidden in her belt. Husk didn’t wait for the feedback loop to reach a deafening pitch. He slammed a bottle of cheap rye onto the counter, the noise acting like a physical wedge between the two sinners.
“Enough with the theatrics,” he growled, though the flick of his ear betrayed his nerves. He poured a drink and slid the glass over to his temperamental boss. “Either sit down or take your tantrum elsewhere. You’re making the liquor curdle.”
Alastor’s shadow snapped back to its proper place beneath his heels. The radio dials disappeared from his gaze, but the loud pop of his neck adjusting sent a shiver down everyone’s spine. After a few, restless seconds, nimble fingers wrapped around the drink and raised it in a placating toast.
“Always the pragmatist, Husker,” Alastor remarked and drained the glass in one smooth motion. “Forgive me, I merely had a lapse in judgement. Reading such distasteful headlines is no excuse for poor manners.”
“Right, of course!” Charlie jumped in, masking nervous energy behind her professional charm. “In any case, the Vees are probably doing this to get a reaction out of us. They won’t actually go through with it.”
“Rich people do the weirdest things,” Cherri scoffed. “Why would they build so much hype for something that isn’t legit?”
The glass shattered in Alastor's hand, a brutal crunch that mingled with the shriek of a nearby jukebox. He wiped his palm on a clean rag, smile stretching until it looked unbearably painful. “If they truly intend to broadcast such filth, then I suppose I will just have to remind them that some frequencies are best left undisturbed.”
Ignoring Charlie’s pitiful cry, the Radio Demon melted into the shadows and emerged inside the Vee Tower. The high-definition monitors short-circuited as he walked by, their vibrant hues dimming with corrosive static. Alastor didn’t rush, recalling the pathway from his time in captivity. The sleek, modern air of the studio began to rot at the edges, smelling of stale parchment and damp earth as his presence overrode the digital perfection. He entered the Vees’ penthouse, a sprawling monument of vanity where the walls were more glass than stone. Rather than subject his retinas to the neon assault, he summoned his shadows once more and stepped into Vox’s personal office.
The room was exactly as he remembered it, save for the blueprints that were haphazardly strewn across the desk for any wandering eyes to see. Various outlines showcased the new plushie at different angles, listing out specific measurements and instructions. Alastor’s claws marred the table with harsh indents as he sifted through the papers.
“That pompous piece of scrap metal thinks he can make a commodity out of me?”
The most egregious part was that the toy didn’t even capture his good side! It was a soulless caricature that lacked menace and appeal. To be reduced to a common plaything was a greater violation than being on any kind of leash. Alastor had to resist the urge to tear through the sketches right then and there. When he reached the bottom of the pile, there were sticky notes decorating the vellum sheets, preserving the flimsy exchange between Vox and who he presumed was the youngest member.
keep fugly bob cut? /// Yes Vel
monocle which side? /// Right Left side facing us /// obsessed much?
add tail(??) /// NO…maybe
Velvette, the renowned social media overlord, returned to the archaic ways of using pen and paper? Oh, Alastor was going to have a field day the next time he met the little doll for tea and gossip. He could only imagine the torture she was putting Vox through at the expense of her own convenience. No calls, no texts, just good old-fashioned writing if the sentient tablet had something to say to her. The messy scribbles were difficult to decipher, but Vox was certainly persistent when it came to getting work done.
Alastor turned around and caught the glint of a glossy screen sitting on the bed. Amidst the silken sheets, Vox was wearing a comically large sleeping mask and was swaddled by a bunch of pillows. He had powered down to recharge his battery, blissfully unaware of the threat that loomed directly over him. The Radio Demon stared down at the lonesome overlord, antlers growing until it framed his head like a skeletal crown. Shadowy tendrils eagerly climbed up the bedpost, waiting for their master’s command. Reaching forward, Alastor dragged a finger along Vox’s crooked antenna, sparking a line of electricity that pulsed like a dying heartbeat.
“When will you learn your lesson, darling?”
Just then, a pillow slipped from the mattress and hit the floor with a soft thud. Alastor froze, his outstretched hand hovering midair as he processed what he saw. Tucked against the television’s side was a small plushie of…well, Alastor. It replaced his angular silhouette with more rounded features, trading mystique for comfort. An array of sticky notes littered the bed, all undoubtedly written by Vox.
Prototype
Cancel production
MINE don’t touch
Alastor slowly reread each note before shifting back to his original form. With a wave of his hand, the shadows dispersed and slunk back to their corners, acting as if they never existed. The steady hum of the room’s air conditioning pierced through the oppressive stillness, rumbling like a meek prayer. Alastor picked up the fallen pillow and returned it to its rightful position, making sure nothing was amiss.
“What a sentimental picture box…”
After a moment of consideration, he procured the head of his Vox plush, green stitches carefully woven across its bottom surface. He placed it in between the other doll’s arms and stepped back to admire his handiwork. The sight was positively absurd—a plush version of himself holding onto the stuffed head of his rival like a morbid trophy. It was a dreadful punchline to an unspoken joke, a reminder that the Radio Demon would always have the last laugh.
Alastor leaned in one last time, causing some interference to ripple across Vox’s screen. He snatched one of the sticky notes and tucked it into his breast pocket, letting out an amused huff that was barely louder than a breath. The deer vanished into a smear of shadow, allowing color to bleed back into the room. When Hell’s fiery rays peeked through the glass panels, the two plushies were still sharing a silent embrace, waiting for a certain overlord to wake up and learn of his untimely visitor.