Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nine a.m. meetings are rare.

Meetings are rare; you allow yourself to rephrase. Professional collaboration is usually handled by the souls you own and pay to do so. That said, when your assistant, Neph, informed you of the formal request to meet with you personally, a denial was already at the tip of your tongue before he mentioned who it was from.

“The Vees,” he almost chuckled in disbelief.

The look shared between the two of you was thick with bewilderment. When he realized you were beginning to reconsider, he administered a warning, his slender raptorial arm theatrically pointing an accusatory clipboard your way.

“Curiosity killed the cat, my lady,” he advised. False pale light streamed in from your subterranean window, casting the plain room in a washed glow.

“Satisfaction brought it back,” you retorted.

The light that caught on the rim of your plush executive chair left your form in grey shadow. You hummed softly, raising a teacup from a pearly saucer. All you did was smile into the smooth, polished rim.

That was last week. Now, five minutes early, Vox’s booming voice echoes louder and louder in the sterile halls of your facility as he strides toward your office. Getting a good word in with Neph, no doubt. You stared into the milky white light of your window, your hands clasped together patiently. When Vox finally turns the handle on your door, you feel a cold, polite smile just edge its way across your face. Schrodinger’s box opens.

When he enters, the clack of his boots on the hardwood sings his persistent pace as he approaches your desk, only muffled when he gets close enough to stand on the carpeted island of your workspace. His swagger is tangible, but he’s in your territory.

“It’s a pleasure to finally be meeting you, sir,” the television beams from behind you. “In truth, you’re something of a myth…”

He trails off as you slowly swivel to face him.

As if to obey the laws of conservation, the smile on Vox’s screen falls slightly just as yours widens. My, this was worth it for that tidbit alone. Your eyes are cold and lidded as you stare up at him, your position comfortable but your gait sharp. The luminescence of his digital gaze swallows your small, rabbit-eared stature like a hard pill. A beat passes as you observe one another, only broken as Neph closes your office door.

You introduce yourself like a storm introduces a flood. Vox knew it was coming, yet still he finds himself taken by surprise.

“Forgive me,” Vox recovers, palming his tie and preparing to reassert his presence.

“Your reputation precedes you, TV man.” You blink slowly. The still line of your form is not unlike the border of calm water as it meets air.

“All good things, I hope,” he grins, making himself comfortable in an adjacent lounge chair.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Down to business, I would expect nothing less!” Vox leans forward to land a small cylinder on your desk. “I believe the Pentagram has your name written on it.”

You pause, intrigued, and Vox continues.

A projection flickers to life before you, grand estimates of fame and fortune. His simulations promise grandeur.

“You are destined for greater things,” he urges, your name leaving his speaker in an excited whisper. “I see so much potential in your story. All of pride could be screaming for you.”

Your expression remains cold and unmoving, save for the gentle crescent of your smile. Another beat, and Vox shimmies forward in his chair to press on.

“The process is simple; you would hardly have to lift a finger. I’ll take care of everything personally,” he nods, a wiry hand pausing on his chest in earnest before extending to you with an offer.

“Trust me with your image.” He demands, his palm still in the air.

You settle your gaze on his unmet proposal, then blink slowly as you look up to meet his eye. The only sound in the room is the subtle tick of a plain, black clock. It counts one, two seconds of what must be agonizing silence before Vox’s hand twitches.

“Tell me, Vox, do you still get headaches even if your head is a television?” You start, the man in question retracting his hand slightly in confusion.

In the spirit of staying in your good graces, he obliges.

“Sure, occasionally,” Vox admits casually, his unshook hand swinging behind him to lean back in a confident display.

“Do you take anything for them?” You inquire, moving forward to rest your chin in the overlapped clasp of your hands.

You watch him pause, his simulated eyes narrowing briefly before gesturing to nothing.

“Probably Tylenol,” He shrugs, maintaining eye contact but grasping the air as if he would prove there were pills in his very hand if it meant you would shake it.

“Name brand or generic?” You inquire.

His expression approaches the line of annoyance, but still, you persist.

“Humor me,” You chuckle, probably the most animated you’ve been during this entire interaction.

“Is there a difference?” He warms to your slight change in demeanor.

“Of course, there’s a difference,” You insist, your eyes catching no light but somehow twinkling with mischief.

If he notices your sarcasm, he instead decides to play ignorant.

“Name brand, always.” His hinged fingers snap into a pointed gun, a smirk dancing across his monitor.

You hum in delight, bending over to your right to dig into a wide, deep drawer. Vox watches you with what is almost a look of distress as the sound of plastic jostling resonates, but before long, you emerge with a small, rounded white bottle, striped with a red label. Tylenol, it reads, and before Vox can chuckle awkwardly, you reach your fingers to gently turn it a slight thirty degrees and reveal the inked stamp of your logo, there, just below the bolded text.

The leather of your executive chair wrinkles in amusement as you lean back. Vox’s dotted pupils flicker as he recognizes the symbol, finding it again on a pen cup, a framed infographic behind you, and even at the center of that blasted, ticking clock taunting his every moment of gagged silence.

Just to bring your point home, you snag a brochure resting in a stack on the left flank of your desk and slide it to him in one smooth motion. He grasps it as if it holds the key to persuade you, but as his eyes trace across the first page, his brow furrows further into ruin. With each flip of the laminated page, he descends into shock, finally peering up at you when he finishes the list.

“I’m glad it works for you, Vox.” Your unblinking gaze falls over him like a dense fog. “Our formula has been perfected for the best results. Your earlier statement is perhaps truer than you realize.”

A pixelated brow raises, and you delight at the opportunity to elaborate.

“The pentegram does, in fact, have my name written on it.”

“All the easier to magnify that lovely face of yours,” he tacks on in a hurry.

You almost laugh at his blatant flattery as he slides the pamphlet back across your desk in a mirrored motion. Clearly, he must have some agenda.

“What is it you’re really after?” You peer at him, his grin stretching from harrowed to wily.

“Join me–” Vox began, rising from his seat and flattening his palms at the edge of your desk to tower over you. “And find out.”

You spend another moment quietly observing him before summoning a breath and a casual shrug. The brochure is tapped on your desk twice before it is returned to its rightful place with its companions to your left.

“Neph will accompany you back to the lobby,” is your placid reply. Vox is clearly taken aback, but the sequential opening of your office door leaves no room for argument. He straightens up, pulling the lapels of his suit jacket taut before giving you one last once over.

You swivel back to the fluorescent frame of your fake window as Vox strides to Neph’s waiting door. He calls back to you as he crosses the threshold.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he insists.

“I’m sure I will.” You swing a leg over the other, unimpressed.

—

“Crack is expensive.”

Angel Dust had stated as such flatly the other day. The roaring of a chartreuse fire sent light licking at Alastor’s glass of whisky as he pondered over his second week of renewed activity in hell. He watched a web of fate weave a path to an absolutely delicious revelation.

He had made a stunning return performance, perhaps not as enthralling as the song of screams on the airwaves, but invigorating all the same. Another puzzle piece had fallen into place, though, as Vox twisted himself a dozen times over to distract his precious viewership from the true art of radio.

“Soon, there won’t be an eye in the Pentegram I won’t see through,” Vox had warned as their broadcasted brawl reached full crescendo. In that moment, Alastor saw a pathetic grasp at intimidation, but with the frame of the overlord meeting hosted by Carmilla Carmine, a beautiful composition came into view.

Velvet, darling as she is deranged, had made a rather curious nod at a landline tuned into the conversation. The grey device was fashioned just beside Carmilla herself, silent, but listening. The fiery representative of the Vees had declared another vague, insolent warning before storming out:

“We’ll have your support, one way or another.”

She meant her words for the room, but her eyes spoke to the phone just beyond her. That, Alastor certainly could not ignore.

Who was on the other side of the line?

Only the executive of Oryctolagus Pharmaceuticals.

Elusive and unheard of to Alastor until Carmilla had given a brief introduction at the head of the meeting. New overlords come and go like flies on a carcass, but whoever had amassed enough respect and consideration to remain at the head of the table in spirit alone was worth a visit to be sure.

He swirled the amber liquor once, then twice, before savoring a burning sip. The pistons of a swinging piano danced through a gramophone in the corner, and Alastor kicked his hooved boots up in delight.

Nothing, if not predictable.

—

“Let’s get dinner at the usual place,” you smirk to Neph.

Meetings and meetings this week. Two meetings, but more than enough for you. In the car, you sit in the back with your insectoid assistant and toss a coin absentmindedly. As your ride navigates the chaotic streets of the Pentagram, each flip results in the same side: heads.

The overlord meeting was as exciting as it was brief, and technically, your second run-in with the Vees. Velvet is arguably the most tolerable when on good behavior, but when she bid farewell to the room of demons, she slid in one final word that felt addressed to you.

“We’ll have your support, one way or another.”

The coin rolls between your knuckles before resuming its dance in the air. Press, flip, catch, heads.

Was she saying that the group would come around on their own, or was she speaking to you specifically?

That couldn’t be it. Why state something so final and ominous, directed specifically to you, without addressing you by name? The only explanation is that she was simply insisting that every overlord would join them eventually. Yet, something in her tone clearly articulated that there was more than she let on. The Vees are constantly committed to drama and one-liners; there is no way she wasn’t alluding to something more. Was she referencing your meeting with Vox just days prior?

Was she implying that the overlords would become sympathetic to their cause thanks to your influence?

The car pulled into a warm, inviting scene, and the smell of garlic knots already permeated the glass of your window. Your coin settled in your hand with one last flip, and with a sly grin, you offered Neph a guess.

“Hey, heads or tails?”

“I would have to select heads, my lady.”

Your fingers reveal your palm with the flare of a peacock spreading its feathers. Tails.

“Guess dinner is on you tonight, old friend.”

The Usual Place, actually called Rezdôra but lovingly dubbed the Usual Place for obvious reasons, is an oasis of fine dining and like-minded individuals in a sea of bastardized manners and tolerance of all things crude and filthy. For a brief culinary experience, you can forget about the loathsome fact that you live in hell, save for the mandibles on your friend's face. You always get the salmon, and you always tip like you’ll never eat anywhere else again. That would almost be true, if not for your equal love of that sushi place on the north side.

With your mantis companion in tow, you collect your place at your favorite booth and toast to a bottle of champagne that waits for you there.

“This is why I do it, Neph,” you sigh with delight, swirling your flute before taking a hardy swig. He toasts you back, but his glass remains empty. Whether it is to stay sharp or because drinking with a mouth like that makes for a mess, you may never know. You place your menu to the side while he surveys his options.

“Almost enough to forget about the souls I exploit daily,” you comment, two fingers gently grasping the rim of your glass now seated on the table, tilting it thirty degrees this way and that way.

“I’m afraid that is how business is in hell,” Neph replies, his smooth voice lilting with each vowel. His words carry little more than casual placation.

You hum in agreement. Business is business, and it is a dog-eat-dog world down here. Your server approaches with a familiar smile and a paper notepad in hand. You exchange hellos and how are yous while you're reminded of another reason why you like this place: it’s very analog. That, and the fabulous white canopy on each booth. Neph orders a steak, and you hand over the menus with a knowing smile. A low and jazzy tune wafts through the restaurant as you lean back into another sip of champagne.

“Neph, if you could fix one thing about hell, what would it be?” you ask, punctuating your question by placing your glass back on the fine velvet dining cloth.

He ponders, perhaps watching you fidget with your champagne, though you can’t tell due to his compound eyes.

“Children born in hell should not be forced to live like sinners,” he decided.

You raise a brow and urge him to continue.

“They did not choose this path,” Neph clarified. “Is a child born in hell inherently evil? How could a merciful God leave innocent souls to perish?”

“I heard Jesus himself likes the salmon at this place, too,” you warn. “You might want to watch your mandibles; he could be turning his water to wine at the next table.”

Neph shakes his head, bemused, but continues nonetheless.

“It is far from a simple problem to solve,” he admits. “But everyone deserves a choice.”

You sit with his words for a minute, ivory notes gracing the air. You have to commend him for his choice. The biology of demon conception is extremely complicated and hardly understood, something you wish you had the time to research.

“And you?” Neph inquires.

You take a breath before answering, stalling for time. It is extraordinarily difficult to pick just one thing.

“Investment in infrastructure,” you land on, savoring another sip of champagne. “Who says bad traffic has to be part of eternal damnation?”

You were only half kidding. Many brilliant minds are suffering for eternity down here; surely someone can improve the decrepit trolley system. Perhaps the only reason it doesn’t actually happen is that some villain of the week tears everything up in a turf war the minute the last brick is laid.

Neph seems unimpressed, but you double down.

“It’s somewhere to start, isn’t it? Besides, you took the moral high ground already.”

You blink into your drink, ready to move on to the next topic, when it suddenly strikes you in a blaze.

“Speaking of morality,” you lean forward to rest your hand and beverage on the table, “Alastor is back. He was even at the meeting today.”

You met the Radio Demon a few fleeting times many years ago, when you were unestablished and under the wing of Rosie. You are forever in her debt for that empty, withering hardware store she gifted you to start your pharmacy. Many of your most formative years as a demon were spent in Cannibal Town, and you visit frequently with a bouquet and a bottle of gin.

What you didn’t see of Alastor, boy, did you hear. Who didn’t? Anyone in hell more than a decade ago knew his voice, and there wasn't a tortured soul who didn’t catch the quarrel between him and his televised adversary, Vox, earlier this week. Quite the week for hell, you were beginning to notice, with the expedited extermination and all.

“I heard Velvet threw the decapitated head of an Angel on the board table, as well.” You divulged, tapping your fingers along the tablecloth.

“That is certainly a development,” Neph acknowledged.

“I almost wish I were there to see it. The Vees seem to have something brewing behind their single, collective brain.”

“You seem keen on entertaining company as of late, my lady,” Neph points out, the twitch of his antennae alluding to a possible raised brow, if only he had them.

“Knowledge is power, Neph,” you sip. “Some things can only be understood if you hear them yourself.”

Again, a half-truth, one your mantis companion saw through, no doubt. No matter how hard you try to rise above, you love a good scoop.

“The Vees are intent on getting something from me,” you speculate, resting your elbow on the dining table and leaning your lips into your knuckles. “I just can’t understand what.”

“There is a lot that could be gained from an alliance with someone such as yourself,” the mantis observes, gesturing with his forcep to your elbow as your dishes come into view. You straighten up and smile at his words of praise. Dinner is served.

—

Receptionists are pathetic.

Alastor enjoys confirming this opinion with every visit he makes to anyone of substantial standing. He waits patiently with his clawed hands perched on his staff as the older woman hesitantly dials a gray landline. She swivels in her chair to avoid his piercing glare, the wheels rattling as she hunches over. He watches her hands tremor with the receiver pressed to her ear.

“The Radio Demon is here,” she whispers hurriedly. Alastor raises a brow in satisfaction.

The receptionist addresses Alastor from the very far end of her desk, hanging up the phone so slowly that he might be convinced the sterile air in this facility might be getting to her.

“Someone is coming up to escort you,” she offers politely.

Lovely.

After a beat, a tall, mantoid demon emerges from one of several steel elevators. Each of the arrows above the many doors points only downwards.

“I’m sure you’re aware of who I’m here to see,” Alastor imposes, the static of his voice bouncing off the once bustling lobby. It seems his reputation precedes him.

The mantis only steps to the side and gestures a large, spined claw to invite him into the lift.

The Radio Demon isn’t sure what he was expecting, but it was a shorter ride to be sure. The sprawling labyrinth must go down for nearly a mile, give or take. An old LED display above the doors measures the descent of the two powerful demons, the air within the steel space thick with unspoken animosity. The panel of selectable floors was over five dozen, but by the time Alastor decided he wanted to grill his escort, the chime of their arrival cut him off.

Floor number forty-five, he noted. Funny, Alastor sort of thought this executive individual would be at the very bottom.

The two stepped into a narrower, but much more luxurious lobby. The sterility of the ground floor certainly permeated its way through the facility, but what this room lacked in warmth, it certainly made up for in class. Oddly, several skylights seemed to line the tall ceiling, but as Alastor observed closer, they seemed to radiate a pale fluorescent light.

“Please make yourself comfortable. You will not be waiting long,” the mantis insisted, taking long strides to a lengthy, curved desk several feet away.

Waiting? That certainly is not something he hears often. This had better be good.

Alastor eyes the insectoid being for a moment, but ultimately obliges. Worst-case scenario, he would have a few screams for his broadcast if it really was not worth his while. All in due time.

He hears an exchange occurring at the sleek, empty reception, again into a gray landline. He observes with a lidded side eye, but returns his clawed hands to their perch on his staff.

He must be the picture of patience, because nearly five minutes elapse before the Mantis leaves the desk and approaches a large, central elevator situated in its own glass column. Thin, braided wires coax up another steel box from some unknown depths. Alastor arises with a perturbed smile. At long last, he thought, now is the cat dead or alive?

When the steel doors glide open, a masked, coated figure emerges. The bulbous, black mass on their face carries two filter chambers, but the glare of the fluorescent sky lights on the clear lenses makes it impossible to discern any facial features. He watches them fuss with the sleeves of their lab coat for a moment as they step forward. Impatiently, Alastor speaks.

“You’ve made quite the impression, my good fellow,” he sneers. “Not many have lived to keep the Radio Demon waiting long.”

Before he can continue, the mask comes off.

And it’s… You.

Two long, telltale ears spring up, finally escaping their protective prison.

Alastor is stunned beyond words. You? This couldn’t be. Where was the mysterious figure he was so promised by all the rumors and hushed voices?

You hand off your equipment to the mantis, who Alastor understands now is your assistant.

“I apologize for the wait,” You reply coolly, clasping your hands behind your back.

“If it isn’t Rosie’s little pet,” He chuckles, completely baffled. “My, haven’t you come far!”

“It’s an honor to receive your visit,” you indulge, though your guise is as sterile as your labyrinthine institute. Your chin is held straight and steady, and your unwavering eye contact is leagues beyond the wallflower he observed in passing all those years ago. What inspired such a change? Alastor was dying to know.

“I simply must have all the dirty details,” he insists.

“Perhaps some other time, sir. Was there some immediate business in need of attending to?”

Straight to the point, how very forward of you. Alastor begins a stroll about your center axis, casually taking in what seemed to be your personal office floor.

“Isn’t catching up with an old acquaintance reason enough?” He lobs at you.

“I take it by my impression that you were unaware just who would step out of those doors, good fellow,” you return, following the demon’s predatory circling with your eyes.

Touché. If only he had bit his tongue.

“I’ve come all this way,” Alastor smiles contemptuously, your name leaving his lips with taunting ire. “Might you spare a cup of coffee for an old friend?”

The Radio Demon’s eyes leveled on your mantid assistant, daring him to intervene. He watches the two of you exchange a look. Finally, you turn to direct him down a long hallway in one smooth gesture.

“Certainly.”

The mantis wanders off, and Alastor trails behind you with glee. The ceilings are grand, ribbed with steel and patterned with artificial sunlight. Dozens of doors line the corridor, all labeled alphabetically, their ashen facades closed in secrecy. As you walk, your steps are even, falling perfectly into the center of each tile you stride along. The clasp of your hands behind your back is relaxed, and after a moment, he realizes he can only hear the clack of his boots, not yours.

How very fascinating. Every part of you is so controlled, so regulated, and yet you remain so fluid and relaxed. You tread with the rhythm of rain colliding with soil. How delightful it will be to break that composure.

“Whoever is that assistant of yours?” asked Alastor, beginning to fall into step.

“Neph,” you answered. “He’s my right-hand man.”

An odd name for an odd assistant.

A tall, but narrow door encased in frosted, quadrated glass looms at the end of the hall, the door itself blurred as well, save for the clear stamp of your petaled logo. White, bolded lettering on a placard introduces the space as yours. Chief Executive Officer, it reads.

The door opens inward with a click, the hinges perfectly silent. You hold it in invitation with that even, crescent smile of yours. Alastor waltzes in, drinking in the empty shelves and postered infographics. You pad past him to claim your plush, leather chair at the head of the room. He decides to linger on the details.

“However did you meet?” Alastor prods. A looming predator and a stubby rabbit, just looking at the two of you, one should think the roles should be reversed.

“It’s a long and bureaucratic story. I won’t bore you,” you occlude, though your smile shifts with fondness of the memory.

“Nonsense!” Alastor insists as if you were trying to be bashful. He abandons his interest in the makings of your decor and finally settles into an apposing lounge chair. Only the essentials litter your desk, he notes, except for a glass vase of white orchids that stands tall and fresh in the corner, as well as an out-of-place bottle of pain reliever.

“Why not regale me with what you’ve been up to all these years?” you divert. “I’m sure you’ve been busy.”

Ah. So this was the game, then. Static wavers in the air, but as Alastor readies to serve his reply, your lanky bug friend finally meanders in with a coffee cart.

Two plain, white ceramic mugs on saucers are delivered to your desk, along with bowls of sugar and cream, respectively, and a delectable French press. The arthropod lifts the press with remarkable grace despite his lack of philanges, pouring steaming amber liquid with gusto.

“Thank you, Neph,” you commend, preparing your beverage as he gives a brief nod and takes his leave. Two sugars, no cream.

Alastor lifts his mug from its saucer and savors a sip of the black brew. A very nice, earthy blend, perhaps notes of cinnamon on the finish. He appreciates its nuanced flavor for just a moment before redirecting his attention back to you.

Frankly, he was already convinced you were not gullible enough to fall into the less-than-capable hands of Vox and his two left feet. All he had really wanted was to ascertain whether you would be a threat and deal with you quickly, but now that he’s had a taste of good coffee and conversation, he is eager for more.

“I take it you were at the other end of the line at the overlord meeting,” Alastor inquires into his drink.

“I was.”

“You missed out on quite the treat,” he sipped. “It’s not every day the head of an angel rolls your way.”

“If I had known divine ouer d’oeuvres were on the menu, my attendance would not have been a question,” you bemused, the leather of your chair whispering as you leaned back.

“We’ll have to ask in advance next time,” Alastor grinned, elation slowly bubbling through him.

“If only so I know what wine to pair it with,” you chortle.

“Ha!” He beamed. “A Sauvignon Blanc, no doubt.”

“Dry as can be,” you agreed, your smile growing into something more light-hearted as Alastor reached for the Tylenol bottle still posing on your desk from the other day.

“Surely, you must deal in things more exciting than fevers?”

“Oryctolagus deals in the highest of highs,” you confirm. “But everyone needs a little cold and flu remedy, once in a while.”

“A guest of mine proclaims the price of your recreational substances to be quite steep,” Alastor notes, turning the bottle over in his hand. The hexagonal lid moves freely under his ministrations, likely under a child safety lock.

“Production and demand make many of our party tricks costly,” you nod matter-of-factly.

The Radio Demon reaches to return the bottle to its home on your desk, resting his coffee cup to stay in closer proximity. He wants a better look at you.

“I can hardly comprehend it,” he muses. “You? Running a coke factory for street whores?”

“I like to think we’re more of a crafts table kind of establishment,” you shrug, unfazedly sipping at your brew. “Not that I would deny business.”

“How does someone like you become a kingpin?” Alastor presses.

While it wasn’t overnight, sneakily monopolizing the drug industry was no small feat, even in a decade. No one seems to know or care that every ounce of medication in the Pentegram can somehow be tied back to you, aside from the overloards you won’t so much as rub elbows with. Perhaps he wouldn’t be so bothered by it if it weren’t for the fact that you were the one behind it all.

“I wasn’t aware you ran a bed and breakfast,” you dodged. Alastor prickles slightly.

“A hotel to rehabilitate sinners,” he corrects, though how much more dignity there is in the truth is debatable.

“Rehabilitation?” your brow quirks, taken aback. “Now look who’s talking.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean,” The Radio Demon dejects, partaking in his beverage.

“I suppose we’re all taking up new business ventures, aren’t we?” You eye him.

Alastor’s mug runs dry. He’s getting nowhere with you. Perhaps he had gotten used to demons who broadcast their rise to the top to anyone who would listen. At maximum volume, as brightly as possible, he might add. You, annoyingly, seem to be holding your cards close to your chest.

The ceramic of your saucer meets your desk, also empty.

“Neph will accompany you back to the lobby,” you smile. There’s a warmth to it that escapes your suffocating make-believe sunlight. He knows you enjoyed this, too.

A click, and there the mantis stands at the ready. Alastor rises from his seat and gives you a polite nod.

“Until next time, my dear,” he grins.

—

Alone in your lab, you pause between microscope slides.

You’re starting to get some unwanted attention. The overlord meeting and accelerated extermination date had culminated in a most unwelcome guest, but you aren’t sure what to make of it. You hadn’t seen Alastor in a long time; the fact that he even remembered you is astonishing. Yet there he was, demanding coffee like a desperate neighbor.

His audacity really pissed you off, at least at first. Now that you’ve found the voice to go toe to toe with him, it’s sort of fun. Not many enjoy that kind of repertoire.

You turn off your microscope and bounce your leg in thought. Rumination buzzed in your brain like radio static as you tried to piece together what all this might mean for the future. The souls you might lose in the extermination and the looming interest of both Vox and Alastor as overlords are such an odd combination of variables that you find yourself stalling from action. Standing idly by would be foolish, not to mention it isn’t your style.

With a sigh, you stretch and collect your things before meandering to the exit elevator, locking up, and shutting off the lights. The wrrrrr of the elevator accompanies you up to the surface as you watch the red LEDs count your ascent.

You could really use some advice.

____________

Chapter Text

It’s raining. 

Through the blushing hue of stained glass, you watch rain fall from somewhere above. Your knotted brow leaves you in a perpetual frown. People walk by outside, hoisting frilly umbrellas and smiles so wide and sharp they could cut you with just a “hello.” 

A woman sits across from you, watching patiently with a cup of tea. Your chair is warm and plush. It smells so sweet and floral, like a garden on a summer day. She has that smile, the one like a blade. You can see her lift her cup to drink beside you, but your eyes cannot be torn from the window. You can’t remember where you were before, or before that, but you’re here now, and it’s raining. 

“How is it raining?” You ask in a voice so small it doesn’t sound like yours, gaze still glued somewhere beyond the glass.

The woman across from you pauses for a moment. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“This is Hell, and it’s raining.” You clarify. “How is it raining?” 

When she laughs, big and bright, your head swivels to her. Something above your head twitches, and you feel it. 

“My dear,” she chuckles. “You find yourself in Hell, and the only explanation you demand is the weather?” She shakes her head in amusement. Your eyes study her, trying to put the pieces together. Swinging notes dance through the air, and you feel like you fell down a well.

“Take the day.” She smiles at you like she knows something you don’t. “Then, tomorrow, we get to work.” 

—

The shop is bustling today. 

Rosie makes good business at all hours, but as you weave your way through the crowd, you feel as though it isn’t usually this packed. People are lined up at every display case with conversation so loud you can hardly hear the jazz from Rosie’s gramophone. Perhaps you came at a bad time? 

You excuse yourself past distracted cannibals as politely as possible while trying to maintain the integrity of your bouquet—only the finest for Rosie, and a brown bag of booze, of course. As you pass by, some folks stop you to say hello and ask how you are. Charles, your old business neighbor, calls your name and squeezes your shoulders. Your very first pharmacy was right next to his barber shop, and you used to bond over break-in prevention. You send your best to his wife, but insist you have urgent business with Rosie. You’ve almost made it to her front counter when her sweet, booming voice exclaims in elation to your left. 

“Oh, my stars!” She delights. “Who is this fine young lady in my humble parlor?” 

You blush and rub your neck as you hurry to meet her. She knows just how to make someone feel special. A tight, familiar embrace envelopes you in the fragrant scent of florals. It’s so good to be home, where everyone knows your name. 

“I’ve missed you terribly,” you pull back with your gifts in hand. “And, if it isn’t too much trouble, I was hoping for a word of advice.” 

“You spoil me rotten, my little mouse!” She beams. “Don’t mind the crowd, we’re having a flash sale on lady fingers. Please, come in, come in.” Rosie ushers you to her tea room with her hand on the small of your back. 

“How have you been?” You ask, the two of you strolling to your favorite corner spot in step. 

“Oh, same old, same old,” she nods. “It’s not the same without you, my dear.” She hands off your bouquet to an empty, shell-colored vase and carries it to your table. Black petunias and baby’s breath, grown yourself at your lab. 

“I’m sorry it’s been so long, you know how it is,” you sigh, sliding into your cushioned seat. 

“You simply must tell me what’s on your mind,” Rosie leans forward to grasp your hand. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you so tense.” 

“I’ve had mixed company as of late,” you begin. “Mr. VoxTek came down to breathe on my neck about ‘magnifying my lovely face.’ As if I need his advertising. And, of course, Carmilla’s meeting.” 

She nods in understanding as a gentleman brings over tea. You can tell by the aroma that it’s your favorite blend, and a stacked tray of goodies comes shortly after. The warmth of gratitude melts your heart when you see those shortbread cookies you like, with jam in the center. 

“Rosie, you didn’t need to do all this,” you could cry with relief. Friends like her are rarer than gold down here. 

“Nonsense, my dear,” she insists. “You know, that Velvette girl was awfully interested in your little phone the entirety of the meeting.” 

“I knew she was talking to me,” you gasped. “It’s been driving me nuts! Ever since Vox tried to sign me on, I’ve gotten all this unwanted attention.” You run a hand down your face in exhaustion. 

“Not to mention, Alastor.” You bemuse. 

“Oh, no?” Rosie leans in, pouring you a cup. 

“Yeah, he demanded my time and my coffee,” you roll your eyes. “I just can’t seem to fit the pieces together. I know this is all connected.” You rest your chin on your knuckles in frustration. 

“Take a step back,” she encourages. “What could these powerful, mediocre men want from you?” 

You stir a lump of sugar in your tea as you turn over her words. Money? Power?

“You’re thinking much too hard, my dear. Step back, I said!” She chuckles, lifting her cup from her saucer. 

“I don’t know, attention?” You wager a guess, mirroring her sip. 

“Precisely!” Rosie declares. 

“Neither of them even knew that I was the exec at O-Pharm until they were already standing in my quarters.” You shake your head. “I’m fairly certain they thought I was a man.” 

“Ah, all the more reason.” She insists, her lovely lilting voice like balm on your nerves. 

“I don’t understand,” you smile, but your brows knit in confusion. 

“A powerful, mysterious, capable woman,” She gestures to you with her tea, a teasing smile on her lips. “Any agenda they had waltzed right out of your office the minute they saw your cute cotton tail.” 

“I think that’s a stretch,” you laugh into the steam above your drink. 

“Alastor, I’m a little surprised by, but Vox has fallen victim to be sure.” Rosie nods matter-of-factly. 

“Okay,” you grin, bewildered. “So, what do I need to do?”

“Lay low,” she sips. “Let them make themselves known, play their cards. You’ll decide the next move.” 

You nod solemnly at her sage advice. Rosie is a brilliant woman and someone you deeply admire. You had a feeling she might say something along those lines, but it’s much more effective to hear it from her directly. 

“How are things at the big pharmacy?” She asks, her words radiating with pride. You let out a long exhale through your nose. 

“Same old, same old,” you chagrin. Rosie hums and allows you to continue. 

“Sales are up with the extermination on the rise,” you divulge. “Can’t go out with a bang if you don’t have the right fuel, I suppose.” 

“Excellent,” she commends. “And the old bug?” 

“Neph is just fine,” you chuckle. “He sends his best.” 

“He is one tall glass of water,” Rosie admits thoughtfully. “If only he weren’t so spiny.” 

“Yikes,” you halfheartedly grimace. 

“What? We’re all adults here.” She teases, reaching for a treat. 

“Yes, well, you’re both my mentors, and I love you very much.” You wave your hand, hoping to move on to another subject. 

“Alastor is running a hotel,” You comment after a swig. 

“Ah, yes.” Rosie shrugs as if it were something she had almost forgotten. “A little pet project.” 

“The goal is to rehabilitate sinners, and he’s the one running it?” You raise your brow in astonishment. “As if it isn’t hard enough to get anyone to believe in something like that. If it weren’t already like catching fish with a hula hoop, Alastor would surely make it like fishing with a string of yarn.” 

“Thankfully, Princess Morningstar has taken up the responsibility of being the face of the project,” she acknowledges. 

“Princess Morningstar?” Now you’re even more confused. “Alastor is the project manager for Lucifer’s daughter?” 

“The whole thing was her idea,” Rosie discloses, delighted. 

“Well, I suppose that explains some of it.” You reach for a bite of shortbread. “He didn’t seem all that excited about it when it came up over coffee the other day.” 

“Despite what you might think, The Radio Demon is very passionate about rehabilitation.” Rosie gives you a look that reads: Of course, he hates it. 

The two of you share a laugh, and Rosie delves into the latest Cannibal Town gossip with fervor. Susan is still a bitch, she informs you, and a few of your old friends from your early days want to meet for dinner. She also reminds you that the season’s ball is coming up. 

“You'd better show your face, young lady.” Rosie insists. “You’ve been a ghost around here, you know.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” You assure her, taking another sweet bite. You could stay here, chatting with Rosie for the rest of your eternal damnation.

On the ride back, Neph is waiting for you in the back seat. 

“Rosie sends her best,” you inform as you climb in next to him with a box of sweets.

“Likewise,” he stoically replies. He’s got his clipboard, and you prepare for the worst. 

“You have a product review, a few last-minute details for the new amphetamine launch next week, and a five-thirty meeting with the board.” He rattles off. 

Sounds like an exciting day. 

You gaze out of the car window as Neph details your schedule, and you catch a glimpse of a tall, scarlet figure strolling on the sidewalk. It was a blur, hardly even a glimpse. If you weren’t buzzing with contentment from your visit with Rosie, you might have thought on it a little longer, but Neph was proposing places for lunch before your meeting, and you decided to file it away for later. You settle on getting deli to-go. 

Board meetings are not your favorite part of your job, but they’re far from the worst. You know how to handle a crowd, but your empire was sort of like your child, and you are fiercely protective of it. The souls of the board members were among the first deals you made, and as such, they retain a certain influence on your business as part of their contracts. Each had their own responsibility working for you. The only exception being Neph, who was your very first deal and sole confidant. 

Ordinarily, you value their expertise and additional perspective. Lately, though, some have taken a keen interest in pushing sales as high as possible. This clashes with your low-key business model and goal of staying out of the spotlight. Success in hell isn’t always about making waves. You worked very hard to sink into the bones of Pentagram City unnoticed, and you would like to remain as such. 

When you push open the glass doors of your central conference room, you’re met with busy chatter. As you make your way to the head of the table, a hush falls over the clattering voices, and Neph accompanies you to your seat. A sleek, leather notebook thumps onto the wooden tabletop from your messenger bag, and with a click, a black pen neatly lies beside it. Your hands fold symmetrically onto the table as you wait for your executives to begin. 

Jay, a fellow chemist, discusses research developments and production efficiency. What were once extremely illegal substances are now your most profitable products, but keeping your machine well-oiled requires great diligence. They mention there was a slight mishap with an apparatus in the methamphetamine production line, but otherwise, smooth sailing. The individual responsible for the incident received disciplinary action. Other individuals handled your advertising and accounting, but you typically met with them personally. 

Mobius, a lawyer in his time, assists you in overseeing your soul count and inter-facility disputes. He solemnly relays developments in your soul intake program, on the rise of course, as well as a few resolved breakroom disputes on subfloors twelve, nine, and thirty-two. 

Finally, Tasha jumps up, her wild hair bouncing with enthusiasm. She connects you with your highest-paying clientele, partygoers. You imagine someone else has been helping her with preparing her metrics. She presents great numbers, likely with the assistance of the upcoming extermination. Even so, Tasha is a fantastic saleswoman. You take a few notes, and as you prepare to give her thanks, she discloses a most interesting interaction she had at a club in the heart of the city. 

“Val made some really good points,” she beamed. “Our brand has, like, a lot of growing potential. The Vees have a proposal for this–”

“Thank you, Tasha.” You stop her, your face gravely serious. With a brief nod and appreciative phrase, you bolt out of the room. Neph is on your heel, but you detour to the nearest elevator, hoping your path will involve little resistance. 

“I’m gonna take ten,” you huff, feeling around in your bag for a carton of cigarettes and your key card to the roof. Your mantis assistant hangs back respectfully as you make your ascent. 

The steel doors open to a bustling lobby, and with a polite nod to your secretaries at their desks, you make a beeline to a private access stairwell a few yards down a barren hallway. With a swipe, you’re hustling up and out to quite possibly the most underwhelming view in all of hell. 

The roof door closes with a shift and a click behind you. The red light of the city glows with your distress, and you meet its greeting by bringing a smoke to your lips. This isn’t something you indulge in often, but this god awful hounding from the Vees is reason enough to seek out a light. You saunter across the roof, resting your elbow on the cement edge while you toss your bag on the ground. A lighter flicks open like an old friend, and your eyes focus on the end of your cigarette as your thumb strikes once, twice–

“Need a light?”

Jesus Christ.

You fumble your lighter nearly out into the street before catching it in your hands with a frustrated huff. The tense figure of your hands clutches the metal between your palms, and you peer beside you in disastrous annoyance. 

The Radio Demon mirrors your once casual position, his elbow perched on the concrete siding with a match clasped at his forefinger and the matchbox perched between his ring and middle fingers. He looks awfully proud of himself. 

You shake off your initial shock, your once disturbed expression solidifying into one of indifference as you swipe your thumb across your lighter with deliberation, the flame coming to life with a spark of defiance. It caresses your cigarette for a few moments as you take a breath in, allowing the smoke to fill your mouth, letting it linger, then pushing it out into a ball of vapor before coaxing it back in to envelope your lungs. You gaze out at the bustling streets of Hell, unbothered. 

“Alastor,” you acknowledge. White smoke races out into the city air. 

“I was in the neighborhood, thought I would stop by,” he recoils, the matchbox in his hand turning to ash. “I was hoping you might spare another cup of coffee, but you seem to be in a bit of a mood.” 

You laugh. You laugh at the absurdity, at your frustration. Two weeks ago, Voxtek was completely oblivious to your existence, associated with Oryctolagus or otherwise. Hell, you doubted they could even pronounce the name. Perhaps you were in a mood. You find yourself rubbed a little raw from the thinly veiled threats of the Vees. 

“Yes,” you concur in amusement, a rare smirk on your lips. “I am in a mood.” 

“I’m more than happy to lend an ear,” the static of Alastor’s voice attempts to comfort, but his eyes trail up above your head. “Though it seems you have plenty.” 

You snicker, running a hand over the back of your neck. The red glow of your stick smolders as you take in another breath, pulling it in for a moment and then releasing it to the wind. Instead of a reply, your wrist curves to direct the filter of the cigarette to him, an offer. The brown portion has been ever so slightly stained an auburn color where your lips met the paper. 

Alastor studies your offering for a moment, then his eyes search your expression. His red irises flicker over you in the haze of the city light. He finds only exhausted amusement, and with a mischievous leer, he accepts. His clawed fingers gently lift the cigarette from its perch in yours, bringing it to his grin and taking a long drag. As he exhales, he passes it back, a grey cloud catching the fluorescence of billboards and street lights. You take it with an exaggerated nod of appreciation. 

The two of you listen to the noise of the city for a while, wordlessly passing a cigarette back and forth like kids playing hooky. Your block isn’t known for its foot traffic, and today it’s quiet enough that you can even make out the subtle ambience of Alastor beside you. You quietly wonder if he has to think consciously about concealing the static, as you don’t remember hearing it in your office. Perhaps you were too distracted fighting off his banter. 

“How goes the bed and breakfast?” You smile, crossing your arms over the cement wall as you finally break the silence. Alastor’s eyes narrow. 

“We recently acquired a new guest,” he begrudgingly replies. 

“How very noteworthy,” you congratulate, leaning over to face the Radio Demon a little more. 

“I’d recommend a few notes on our uptake techniques,” Alastor suggests in a lighthearted sneer. “You could learn a thing or two.”

“I do so admire a successful businessman,” you mockingly shiver, pulling your hand up for another drag. You exhale into the street and casually pass the little wand of nicotine. 

“What so troubles you to cower on this rooftop, my dear?” Alastor presses. He collects the cigarette from your hand and brings it to his lips, watching you carefully. 

“We’re having the hardest time convincing sinners to buy crack,” you pout to him, bringing a fist down on the paved wall of your rooftop. “If sales keep plateauing like this, I’m afraid I’ll have to open up an inn.” 

Alastor exhales unimpressed vapor as he returns your tobacco. He has a flat smile, and you find yourself laughing at the role reversal. 

“Seems I’ve touched a nerve.” You raise a brow, plucking the stick from his waiting hand. 

“How about a game?” The Radio Demon proposes, exasperated at your antics. “For every question you answer honestly, I will answer yours in turn.” 

“Why would I want to know anything about you?” You gesture to him with the glowing end of your cigarette. 

“Knowledge is power, my dear.” He grins, leaning his chin into the palm of his hand. You take a drag as you think it over, the coffin nail a little more than half spent. 

“How many passes do we get?” You huff out your reply. 

“Only three,” Alastor decides, spreading his hand to make his point, then returning his chin to its perch. “The first to use all three loses. You may only answer if it is the whole truth.” 

“Okay,” you roll the paper between your fingers. “What have you been up to for the last seven years?” 

Alastor bristles, but carries on. 

“Pass. Why are you smoking on the roof?” 

“It’s rude to smoke inside. Why are you helping Lucifer’s daughter?” 

“It’s in my best interest. Why are you so intent on avoiding the spotlight?”

“It’s in my best interest,” you wink as you offer Alastor another drag. He obliges. “What’s your deal with Vox?” 

“He misses me,” Alastor shrugs, savoring a puff. “How did you meet your little mantis?” 

“Pass.” You almost wince, watching the smoke escape his pompous smirk. “Why does Vox miss you?” 

“He can’t do anything on his own.” Alastor shakes his head with pity. “Do you think redemption is possible?” 

You pause, opening your palm in request as you think it over. The Radio Demon places the cigarette in your fingers as you reply. 

“Sure,” you shrug, crossing your legs as you lean on the cement wall. “Do you?” 

“Absolutely not,” He chuckles. “What were you doing before you stormed onto the roof?” 

“I was in a meeting,” you scowl. How long was he watching you? “How did you die?” You prod to find another nerve.

Alastor’s ear twitches. Looks like you found it.

“Pass,” he scowls back. “What was the meeting about?” 

“Status reports,” you blurt, grasping to find something to make him use his last pass. “Why won’t you tell me how you died?” 

“It’s remarkably uninteresting,” Alastor replies flatly. “What happened in that meeting that made you so desperate for a cigarette?” 

Damnit. 

“Pass,” you squint at him, searching for something that would finish the game. The beginnings of a smirk sprout on your face. “Do you own your soul?”

Alastor’s eyes narrow dangerously as he plucks the cigarette from your hand. 

“Pass,” he growls. 

How very interesting. Exhilaration races through you, but just as you go to celebrate, you hear the lock on the roof door shift. You whip around to see Neph step through the hefty, black doorway. 

“Are you alright, my lady?” He asks. 

“Yeah, I was just–” You turn to Alastor, but all you find is the smudge of ash on the concrete wall. Your brows contort in confusion. 

“Tasha is upset,” Neph continues. “What should I tell her?” 

A string of smoke slowly drifts from the little dart of tobacco. 

“I’ll talk to her.” You rub your neck as you shrug off your win. 

—

Rotten vermin. That’s what you are. 

Alastor wasn’t expecting you to turn the tide so quickly. He was so sure he had finally caught you as you struck your lighter, but alas, his every taunt flattened like you were a brick wall. He can’t effectively antagonize you if he doesn’t know your weaknesses, and even worse, you sniffed him out like a bloodhound. Lucky guess.

The Radio Demon gazed into the vibrant light of his fireplace, his leg bouncing. He could feel the shudder of his heart beneath his coat as it stirred to life. He could kill you. All of hell could relish in the sweet song of your screams tonight. You wouldn’t be so smug with a blade over your throat. That look in your eyes as you recognized victory was infuriating. He’s determined to ruin your composure just as you’ve ruined his. This is more than a game, now. He owes it to you. 

The heat of the fire wafts over him. He sees the red of your cigarette, tracing a line through the thick evening air. It’s been a long time since he had a worthy challenge to face. 

—

“We can offer you complete protection,” Vox assured over a long, illuminated conference table. Velvette and Val looked down the stretch of sleek, black glass silently. 

At the end of the table, a young demon with wild eyes glances around the room. He must be as nervous as he looks. The palms of his hands are tucked between his legs, a lamb to the slaughter. 

“All we need from you,” Vox casually leans forward, clasping his wiry claws on the table. “Is information. Every detail you can shake out of your tiny brain. Where does she go, who does she meet, when does she meet them?” 

Vincent had carefully selected this individual for a number of reasons. He had been working long enough in surveillance to know your routine, but not quite long enough to know what exactly giving up one’s soul really meant. He was malleable, the perfect spy. 

The small demon cowered under the immense volume of Vox’s projected demands. The televised overlord decided to take the opportunity to level with the poor, uninformed sinner. 

“Listen, kid,” Vox said gently. “It’s in your best interest to look out for yourself. A massive, bureaucratic organization like Oryctolagus doesn’t care about someone small like you.” The bittersweet taste of irony lapses his digital tongue, but he continues nonetheless. 

“I can offer you more money and fame than you could imagine,” He mused, screens behind him flickering to life with visions of love, lust, and wealth. The faint sound of a cheering crowd echoed through the room into the impressionable mind at the end of the table. 

“You’ll fly so high you won’t even remember you ever made a deal with that witch in the first place,” Vox chuckled, summoning a tablet with a dotted line before the fool, a stylus pointed and at the ready.

“All you have to do,” he glared down the glowing blue runway of his conference table, his voice teasing the line of flirtatious, “is trust me.” 

The kid’s eyes swirled with the promise of prosperity. He held the pen, his wrist shaking with the gravity of such a decision. He chanced another look at the grinning pixels of Vox’s monitor, and with a deep breath, his signature graced the screen in short, uncoordinated letters. 

“Yes!” Vox cheered, confetti falling from the ceiling. He fists the air, allowing a brief maniacal laugh before clearing his throat and straightening himself out. 

“We’ll get started on your interview right away,” Vox beamed as he straightened his sleeve, lost in his excitement. One step closer to his goal. 

“What the hell,” Val squints when he finally looks away from the dancing vision of Vox’s victory. “Where did he go?” 

Vox follows the moth’s eyes to the end of the conference table. 

The kid is gone. 

“What the fuck?” Vox utters in astonishment. He barely took his eyes off the rat for more than a second. Did he seriously manage to slip out? 

The overlord strides to the main doors of the conference room, furious. He rips them open, looking either way and finding not a trace of life. He summons the view of every camera on his site, poring over every corner. Impossible. 

“Where the hell did he go?” Velvette shouts, her doll-like hands waving in astonishment that they could lose track of an informant in the impressive duration of thirty seconds. 

Vox grips the chair the bastard sat in with talons so sharp they tear through the leather. That slippery little shit, there is no way anyone of such low standing could get away like that. Not to mention, why? The brat was eating out of the palm of his hand. Why make a break for it now? The flat screen of his face hangs in frustration, completely enraged. It’s only when he looks down that he catches a glimpse of his then spy. 

He rotates the chair as his eyes widen in disgust. The other Vees call to him, but their voices are lost on his audio sensors. 

The leather seat is covered in dust. 

Chapter Text

The roof door clamps shut behind you as you descend the stairs with Neph.

You shouldn’t have run out of the meeting like that. Keeping a level head usually comes so naturally to you, but the Vees are on your trail like they’re selling car insurance. Every time you evade their grasp, they only reach for you harder. You can’t stand their crude tactics; they have no finesse. Everything about their ragtag little group spells trouble, from their blatantly unprofessional behavior to their capitalization of private information. You want absolutely nothing to do with them. 

You take a deep breath and clasp your hands behind your back as you enter the lobby with Neph. Funnily enough, you feel more put together after your little game with Alastor. You needed the reminder that your composure is your greatest weapon. Not to mention that look on his face when he lost was absolutely delicious. You do sort of enjoy going toe to toe with him, and although he was essentially harassing you just like the Vees, at least he had a little charm. In the end, he did lift your spirits, but perhaps not the way he had in mind. 

An elevator arrives to return you to the tenth floor, where your conference room resides. You step in as you check your watch. 

“The Radio Demon was on the roof,” Neph observes as the doors slide closed.

“Yes, he was bumming a cigarette,” you confirm absentmindedly, turning to watch the red counter mark your descent. Five floors pass before he speaks again.

“Will you be taking Tasha below?” he asks. 

“She needs to see that there is only one future Val can offer her,” you concur with a sigh. The doors open. 

Tasha paces in the hallway, her massive tail hanging low. When she sees you coming back, her hands clasp over her heart as she races to meet you. 

“I am so sorry, Doc,” she pleads. As she waits for your reply, her lack of elaboration tells you that she doesn’t really know what she did wrong. 

“I apologize for storming out on you, Tasha,” you smile. “It was unprofessional. As my colleague, you deserve my undivided respect and attention when presenting your work.” 

Her fluffy tail wags with relief, but she still isn’t satisfied. You must have really caused a scene.

“Was it something I said?” She eyes you nervously, her pointed ears pinned down. You close your eyes in appreciation for her groveling and smoothly gesture to the elevator. 

“Come with me. I want to show you something,” you guide her to the silver doors. Tasha mirrors your posture with her hands behind her back. When the two of you step past the threshold, your hand slowly glides down the extensive array of buttons all the way to the bottom. It’s so far down you have to bend over. Floor number sixty-five. You hear her swallow next to you. 

“You aren’t in trouble,” you chuckle as you straighten up. “However, you need to see how dangerous it is to entertain the ideas of someone like Val.” 

When you turn to face her, she’s as rigid as a board. She nods stiffly, and the two of you ride in silence to the hum of the descending mechanism. You can see her hands fidget behind her in the corner of your eye. 

When you arrive, a sensor above the many buttons prompts you to swipe your keycard. A light on the sensor blinks green, and the doors open to what appears to be a strange, sterile warehouse. The shelves go on and on, a sleek, white epoxy floor reflecting only the dim light coming from each shelving unit. It’s dark, like a department store after hours, and the pale glow from the elevator stretches your shadows into the barren space. 

When the two of you step out of the lift, a staggering shift sounds as massive, fluorescent lights beam to life. It sounds again, then again, as the lights come on further and further away. Tasha isn’t sure when exactly it stops. You advance, and as the two of you make your way among the odd illuminated shelving, the clack of your vixen subordinate’s heels is so loud she nearly winces with every stride. A drop of water would sound like a thunderclap down here. 

As you walk past the displays, Tasha finally gets a look at what exactly was waiting for you. Little vials sit evenly spaced among each rack, labeled with thin text that she can’t quite make out. The shelves are spaced so far apart that it would take her a few strides just to approach them. If she didn’t know any better, she might think it was a backup supply of the fun stuff, but the vials were so small, and the labels implied samples of some kind. She felt like she had been kidnapped by a perfume saleswoman, doomed to inhale tester spray for all eternity.

You veer down a path that takes the two of you between shelving units, the abrupt motion catching the distracted fox off guard as she hustles to keep up. Her eyes drink in the buzzing light, curiously looking about to try and rationalize the predicament she found herself in. As you walk perpendicular to the displays, Tasha passes by close enough to catch a glimpse of what the vials contain. 

Dust. 

All of them. Dust. The same quantity, the same ashen color. If it isn’t empty, it has dust. Her face squints in confusion, and she can’t help but stop in her tracks. Why are you showing her this? Why was this here? 

Tasha steps closer to the end of a bracket, looking intently at the dust-filled vial placed there. She looks down at the label and nearly chokes at what she reads on the gray placard. 

Ester Cicillian. It’s a name. 

Her eyes trace over to you, standing just meters away, your expression cold and empty. 

“Almost there,” you nod down the aisle. 

She follows a few steps behind you this time. Tasha’s head is fixed, looking down each row of shelves you pass. She shouldn’t be here. 

“The Vees want you to think that they can make you into something bigger,” you start as you silently stride in front of her. Your quiet voice carries through the air like the low rumble of a coming storm.

“They want you to think that they believe in you, that you inspire them.” You walk a few more steps, then stop dead at the center of a row of shelves. Tasha nearly bumps into you. You turn to face her as smoothly as a blade across ice. 

“Profit inspires them,” you inform her. Your eyes keep her in place for a moment before you casually meander down the row of vials. 

“Profit doesn’t inspire you?” Tasha hesitantly inquires.

“It does,” you admit with a smirk. “But ambition is meaningless without self-control. Vox swallows everything in his path, and his empire is next. Soon, he will collapse in on himself like a dying star.” 

Tasha notes the labels arranged in alphabetical order as her heart begins to sink. Taffeta, Tammy A., Tammie M., Tammal…

An empty glass sits neatly on a shelf, among what must be thousands. There, plain and ordinary. 

Tasha. The card is still white.

“I know you were only looking out for the company,” you watch as a bead of cold sweat caresses Tasha’s cheek. “It’s admirable. You want this enterprise to be the best it can be,” you smile warmly. 

A beat of silence passes as she approaches her little jar. She picks it up, turning the plain glass over in her claws. 

“What happened to these people?” She asks. Your smile fades. 

“They made a deal that compromised their ability to serve Oryctolagus Pharmaceuticals.” 

She returns the small bottle with a lump in her throat. 

“Do me a favor, Tasha,” you look up at her with your shady, unlit eyes. “Sell. I’ll take care of the rest.” 

She swallows, then nods. 

“Wonderful,” you grin. Tasha looks dizzy. 

“You’re dismissed,” you turn to the vials lining the ledge. “Keep up the good work.”

As the echoed click of Tasha’s heels fades into the depths of your institute, you zero in on a spot at the very bottom left of the aisle. The once white placard has turned grey; you don’t remember cataloging it. 

Tommie, it reads. The vial is empty. 

—

An upbeat, dandy tune hums from Alastor’s lips as he strolls down the bustling streets of Cannibal town. His grin shines brighter than the earthly sun, despite the clouds rolling in. 

He had taken the evening to rest and revitalize with a hunt, and now that he had vented some of his frustration, he was ready to approach his goal with renewed fervor. He had been swinging at you nonstop, trying to get a rise, and only riling himself further. The Radio Demon had realized with tortured souls beneath his claws that what he really needed was a new perspective, and there was one rosy-cheeked woman who fit the bill perfectly. 

With a treatbox and a bouquet in hand, Alastor stepped into Rosie’s shop and announced his arrival with jolly vibrato. 

This wouldn’t be easy, though. Rosie is not one to be fooled by wool; she can see through any act, especially Alastor’s. If he’s going to get anything out of her, he will need to be particularly cunning. The only detail he can rely on is that, at a minimum, your rise to success was supported by Rosie’s mentorship, and as such, she would naturally want to boast about your accomplishments. Ideally, he’ll illicit a fond memory or two. 

“Alastor, my dear!” Rosie sang down her staircase. “What perfect timing! I need a taste tester, come with me.” She hooked Alastor by the arm, dragging him around the corner to her kitchen. The two have been working together for a very long time, and while Alastor has grown a bit blasé in his enthusiasm, he’ll never say no to taste-testing. 

“Little Jody got hitched last season, and the ceremony is this weekend,” Rosie explained, the swinging door of her kitchen revealing an enormous, decadent cake. He feels a little hesitant, never a man for sweets, but when Rosie hands him a slice, he happily hands over his gifts to receive her generous offer. The cut is so tender and moist, every bite just melts in his mouth. Jody is a lucky woman. 

“Her soon-to-be mother-in-law was getting a bit pushy, and one thing led to another,” Rosie chuckles, collecting herself a piece from the testing cake as well. 

“What an exquisite cut,” Alastor hums in delight, forking another succulent bite. 

“Some of my finest work!” She winks, diving in. As the two enjoy their luxurious treat, she finds a moment to inquire about his visit. 

“Whatever brings you by my humble establishment, my dear?”

“I thought we might take some time to catch up,” Alastor suggests. “After all, we haven’t seen much of each other since I got back.” Rosie narrows her eyes slightly. 

“Such a sweet young man,” she shakes her head, taking her spare hand and guiding him into the parlor. A tea set already waits for them, though Alastor doesn’t care much for tea. 

“A wedding is awfully exciting,” The Radio Demon comments as they take their seats. A gloomy haze casts the town in a grey shadow, framed by Rosie’s delicate windowsill. 

“Any other recent developments?” 

“You missed the flash sale on lady fingers,” Rosie smirks. He snaps his fingers, disappointed. 

“And the social season is starting soon,” She looks at him pointedly. Alastor nearly sinks in his chair. “Oh, don’t be such a rake. The first ball is coming up, so keep an eye out for the invitation.” 

“Yes, yes,” He sighs in defeat. “How could I possibly illude such a momentous occasion?” His cannibal companion eyes him in warning, but decides to move on. 

“Tell me about the hotel,” She encourages, taking a sip of her tea. This is going to be harder than he thought. 

“Clogs, leaks, disputes between the only two guests,” Alastor sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Holes, commercials, harassment, all the best things that come out of managing a hotel.” No charming smile would ever sparkle enough to hide his disdain for that place. Still, he musters up his very best look of appreciation. 

“Even so,” he mutters, “It has been humbling, and I have learned a thing or two.” Rosie grins, very pleased to hear that Alastor was, perhaps, finally coming around. Yeah, right. 

She sips her tea as she waits for him to continue, but he decides to pivot the conversation in a more favorable direction. 

“Vox has taken up a new hobby in stalking,” Alastor muses. “I’ve been personally accosted by him and the spy he hired.” 

Rosie raises a brow, but before she can comment, he casts his first line. 

“Velvette was even going after that little pharmacy girl,” he adds. “Oh, what was her name…” Alastor trails off as he eyes Rosie over the table. 

“As if you don’t remember her name,” she huffs. “You certainly knew it when you barged into her office for coffee,” Rosie scolds, sending an accusatory finger his way. 

How very interesting. You were here recently, and even better, you had confided in Rosie about your little altercation. So, you had been bothered, after all. 

“Oh, you know me, so terrible with that sort of thing,” Alastor chuckles innocently. “The last I saw of her, she was a baby bird afraid to take flight.” He waits patiently for Rosie to divulge more precious information. 

“Yes, a lot has changed,” She admits. “Not that you were ever really paying attention.”

 Fair enough. 

“She was lucky to have someone like you take her in,” The Radio Demon coaxes, leaning over the table, eager to listen. 

“I might have given her a place to sleep,” Rosie gazes fondly into her tea. “But she made something out of nothing. In a way, she reminds me a lot of you,” She chuckles wistfully and takes a drink. 

Really? Him? That certainly takes him by surprise. It must show on his face, because Rosie laughs into her elaboration. 

“Such cute kids, taking fate into your own hands. She’s a little cuter than you are, though.” Wild laughter escapes Rosie’s sharp grin, and Alastor shrugs her off. 

“And how, exactly, did she make something out of nothing?” He prods, leaning back as he brings the forefinger of his fist to his lip. 

“To be honest, I have no idea.” She shakes her head. “When she was living in Cannibal Town, she would come home at all odd hours of the night, but still be up before anyone else. One day, she showed me her new keys, and she was gone.” A sort of sadness tugs at the corners of Rosie’s smile. 

“Did that bother you?” Alastor asked. 

“She cleaned up after herself, she was just scarce,” She reminisced. “It wasn’t until she left that she really came out of her shell. I wonder if she felt like a burden?” 

Very interesting. That, Alastor could work with. He sat for a moment as Rosie’s delicious intel sank in, but she soon caught on to his vested interest. 

“It’s nice to see you getting along with someone so well,” she pointed out, her tone just above the line of teasing. 

“Hm, yes, getting along,” Alastor echoed, thinking of your back and forth on the rooftop, the red line of your cigarette the only mediator. He looks away. 

“You might find it remarkably refreshing to be in the company of a person who stands on equal ground,” She suggests. Alastor laughs at such a delusional notion. 

“I believe you’ve made sure of that impossibility,” He alludes. 

“Not power,” Rosie gestures with her tea. “Respect. Someone who matches your wit, who makes you laugh. Someone who doesn’t care about power.” 

Hm. Alastor thought he had found an equal in Vincent, and that went quite poorly. The televised narcissist has always been remarkably transparent, quick to anger, and easy to manipulate. Although it is worth mentioning that you are nothing like Vincent. Arrogant, maybe, but far from foolish. He finds himself frustrated by your unwillingness to bend to his will, but fascinated by the thrill of the chase. Most don’t even realize his will is what’s doing the bending, but you dance around his every attempt like water seeping between his fingertips. Could he honestly say he would rather be in a room with Vox? 

He never really liked that illuminated lunatic. So talkative, so much blatant flattery. Their budding friendship, if you could call it that, collided into a rivalry equally potent and one-sided. It’s a rather exhausting dynamic. Alastor can not see an “equal standing” with you going any other way.

Is there any dynamic to be had in Hell, if not a power struggle?

Alastor thinks again, back to that moment on the rooftop. 

He reaches for his teacup, the brew long since stagnant and cold. Bringing the edge to his lip, he fights to expel the doubt Rosie has instilled in him. 

Was your little game a struggle for power? There was a winner, and yet, no prize. When he showed up, unannounced, you respected his standing, obliged his request for coffee, but granted him no exception to the divulgence of your secrets, nor the privilege of overstaying his welcome. You’re grounded, calm. You don’t talk hoping you’ll get somewhere, you talk knowing where you’ll be. Content to stay out of the limelight. Content to defend what is yours. 

That is a rare quality in sinners: knowing when to stop grasping for more. What an odd specimen, you are. He will have to put you to the test. 

Alastor shrugs at Rosie’s musings as drops of rain patter on the ground outside, shining like gems on the window. 

“There are no friends in hell, my dear,” he denies, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the glass. 

—

Voxtek is on high alert. 

After the kid disappeared, there was no way to confirm that the ashes left in his wake belonged to him. The conference room has been quarantined, essentially a crime scene, and Vox bounces his leg under his desk as he stares at the dotted line that once brought him closer to victory. 

Thomas “Tommie” Ash. How subtle. 

His ridiculous name led Vox to believe that this might be a gimmick of some kind, but as minutes turned into hours with no sign of their spy, he and his team were forced to pursue other interests. As much as Vox wanted to shut the place down and weed the little fucker out, they had work to do. Whatever this was, though, he had a very bad feeling about it. 

The parallel lines of Vox’s face and his monitor screen glare at each other as he tries to ascertain an explanation for what the hell is going on. He had combed through articles of sinners turning to dust as night turned to day, but incidents were odd and isolated—a woman at a casino, a man in a taxi, years later. No connection to O-Pharm. Of course, if this did have anything to do with you, you would have it under lock and key. 

Val raps at the door, turning it just enough to peek through. 

“It’s almost noon,” he says, something like concern in his flirtatious voice. “Do you want to head down?” 

Vox frowns at his screen, refusing to turn away as he clicks absentmindedly. 

“We can’t meet in that conference room,” he grumbles, his attention fixed on a How It’s Made article from 2005 about the production of commercial dusters. 

“Oh, I figured we would,” Val counters, surprised. 

“And why did you figure that?” Vox sighs back, exasperated. The pixelated bags under his eyes stooped with so much exhaustion that he needed his hands to carry the weight of his screen. 

“You sent someone to clean it up, no?” Val bitterly replies. 

Clean it up?

“What?” Vox’s eyes narrow as he straightens slightly. Sent someone..?

Suddenly, he swivels to Val in panic. The moth overlord staggered back as his televised colleague rushed past him, out of his office door, and to the nearest elevator. He jams his clawed finger into the button over and over, but when it’s too slow to arrive, he books it for the stairs. He nearly ate it flying down the steps, bolting through hallways until he finally made it to the conference room doors, gasping for air.

Vox pauses for a moment as he stares at the doorknob, his hand suspended mid-action. He isn’t sure what to expect beyond these doors, dead or alive. After spending all night trying to make sense of what happened, half of him is furious, and the other half is eager for answers. There’s only one thing he hopes for on the other side of this door. He swallows, takes a breath, and finally pushes through the threshold. Wild eyes scan the room once, then twice, but he finds no signs of life. Blue light hums through the space, beautifully and unequivocally his. The room is just as it was, each chair perfectly turned towards the center of the shining black conference table, the claw marks of his anger the only sign that anything had occurred at all. 

Vox lets out a sigh of relief, and perhaps a little disappointment. Some insolent employee must have taken the initiative. The other Vees trail behind, asking Vox about his odd behavior from down the hall. 

 Before he can turn to reply, two pointed rabbit ears emerge from the high back of the torn, frontmost chair. 

He feels his heart kickstart as the other Vees catch up with him, peering through his form to see what’s going on. He watches, stunned, as you turn the chair just enough to reveal the side of your profile, eyeing a small vial pitched between your thumb and forefinger. Grey powder shifts in the glass as you tilt it back and forth. 

Tommie. 

“I think I’m a little overqualified to be your maid, Vox,” you taunt. Finally, you swing your leg over your knee as you face the three confounded Vees. A teasing look finds its way to your face, and you grip the glass vial in your fist. 

“I do hope that isn’t what this is about,” you squint with a wicked grin. 

Vox hollers your name like you’re an old friend, spreading his arms in open reception as if he might hug you. You quirk a brow, and he folds his hands behind his back as he steps into the room. 

“What an honor, I had no idea you were coming by!” Vox flounders. “Can I get you anything? Maybe a drink?” He can feel his colleagues silently watching from behind him as he approaches you.  

You stare at him blankly, circling your thumb across the threaded, black cap of Tommie’s final resting place. Somewhere, a clock is ticking. 

“Why am I here, Vox?” You ask, your voice soft like morning dew. 

Another beat passes. He thinks for a moment about playing dumb, but he knows better. The TV host’s smile widens as he drops his act of hospitality. If you want to know so badly, why should he deny you?

“Well, I hate to ruin the surprise,” he starts as his companions flank him to take their seats at either side of the table’s head. Vox slowly saunters past you to the front of the room. 

“What do you think I’m after?” Asks Vox, a playful lilt in his voice as he claims his executive chair. You follow him with your unlit eyes, the cyan glow of the room somehow unable to penetrate your irises. Your hand is still fidgeting with the bottle of dust. 

“Hmm, you seem to have a habit of delegating your dirty work,” you hum. “Passive comments from Velvette, sending Val to hound my party animal in her place of work. And now, you make off with my newest surveillance hire.” Something in Vox strikes hot and seething. 

“If you wanted my attention so badly,” you sneer, pointing your dusty glass Vox’s way. “Why not put everything on the table when you had the chance? You were in my office a few weeks ago.” A shrug passes your shoulders, and Vox has to fight to steel himself. He clears his throat. 

“We’ve established that you own nearly every pill bottle in the city,” he begins, his blood coming to a simmer. The lights dim as a screen lowers mechanically behind him. 

“Your reach is impressive and unprecedented,” he continues. “Most people watch TV or stare at their phone, but as you so brilliantly pointed out, everyone takes Tylenol. They take aspirin, or fucking Viagra. With our combined influence, there wouldn’t be a soul in hell that could escape us.” 

You stare, silently, from across the expanse of the table. The tension in the air is tight, and Vox rushes to fill the silence. He can’t stand the sound of that fucking clock. 

“I know you’re a busy woman, so I’ll cut to the chase,” he chuckles, digital sweat collecting on his brow. He can feel the eyes of his business partners on him, questioning his lack of composure, which only adds to his mounting nerves. 

“We’re developing a device that will allow for the absolute control of its host once inside the body,” Vox elaborates, a diagram of a small, roundish capsule overlaying the backdrop. “Once it’s complete, all we need is a silver platter to serve it on.” He gives you a smug look, eyeing you expectantly. Even so, you remain stagnant as stillwater. 

“I meant what I said then,” he says, clasping his hands behind his back, standing proud at the head of the room. “You won’t have to lift a finger. All you have to do is say yes.” 

“And what, exactly, do I stand to gain from such an arrangement?” You inquire, your expression unchanged since he set foot on this side of the room. Lukewarm.

Vox laughs like you asked if tomorrow’s forecast would be hot. 

“Everything! Naturally, you would have a stake in the complete control of the Pentagram.” 

His associates join in his boisterous laughter, ecstatic at what a bright future was in store. Their high was short-lived, though, as your eyes darkened with something far more serious than Vox had seen on you before. 

“Let me get this straight,” you spit. “You’ve been busting down my door like Mormons to rope me into your little coup, in which you take complete advantage of my decades of labor and simultaneously annihilate my industry?”

Vox withers slightly, but attempts to recover with a pull at his lapels and a shining smile. 

“You won’t need an industry when you’re sitting on top of the seven rings!” He darts to your side in a pulse of electricity, clasping his hands on the back of your chair as he leans in close. “A little thing like you isn’t meant for that kind of work, anyway,” Vox says lowly into your long, pointed ear. 

It’s grey. 

Suddenly, everything is so grey. Vox looks up, bewildered, the light of his screen deafened by the colorless room he stands in. It’s washed out like a noir film. That ticking has begun to swell, and he looks to his partners, sitting beside his rightful throne. They’re so still, as if they’re made of stone, unblinking. 

Vox rips his hands from your chair, looking down at you as the ticking gets louder and louder. You don’t turn around, but he can tell you’re present. He stares at the back of your hair, your ear twitching once. He can’t think with that fucking clock. God, it’s so loud, it’s so loud. He feels like he’s sinking in sand, he can’t move, and it’s loud, it’s so fucking loud, it’s so–

“I respectfully decline.”

“Ah!” 

Vox stumbles back, heaving uneven breaths, barely staying on his feet as his mind desperately tries to catch up. The room is filled with color, the vibrance of his signature blue burning in his retinas. Val and Velvette jump up from their seats, ready to take action as you turn around to face him. Something within Vox’s gut turns when he finally realizes. 

He doesn’t own any clocks that tick. They’re all digital. 

 You stride past him as Val rushes to take Vox’s side, Velvette conjuring arrows aimed and ready. Val is talking, but Vox’s audio sensors are shot. He glares at you as you slip through the doorway, giving him one last unimpressed glimpse as you take your leave. 

—

Well, that was exhausting. 

Of all the insulting, pompous, asinine… You could think of a few more words to describe Vox and his technicolor lackeys, and you relayed your favorites in the car with Neph as the two of you returned to your office. 

After such a productive afternoon, you really needed a martini and a bubble bath, but you had a few loose ends to take care of. You lean against your desk, your sleeves rolled as you brainstorm with your mantid assistant. There’s a whiteboard on an easel in the corner with big-picture points from yesterday’s meeting. You’re sure you’re doing a terrible job hiding your yawning, but you both soldier on, anyhow. 

Neph gets halfway through writing “super meth” in thick, black ink when you notice a blinking, green light on your desk’s phone. You turn to it, your brows knitted with confusion, and comment to Neph as he caps his marker. 

“Hey, did you leave someone on hold?” You ask, watching the light pulse. 

“Certainly not,” he replies, perplexed. You give him a look and reach for the receiver. 

“Hello?” You answer, lifting the phone awkwardly in front of your face as the speaker doesn’t quite reach your ear. You don’t usually talk into it, so you’ve never thought to replace it with something conducive to your anatomy. 

An old-timey voice calls your name in response. 

“Hello, my dear! How are you this fine evening?” 

“Alastor?” You bark into the microphone. At least it wasn’t Vox. 

“The one and only,” he replies, his self-congratulatory smile nearly transcending time and space. 

“I hope you aren’t ordering coffee; the French press closed at five.” You chuckle bemusedly. 

“Drat, now my craving will never be satisfied.” He sighs in mocking disappointment. “Actually, one of my guests made a most fascinating observation that I wanted to share with you.” 

“Do tell,” you beckon, giving Neph a look as you casually lean on your desk. He stands stoically, unable to hear the conversation. 

“Our resident actor mentioned that he was familiar with your brand, as it often appears at his place of work,” Alastor explains. “I hadn’t realized you were being literal the other day.” 

It takes you a second to catch up to what he’s referring to. 

“Ah, yes. We are a proud crafts table feature,” you chuckle. “Is that seriously why you rang my office?” You squint in disbelief. 

“Well, what I really want to know is how one goes about ordering that sort of thing,” says the Radio Demon, his voice somehow sounding as if he were speaking right next to you. Seems like he sounds that way regardless of the location he projects from.

“What, is the hotel running low on its recreational substances?” You smile into the phone as Neph tilts his head in confusion. “Doing the monthly top-up?”

“Can’t a man express his curiosities with a fellow overlord?” He carps. You sigh, knowing that any information you give him will only be twisted to his advantage, no matter how small it may seem. 

“A wise man once told me that knowledge is power,” you reply, looking down at your boots as they shift on your carpet. 

“How about an eye for an eye?” Alastor suggests. “Explain how one might go about ordering a party-sized pack of powder, and I will tell you whatever you desire about the workings of the hotel in return.” 

“Why would I want to know anything about the hotel?” You scoff. 

“I believe my previous point stands,” he counters. Your gaze flickers up as you notice Neph pack up the whiteboard and nod as he takes his leave. You wave to him goodnight as you finagle the phone cord over your lovely white orchids so you can sit down. 

What he’s asking for is harmless, public information. It can’t possibly be that bad just to cooperate. Still, as you take a breath to agree to his terms, you hesitate. You must be pretty tired to be so willing to go along with the words of someone like the Radio Demon. 

“Why are you asking me this? It isn’t exactly information that’s difficult to access. I’m fairly certain that I pay for a robot that explains this exact process on our automated system.” You raise a brow, the light of your fluorescent window dimming with the coming night cycle. 

“You wouldn’t be a very good businesswoman if it were!” He chuckles. “Surely, you won’t subject me to your wretched answering machine.” 

After your long day of cleaning up after the Vees, your patience is running fantastically thin. You aren’t sure how much more of this you can take, but you can’t bring yourself to hang up on Alastor, either. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that he doesn’t really care about ordering drugs. 

“What kind of powder are we talking about here?” You squint cynically. 

“The highest of highs, my dear.” Alastor insists, nodding to your words from your coffee and “catching up.” 

“Mhm…” Your brow quirks. Clearly, this isn’t about drugs. If he can’t name the powder he wants, he’s getting baby aspirin. Whatever game he’s playing, he wants you to talk.

“Alright, alright, fine,” you give. “Any batch smaller than a pound can be sourced online or picked up on the day. Otherwise, we need forty-eight hours' notice. There’s a number you can call on our brochures to place a pickup order, which I would be happy to provide for you, your highness.” You swing one leg over the other, tilting your chair back and forth as you explain. 

“I think I’ll stick to this number, thank you. Do you take prescriptions for such things as well?” 

You almost laugh at such a question coming from someone like Alastor, but you decide to stop him before he gets ahead. 

“I believe our arrangement is an eye for an eye, yes?” You smirk. “So tell me, how did you get this number?” 

“Ah, yes, you may be right, but I believe there was a limit to only the workings of the hotel,” he insists. 

“You’re the host of the hotel conducting business,” you argue. “Sounds like inner workings to me.”

To your surprise, he concedes with a static chuckle. 

“Very well, my dear. I don’t need a phone number; my power allows me to project my voice through any audio device, so long as I’ve seen it before.” 

You eye your grey landline suspiciously. Is that why he had been so insistent back then? Or was this just a bonus of having been in your office? 

“Okay,” you draw out. You find yourself taken aback that he would willingly divulge anything about his abilities. “To answer your previous question, we do not take prescriptions for the hard stuff, as I have never heard of a medical need for something like cocaine.” 

“Fair enough,” his voice travels amusedly by your ear. “Doctors prescribe opiates quite frequently, though.” 

“Sure, but they’re highly regulated and not quite on the same addictive scale as methamphetamine, for example.” 

“What exactly makes them so addictive?” 

“That is a lecture, I’m afraid,” you mirthfully wince, something else tickling your curiosity. “Rosie told me you’re project managing for Lucifer’s daughter.” 

“Hmm, she is quite the enigmatic leader,” he hums in confirmation. 

“Have you actually met the man?” 

“No, he is out of the picture, I’m afraid,” Alastor sighs. “Charlie is not a soul to be wavered, not to worry,” he assures you. 

“That’s a shame,” you feel a little sad for the poor kid. “What’s it like there?” You ask, leaning back to gaze thoughtfully at the pale expanse of your ceiling as you feel yourself relax into the rhythm of the conversation. 

“If you love vintage architecture and twenty-four-hour pest control, it is the place for you!” He nearly sings to you. “I put together a fabulous commercial. A travesty, it was never able to grace the eyes of the Pentagram.” 

“You made a commercial?” You cackle. “Aren’t you the Radio Demon?”

“I tried to explain as much to little Miss Morningstar, but she wasn’t having it.” 

“Asking you for a commercial is like asking Rosie for tofu,” you shake your head through your laughter. 

“Completely unreasonable! I pull the damn thing together, and suddenly everyone is a critic.” 

“The audacity,” you sigh, finally settling down. 

As the light of your artificial sun extinguishes behind you, you find yourself at ease politely chatting with Alastor over the phone. What you thought would be another tense battle of wits settled into small talk as the two of you discussed your work. Alastor is actually a lot of fun when he isn’t grilling you for private details about your past. The night crawls on as the two of you laugh over the line, and it’s only when you happen to pull your legs into your chair that you catch a glimpse at your watch. 

“Good god, is it seriously that late?” You startle. “Sorry, Alastor, I should really be getting home.” You’re surprised by the sincerity in your voice as you stand and stretch from your executive chair. 

“Of course, I didn’t mean to keep you at the office. If you ever hanker to see the place yourself, I would be happy to give you a tour of the grounds.” 

“I might just take you up on that,” you smile as you gaze into the non-existent view beyond your window. Your eyes fall down to your boots as your soft voice finds its way through the microphone. 

“Goodnight, Alastor.” 

“Goodnight, my dear.” 

You return the phone to its perch, your hand lingering on the receiver thoughtfully. You can’t help but narrow your eyes as you back away. 

What is he getting at?

Chapter Text

It’s dark. 

You’re lying on your side, and you can’t see. Something shifts around you with the motion of a cool breeze, whispering. It sounds like grass. 

Your arms shake as you push yourself up. There’s a pounding in your head, and as you squint at the world you’ve woken up in, details barely reach you. Blades of grass caress your sides, chattering as they dance in the wind. The strands are so long and dry that they scratch your forearms. The swirling air is light and arid. It isn’t cold here, but it isn’t warm, either. 

As your eyes focus, moonlight gently shines down upon you, though its source remains unseen. The field goes on forever, rolling in hills like the dark sea. In the distance, grassy tendrils shine in the absent moonlight like fur, their thin, waxy surfaces moving in tandem, forming brushstrokes in the empty expanse. You stare out into the endless plain, and something in your chest feels tight, like you’ve been sitting still for too long. Your wandering eyes stumble over the monotonous landscape until you spot an anomaly. 

To your left, a door looms a few feet away, wading in the sodded sea. The wood is dark and smooth, the same rich, inky blue color as the grass that toils beneath you. To your right, another door, identical in finish and stature. You frown. The roots beneath you rip, your fingers penetrating the soil with ferocity. Soft wind brushes past you, singing with the flora, so quiet and yet so loud. 

Behind you, the door on the left cracks open. You startle, jerking at the deafening creak of its hinges. The wood moves barely a few inches, just a sliver. From its opening, glaring red fire blazes its radiant glow into the pasture, licking at the spiny hands of the grass until it finds your skin. The light catches in your irises. Somewhere, a clock is ticking. 

—

The weather has been awful lately. 

Hell doesn’t exactly have a rainy season, but in all your years, you’ve never seen so many downpours back to back. You remember testing the fallen liquid years ago in your first days in Hell, and what locals described as “acid rain” was actually quite underwhelming, essentially equivalent to lemon juice. Some variations are even less acidic and occasionally accompanied by screams, though you’re no meteorologist. For the thick skin of sinners, it might as well be your average earthly rain. Ah, Hell, endlessly charming. 

Memories from the life you once lived don’t resurface often, but you’ll never forget that first year. The rain sort of takes you back. Fighting with a nail gun, watching your new shelves crash to the ground along with all your organized medications. Sleeping in the pharmacy with a baseball bat. You feel the crack of a fond smile sneaking onto your lips. 

A car door slams, and you shake out of your nostalgic haze. 

Neph comes around to your side and opens your door, waiting with an umbrella open. You step into the street and thank him as a quarter flips through your knuckles. Today is going to be a long day. 

Last week, Alastor used his powers to connect directly to your office line. You ended up staying pretty late, and Neph definitely noticed, because he pulled you aside the following morning before your production line startup. 

“You must stop entertaining the Radio Demon’s attention.” He had ordered as the two of you hovered outside your lab. 

“I beg your pardon?” You quirked your brow. He made it sound like you were flirting. 

“That man is more dangerous than any conniving soul in hell. If you take the Vees seriously as a threat, then you cannot, in the same breath, play the fool with Alastor.” He urged. 

Embarrassment ran hot on your face, but when you went to defend yourself, Neph gently raised his spiny claw to stop you. 

“I trust your judgement, my lady,” he assured. “But I implore you, do not let your guard down.” 

You were pretty steamed in the moment, but as his words settled throughout the workday, you saw his point. Whatever happened on that phone call was not a friendly chat. Alastor was trying to take advantage of you. 

Time moved on, and you haven’t heard from him. There were a couple of weeks where he just kept showing up, and it’s nice to be back to the quiet of your old routines again. You haven’t heard from Vox, either, but that has you a little more worried. Idle hands are the Devil’s playthings. There’s no way he would just leave you alone, especially after such a blatant, threatening display. 

Even so, here you are, a week later. Today is outreach day. You have two smaller facilities in the Pentagram, and once a quarter, you take some time to show your face and make sure everything is running smoothly. It isn’t terribly exciting, but it’s work, and you love your work. 

Neph strides alongside you into the unmarked, white building with purpose, and with a quick swipe of your keycard, you are on your way. The halls here are miraculously emptier than your central facility, glaringly waxed and pale, but this building is not for entertaining guests or holding meetings. The purpose of this boring brick of concrete is to make much more interesting bricks of much more interesting substances, and the odd capsule or two. Tapping steps jog up behind you, but you continue your purposeful gait, perfectly aware of who the small stature belongs to. 

Sam, your facility manager here in the Southeast border zone, is a spitfire and a great fit for the job. The short sinner’s wild hair is pulled tight behind her head, settled neatly above the strap of thick goggles as she scurries beside you. Her curly locks sprawl out from their captive band and sort of resemble little copper coils. She’s premium oil for your machine; her only downside is that she talks really, really fast. 

“It’sGreatToHaveYouBackBossIHaveACoupleOfThingsToRunByYouAfterTheWalk-ThroughButI’mSureYou’llFindThePlaceToBeInTiptopShapeAsUsual!" She yammers beside you in her thick, Irish intonation. 

You share an amused look with your mantid companion and continue with the visit, your coin turning between your fingers. 

As expected, the production outpost visit lasted just over an hour. Sam has a high-speed answer for every question you ask, and before you know it, you’re shaking hands and bidding farewell. Quick and easy. If only business always went so smoothly. 

The real beast is on the Southwest side. That location is your specialty pharmacy, and your hub for patient care. It was a recent development, this being only its fourth or fifth consecutive year since opening. It was a necessary addition to house important medical equipment and other uncommon medications, so that you could have your other pharmacies refer patients there. However, that also lends itself to a lot of foot traffic. If it weren’t such a large operation, you wouldn’t be seen at all, but the youthful nature of the facility warrants some babysitting. Hopefully, in a few more years, you’ll be able to sit back and watch it work.  

You ride in silence beside your assistant, gazing at the strange glow of the city as it catches on streaked droplets of rain along the window. The streets of the Pentagram are dense with looming, plain architecture, but as you pass by a break in the concrete jungle, a mysterious light comes into view. 

Something red emanates atop a hill, blinking and beckoning. You squint with curiosity, as if the flickering sign might come into focus, but before long, you’re shrouded in a sea of cement once again. 

The drive is about fifteen minutes, your discreet black vehicle pulling you right up to the entrance of your facility. There’s a simple, concrete walkway in, bordered by a bench and some shrubbery. It's professional, and ordinary, and still probably the flashiest building you own. Neph gets the car door, sheltering you from the ever-present day’s mist as you step out onto the sidewalk. You palm your coin as the two of you begin your march to the entryway. 

Nervous eyes trace your path. Patients and employees bustle through the busy space, not unlike your central facility, and your gait beside your arthropod fellow maintains a certain air of authority. It’s unwanted attention, but you get used to it. 

As you approach the double doors, the quiet drawl of a familiar, raspy voice tickles your sensitive ears. Neph waits, holding a door open as he watches you give the yard a once-over. Your eyes narrow, but you reluctantly step into the building. You offer Neph a haphazard, “thanks.” 

The place is a mess.

The moment you step inside, you’re met with a ten-patient line and the sounds of phones ringing over each other like squawking birds. Chairs in the larger lobby space are littered with people bouncing their legs impatiently. Technicians are posted at every counter space, doing their best as they’re berated by patients who don’t understand why their medication isn’t ready. You give Neph a look as you step forward and roll up your sleeves. 

The place is fully staffed, but there simply isn’t enough equipment to handle the sheer influx of people this afternoon. You scan the struggling workspace. Neph stalls behind you as you punch in the door code to get behind the counter, so you have him make a quick coffee run. 

It isn’t necessarily your employee’s fault, but there are a few more kinks left to iron out than you anticipated. All it takes is one major accident or shootout, and the place turns into a sardine can.

In this case, the surge can be attributed to sinners going buck wild before the imminent extermination, and with five months left on the clock, regretfully seeking medical attention, or so you overheard.  The afternoon faded to evening, and you were once again thrust back into your old days, running around putting out fires. It’s been a while since you were last behind the counter, but you sort of missed the adrenaline of pressure like this. The staff gave you some odd looks as you jumped into the workflow, but no one really has time to ask questions when it gets like this. You figure they probably recognize you from your last couple of visits, vaguely, though you never mentioned your high-ranking position. 

Mountains of plastic bins with rattling bottles passed under your hands for verification, shot into baskets that soon were overflowing, and filed into buckets that eventually began to overflow as well. The metrics were starting to even out, but the ready-buckets needed to be cleared, and not every section had enough room for the sheer magnitude of patients under a given surname. Hours pass by in a complete blur, your focus tuned solely on your work. 

As the evening crawled on, things got under control, but you lingered on the drug stock. You aren’t sure what time it is as you rummage through pills and boxes under the buzz of fluorescent lights.  

Neph quietly approaches behind you, and you glance at him from your crouched position on the ground. Little amber vials surround you like an army preparing for war. 

“You should probably head out. This is gonna take me a while,” you nod to him as you twirl bottles in your hands, looking for expiration dates. 

“You mustn’t be here too late, my lady,” he warns. You give him a tired smile. 

“We came out here to make sure everything is going smoothly. I’ll be right behind you.” You assure him. He pauses with suspicion, but respectfully bows his head and ducks out of the shelves, leaning his long, black umbrella against the rack beside you. 

By the time you emerge from the depths of the stockroom, the technicians are closing up, and the lights are coming down. You’ve got a raging knot in your back and a hankering for a drink as you bid your employees goodbye, although they still don’t entirely know who you are. Things are a little easier if they don’t.

When you step outside to meet your ride, the rain is coming down in full force. You tap Neph’s umbrella on the cement under the awning of the entrance, reaching for your quarter with your other hand while you wait. The downpour is almost beautiful as it catches the fierce scarlet of the city light, but as you peer through the rain, a figure emerges at the end of the path into the street. 

A harsh voice calls your name. The coin is suddenly still in your hand.

“One of my boys saw you prancing around with the Vees,” a low, raspy voice taunts you through the wash of the weather.

Tsk. This is why you lay low. 

You resume your fidgeting with the quarter, the metal disk dancing slowly between your fingers. The patter of rain trickles down the sides of the entrance’s cover as you lower your eyes to the source of the taunting. You recognize that horned sneer from long, long ago. Two goons flank the assaulting individual, eyeing you with contempt. They’ve got long snouts and drooping ears to boot, sticking together like the pack of wet dogs they are. 

“To think, all this time you’ve been playing doctor in your ivory tower,” says the man, glaring down at you. Either he’s gotten taller, or his long pant legs are hiding a few extra inches of sole. The last time you saw this twit, you were glaring eye to eye. 

Annoyance twitches at your eyelid. 

“It’s been a while, Sparky. How’s business?” You flatly call to him from the edge of the awning. The spray of the water falls perfectly just before the toe of your boot. 

“Terrible!” He growls, balling his fists at your words. “You’re gonna fucking pay for what you did.” The two bums to his right and left push their hands into their jacket pockets menacingly. 

“Right, right,” you nod boredly, bringing the coin in your hand up to your eyes. “Hey, heads or tails?” 

Sparky’s jaw slacks in disbelief. Your voice drips with casual disinterest, shady eyes studying him from across the empty path. His buddies look to Sparky and one another, getting antsy. 

“Are you fucking serious?” He barks at you. 

“It’s just a coin toss,” you shrug, shifting the quarter atop your spring-loaded thumb. 

Sparky sighs, eyeing you suspiciously. He sways on his feet, turning to his comrades before standing tall as he answers. 

“Tails,” he smirks. 

The coin rings out as it collides with your nail, flipping several times over in the air until it lands in your palm. You close your fist around it, turning it over and revealing the outcome on your other wrist. Tails. 

“Nicely done,” you commend, a cold smile waxing on your features as you load up the coin. “Let’s go again.” 

“We didn’t come all this way to play your games, Doc,” Sparky shouts dryly, slouching in his confusion. 

“Sure, you did,” you squint. “You love games, don’t you, Sparky?” 

The bulky demon grinds his teeth. Steam might as well be exploding from his ears, but even so, he plays along. 

“Heads,” he grinds out. His comrades take offensive positions beside him. 

“What an excellent choice,” you smirk as the quarter launches from its place on your fist. The metal shines as it dances through the air, catching the city’s fierce red as it turns over and over, succumbing to the song of gravity. You clasp it and turn it over on your wrist. Heads. 

“Seems like lady luck is on your side,” you call across the stagnant yard, pitching the coin between your fingers and waving it at him with a wink. 

Sparky scowls wildly at you. His shoulders rattle with anger, but he has yet to take another step. The downpour pounds the ground with a melodic whisper as he watches you warily. 

“Tell me,” you twirl the small change between your fingers, letting it settle on the tense line of your knuckle. “Would you bet your life on it?” 

The goon to Sparky’s right springs into action, but so do you. As they whip a pistol from its less-than-subtle perch in their pocket, the coin races hot through the air. Sparks fly as the blazing metal ricochets off a nearby garbage can, a steel support beam, a garden stone, then another, then a cement bench before meeting the space between the poor fool’s eyes at full force with a satisfying rhythm. They fly back with a grunt, clattering to the ground in a bloody mess. You give your hand a quick shake as your harrasers take in their bleeding partner, brain matter spewed beyond their collapsed state on the ground. What a waste of a good coin. 

“What the fuck,” Sparky rasps, his voice barely a whisper as he gazes upon his comrade’s lifeless body. He extends a shaky hand to the graphic scene, water washing the blood from the concrete.  

You glance at your watch. 

A sleek, black car pulls up to the dead center of the walkway, and you pitch your umbrella above you. Sparky flinches at the sound of the motion, and he grips his standing fellow’s shoulder harshly, shoving him down the street to flee. They exchange harsh words as they scuttle down the street, and you watch their scrambling with tired eyes, the gory scene still sprawled in the rain. With your harassers out of sight, you make a leisurely advance to the car. 

After you awkwardly shuffle into your seat and close the arms of your umbrella, you strap in and run a hand over your neck. The wheels crackle over loose gravel near the edges of the street, and you stare out of the tinted glass of your window, exhausted. You’re not sure what this means for the future. Who knows who else picked up on your little stunt at Vee tower? You almost regret it, but you can’t sit idly by while you feel someone’s nose actively digging around in your business. The neon glow of the city is a blur beyond the wash of rain as you prop your chin into your hand. 

Your worn-out brain spots the occasional street sign and drunk pedestrian, but what really catches your eye is a crimson coat staring into a store on the streetside. 

—

What a horrible day it has been. 

Lucifer showing up on Alastor’s doorstep was a most unwelcome surprise, and just one look at the little man made his blood boil. He couldn’t help but think back to your inquiry over the phone about the King of Hell, as if you were spelling his fate. 

Frankly, he’s been in something of a knot all week. Angel Dust had mentioned catching sight of a certain rabbit-eared heroine stalking the halls of Vee tower, and Alastor had been most looking forward to using that against you. But when you picked up the phone, you sounded so… Casual. Like you were happy to hear from him. His little comment about the sighting went right over your head, and he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it. The two of you talked about nothing for hours, and he has no idea why. Why did he let that happen? 

Ultimately, he decided to put a pin in digging up dirt on you. It was only complicating things. The hotel is a full-time gig in itself; he had to wrangle Nifty out of a toilet just a few hours ago. There’s always some screw loose, some problem only he can solve. Only so much peace can be had there, none of which can exist in the presence of the King. He felt like a dog barking at Lucifer, defending his territory. The hotel may be a piece of work, but it was his, and he would be damned if some pompous freak would waltz in, snap his fingers, and take all the credit. 

Then, Mimzy was the cherry on top. 

It’s one thing to look around and dismiss someone’s hard work, but Mimzy nearly laid waste to the entirety of the Hotel grounds. Alastor might have enjoyed tearing off a few limbs, but he certainly did not appreciate her crashing in and making a scene. He can still feel the wrinkle in his brow from when the chandelier shattered on the ground. One thing after another, truly. 

Mimzy had stormed off into the rainy city, and while Charlie made nice with her piece-of-work father, he decided to take a walk. Simmering annoyance draws the Radio Demon taut like a rubber band. The weather is worsening by the minute, but he needs some time away. The day’s ordeal has him in a stir, and as he strolls the wet streets of the Pentagram, savoring the sweet sight of tortured souls maiming themselves at the sight of him, he eventually finds himself at a window where a transceiver once resided. 

His transceiver. 

The glass has been shattered, and it appears that someone snatched the device. Ironically, the many televisions displayed next door are safe and sound behind their crystalline casing. How perfectly outstanding. 

The rain’s torrential downpour pelts him as he stares, wetly, into the gaping glass. Water streams down Alastor’s face, a dark aura seething from him as a shadow stretches into the crime scene. He can feel the air crackling around him, droplets turning to vapor as they collide with his fuming form. Someone is going to pay for this. How dare they touch his property? How dare they sully the sanctity of such a precious medium? How dare they– 

“Bad day?”

Someone’s presence manifests beside him, and the Radio Demon whips around to impale them with the sharp point of a shadowy tendril.

He misses. 

It’s you, standing in the street with him, a few inches to the left of the presence he knows he felt. You look a little shorter than usual, and it’s then he notices how distorted he had become in his rage. He seethes over you, heaving with every breath.

Your eyes look tired. There’s a line extending from your hand, and an umbrella sprouts from the end, held awkwardly, just high enough to shelter him from the rainfall. 

“I was in the neighborhood, thought you might spare a cup of coffee,” you smirk. “But it seems you’re in a bit of a mood.” 

Something in his perturbed expression breaks, and Alastor eyes you, bemused. After a beat, he clears his throat.

“I’m afraid the French press closed at five,” he retorts as he regains his composure.

“Damn.” You sigh in ribbing disappointment. 

You search his face, and he watches your unlit irises flicker over him as his bones crush back into place. Water pounds on the fabric above you, tapping away like an applauding audience, and eventually, your gaze wanders to the scene that warranted his fury. 

“Oh, wow,” you hum softly, raising a brow. He turns slightly, following your eyes and grinding his teeth at the disturbance. 

“I hope this isn’t where you hide your bodies,” you inquire, that playful lilt in your voice. 

“It housed some equipment of mine for display,” Alastor stiffly replied. 

“Oh, god, that’s so much worse.” You mockingly panic. He gives you a searing look, and you let up, raising your hand in defeat. “I’m sorry about your radio, Alastor.” You console in earnest. 

“The culprit will be dealt with,” he assures you, the static of his voice unwavering. A shadowy arm draws the curtains in the little shop. 

“I hope it was worth their soul, because it sounds like they won’t have it for much longer,” you scoff. Alastor shakes his head, begrudgingly amused, and returns his focus to you. He squints, wordlessly asking what you’re doing here. 

“I really was in the neighborhood,” you shrug, glancing behind you. 

There, a sleek black car is idling, and you turn back to him like you’ve been struck with a wondrous idea. 

“How about something a little stronger than coffee?” You grin at him in suggestion. 

—

So much for putting a pin in your case. 

Alastor thought it was his job to appear unannounced, yet there you were, like a seed in the wind, weeding into his afterlife once again. 

You brought him to a set of stairs down to a door, warm light meandering out into the street, permeating the city’s cool, crimson glow. Alastor follows you down the washed cement steps, and he can hear chatter as you wordlessly slip inside. The chirp of tickled ivories floods his senses as he follows you through the dim, golden scene. He eyes the band playing in the corner as you weave through tables to the bar. This is so unlike anything he expected, simple leather stools and booths, bathing in the waxy glow of incandescent bulbs. His eyes are drinking in the place when he suddenly realizes you’ve flagged down the bartender.

“Martini, lemon, and…” You curiously look to Alastor as you trail off. 

“Whisky neat, please, sir,” He answers, and you lean casually against the counter, not quite taking a seat among the stools. You must want a booth. The stout barkeep shuffles off, and Alastor mirrors your pose. 

“What do you think?” You ask over the low jazz, gesturing to the atmosphere with a nod. You look so different in such warm light, unlike the cold tint of your florescents or the city. 

“I didn’t take you to be a frequenter of this sort of bar,” Alastor earnestly replies. 

“What kind of bars do you think I frequent?” You squint at him. 

“Perhaps somewhere you could line up to your heart's content,” he half-jests. “Or, at least, abandon your peanut shells to the floor.” 

“How dare you?” Your brows flatten in a glare, though your smirk is ever-present as your drinks arrive. Your tall, conic beverage has a lemon peel on the rim, and Alastor grasps his rotund glass as the two of you push off the counter to scout a booth. 

One presents itself in a corner, a ways away from the band, illuminated with the rich glow of a single sconce. He spots it, and when he sees that you’re still looking over the calm sea of heads, he gently presses the small of your back, urging you in the right direction. You follow his eyes, brightening at the sight of the table and silently marching along to the slow beat of the music. Alastor follows close behind, successfully claiming the spot as you shimmy into the furthest side and take a sip of your drink. 

You look like you might ask him a question, but he beats you to it. 

“How are you, my dear?” He asks. You purse your lips for the remnants of liquor before you answer. 

“Business as usual,” you reply, your eyes ever so slightly narrowing. 

“Is that so?” The Radio Demon presses. He won’t let you get away this time. 

“Quite,” you insist, your eyes narrowing further. 

“A little birdy told me you were spotted galavanting about in Vox’s tower,” he lifts his whiskey to his grin. 

Your smile stretches tight, and your fingers pinch around the narrow neck of your drink, rotating it this way and that. A beat passes in tense silence as Alastor takes a drink. 

“You buy a man a drink, and all he does is stick his pointy nose in your business,” you sigh in disappointment. Again with your games. 

“Did you make a deal with him?” He presses further, his toothy smile widening as he swirls his spirit. 

“Careful, Alastor,” you glare at him dangerously, though something quizzical still tugs at your lips. “Your nose gets longer every time you ask me something asinine.” 

“I should hope your head will be on a pike by the end of the evening, then,” he retorts, unable to resist the allure of your banter. 

“What sweet relief it will be to free myself of your ceaseless interrogation,” You roll your eyes. 

“What could you stand to lose from divulging such insignificant tattle?” he inquires. 

“What do you stand to gain?” You sip your liquor. 

“It must be terribly juicy if you’re fighting this hard to conceal it.” 

“Ask me for my favorite song, you’ll get the same treatment.” 

“And what is your favorite song?”

“Turn to the side, let me measure that nose of yours,” you quip. 

Alastor chuckles, wincing in amusement. 

“You’re never gonna let up, are you?” You ask, your smirk falling. 

“I see you’re afraid of what I might do with the information,” he observes. Something in your expression hardens. “Deny me all you like, but I’ll get what I want, sooner or later. At least, if it comes from you, you can control the story.” 

You pause for a moment, blinking slowly. Satisfaction settles warmly over Alastor as he watches you fidget with your glass. 

“I seem to recall a rather interesting conclusion to our game the other day. How did it end…” You glare through your lashes as you raise your cocktail for a swig. “Something about your soul?” 

His eye twitches. You really are a rat. 

You purse your lips, which seems to be a habit, and rest your glass on the table. 

“I don’t intend to grill you for the details. I would appreciate it if you stopped prying into my past, in return.” You request, your level voice swirling with the low tune in the air. 

“I hadn’t realized it was a crime to make conversation,” he denied, tracing a finger around the rim of his whiskey. 

“I landed in Hell thirty years ago. I know your games.”

“Is that why you whisked me away? To teach me a lesson?” He condescends. 

“I happen to enjoy your company,” You refute, your eye contact as unwavering as ever. Are you really that girl from all those years ago?

You lap at your alcohol, and the band plays a new song. 

“Well, I would be remiss to be such a terrible drinking partner,” Alastor resolves. “Why not be as shallow as possible then?” 

You quirk a brow at him. 

“Are you suggesting another game?” 

“All the passes you could ever need,” he assures, raising his glass to a toast. 

“How do I know you won’t use anything you find out against me?” You eye him suspiciously, though you raise your glass to meet his with a clink. 

“I suppose it’s a leap of faith,” he justifies, though it sounds ridiculous coming from his mouth. 

A quiet moment passes, the sweet trill of the piano dancing in the air. 

“You know, Neph told me I need to stop entertaining your attention,” you sip. 

“Whyever would he say such a thing?” Alastor gasps in mocking horror. 

“He said you’re the most conniving soul in Hell,” you smirk. “I think I believe him.” 

“You’re being much too serious, my dear,” he chides. “Now tell me, what do you do for fun?” 

“Pass,” you state flatly. Alastor narrows his eyes, and you look around the bar boredly, as if looking for a question to ask him. Your eyes settle on the band across the room, and you take a breath. 

“Do you play?” You ask. 

“On occasion,” he divulges. Your expression brightens slightly. 

“Really?”

“I’m a performer at heart, I suppose,” he muses. “And you?” 

“No,” you shake your head as if the very idea were ridiculous, but suddenly you wince. “Well…” 

“Oh?” Alastor leans forward, intrigued. You sigh and roll your eyes, sipping your drink and no doubt stalling for time. 

“I used to play the ukulele,” you begrudgingly admit, eyeing your drink as you return it to the table. 

“Ukulele,” he tongues the word thoughtfully. “Those little guitars?” 

“Yes,” you chuckle. You suddenly find a reason to glare at any object in your vicinity, if it means escaping his gaze. There’s the girl he once knew. 

“To think we’ve been wasting all this time when we could be on tour!” Alastor exclaims excitedly. 

Laughter as warm as the lights you bask in trickles from your lips into the air’s melody. There, was that so hard? 

“I’m sure you have the leg up on me musically, Mr. Radio Host,” you sip at your nearly-empty drink. 

“There’s only one way to find out,” he statically points out. You straighten in your seat, searching the room comically. 

“There appears to be no ukuleles in the general vicinity,” you sigh, wearing an expression that almost resembles disappointment. “What a shame.” 

“I should’ve guessed you aren’t much of a performer, what with your vehement avoidance of the limelight,” Alastor muses. 

“I choose the more noble profession of keeping Hell addicted to crack,” you shrug. “I hope that’s alright with you.” 

“And what is it that you do all day in your big, white box?” 

“Ah, ah, ah,” you glare. “The shallow end is that way, young man.” 

“I think the term ‘shallow’ is up for interpretation,” he argues. 

“I’ll give you a definition,” you offer. “Dive in and tilt your head up, and if your nose is still dry, then you’re where you ought to be.” 

“What is with you and my nose?” He can’t help but grin and shake his head as you cackle. You take a breath to calm down, and a sip for good measure. Your tongue runs across your lip, and it seems you’ve reached the bottom of your glass. 

Alastor swirls the remainder of his whiskey thoughtfully, then downs it. 

When you step outside to part ways, you offer him a ride to the hotel, but he politely declines. 

“I have some unfinished business,” he pardons himself. 

“Avenge your radio,” you commend, the smile on your face warm with gin. 

He turns to take his leave, but you call to him before you climb into the car.

“My favorite song is Careless Whisper by George Michael,” you shout. “Just don’t use it against me.” 

He grins shrewdly at you, and you disappear into the haze of the city. 

Chapter Text

What a scene. 

Towering ceilings with ornate detail, white trim swirling in lacey patterns at every arch, cast in the warm, amber glow of candlelight. Lively music ricochets against every surface, clacking shoes rumbling in tandem as the sharp smiles of eerily excited demons dance to an upbeat rhythm. The swirl of the crowd is almost hypnotising, so many people in perfect understanding of where they are and who they’re meant to be. The hazy atmosphere and not-quite-reality of it all is surreal. It feels like a dream, or maybe a nightmare. 

Chatter roars through the bustling venue, hot jazz and cigar smoke dancing thickly in the air. Over the sea of dancing carnivores and debutantes, two prey animals lean against the far wall. Only one of them seems to be playing the part. 

“What’s your name?”

You look to the tall, broad man standing beside you, blinking at him to make sure he’s talking to you. He has a grin so wide, it nearly walks off his face.

“Yes, you, honey bunny. What’s your name?” 

His voice is a racket of churning static, his viscous, toothy smile egging you on; you can hardly hear him over the drum’s swinging rattle, and he’s got a glass of amber liquor in his hand. Scarlet hair cuts abruptly into black strands that frame his sharp features, his pupils black slits that would strike you as feline, if not for the spindly black antlers reaching through his crimson locks. As he looks at you, expectantly, you can’t help but think of how you must appear, your posture drawn tight, the dusty attire your hostess and patron threw you into. You want to sink into the wallpaper. 

You stare into the crowd of cannibals, avoiding his menacing gaze, and just as your name comes to your lips, a clawed hand rests on your shoulder. 

“Alastor!” Shouts Rosie from your left. You nearly jump a foot in the air. “I see you’ve met my newest charity case.” She winks at you with her empty eyes, pulling you from the wall to squeeze you from the side. You frown, quietly searching the ground for meaning. 

“Nearly,” the man, Alastor, replies. “She’s jumpy, this one!” 

His shoes are red, pointed, and polished. The length of his pin-striped pant legs runs just an inch above his heel. 

“Play nice,” Rosie warns. “She’s new.” 

“I never would have guessed, she’s so extraverted!” Alastor cackles. It’s like you’ve been taken to another slice of time, horns riveting in the air, the man’s laughter boisterous and theatrical. It sounds like it was recorded on a wax cylinder.

Your cannibal hostess urges you to introduce yourself, and you look to her apprehensively. 

“Don’t worry about him,” she nods to Alastor as she whispers in a rabbited ear extending from the crown of your head. “He’s nobody.” 

At last, you muster up your best smile, although it looks more like a wince, and offer Alastor your name and a hand to shake. You make sure to emphasize the Ph. D. 

“Charmed,” he purrs, clasping your fingers with a quirked brow and turning your trembling hand so he might lay a kiss at your knuckle. He looks like he’s going to bite the damn thing off. 

—

When you came in this morning, a receptionist flagged you down before you could descend to your lab, holding the elevator doors open with her palm. The ice of your delicious, caffeinated beverage jingled as you turned to her in confusion. The older woman looked a little shaken, and she handed you a letter stamped with a wax seal, huffing with the effort it took to catch you. 

“Thanks,” You take it from her, your brows raising in bewilderment and a little concern. 

She steps back, and you watch her as the doors slowly close. After a couple of blinks, you shake off the odd interaction and bring your drink up for a sip as you glance over the strange envelope, but stop before you can take a swig. 

In the center of the stamped, red wax is an ace, the pale light in the elevator catching on the smooth curve of its neat form. You frown at the little red circle, lumps of wax petaled around its circumference. The paper is thick and textured, standing firm under the press of your thumb. 

You’re still glaring at the letter when the elevator doors open, Neph waiting on the other side of the steel gate. You wordlessly step through the threshold, your eyes fixed on the paper. 

“A confession of love, I hope?” Neph inquires in jest. 

When you look up at him, you’re gravely serious. 

“This is from Old Mill Casino,” you inform him. 

“Ah.”

You show him the waxed stamp, and he uses the thin spines of his forceps to slice open the letter. The paper wafts open, perfectly separated from the seal, and inside is scrawled, messy handwriting with a spot of ink staining the lower right-hand corner. 

Doc, 

If you value your secrets and your cotton tail, meet at the casino, 5:00 p.m. sharp. 

-Sparks

As you read the note aloud, Neph scoffs at such a blatant threat. 

“That insolent mutt,” he shakes his head. 

“I have to do it,” you surmise. Neph somehow looks incredulous, even with his compound eyes. 

“You cannot be serious, my lady.” 

“I have a feeling I know what this is about,” you quirk a brow, pinching the letter in your hand as it falls to your hip. 

Your companion waits silently for you to continue.

“One of Sparky’s pals learned a whole new meaning to the term ‘coined’ at the patient care center the other night,” you smirk, though Neph seems unimpressed. 

“My lady,” he sighs. 

“It was the middle of the night, and they had pistols lining their pockets,” you justified, waving off your assistant’s worried posture. “I had someone clean it up, but I guess he’s still sore about the ordeal.” 

“Do you intend to make an example out of him?” Askes Neph. 

“Actually, I do.” 

“And you’re certain that’s wise?” He tilts his head in question. 

“Listen, Neph,” you start. “These guys haven’t seen me in a long time. I’m not the same kid who walked out of there, and if Sparky thinks he can leave me ominous little love letters, he’s barking up the wrong tree.” 

Neph remains stoic, clasping his claws behind his back. 

“I won’t let him threaten everything I’ve worked for,” you stand firm. 

“I think that even acknowledging his threat is foolish,” Neph argues. 

“It’s been over twenty years, we don’t know how much resentment and firepower he could have accumulated,” you rebut. “But we have the element of surprise, too.” 

“Will you smite him?” 

“I want him to be able to walk just enough to run and tell whoever is backing up his little endeavor that they can’t touch me,” you raise your chin proudly. 

Neph offers a simple, stoic nod. 

“There’s one thing about this letter that really has me curious, though,” you squint, reexamining its contents. 

Neph leans over to peek at what you mean. 

“What, exactly, does he mean by valuing my secrets?” You wonder. 

“Perhaps he’s only trying to get your attention,” Neph suggests. 

“Or,” you pause. “He thinks he got his greedy little paws on something good.”

You look to your mantis companion with a shrug. 

“Only one way to find out.”

—

Old Mill Casino. 

As the name implies, the place has been around for a while, but it has deteriorated in recent years. Another boring brick facade on a strip of old gambling halls, smothered in signage and flickering for attention. You stand before its narrow entrance with Neph on the sidewalk, the evening light of Hell waning behind you. The pungent smell of tobacco wafts from a single, propped-open white door that appears to have been repainted several times. 

You stare blankly into the dark entryway. It’s quiet. 

Neph is still beside you, standing tall and sharp. You give him a look before you finally advance inside. Let’s get this over with. 

You step through the threshold onto a cigarette-burned velvette rug, matted and red as it floods the hall. The bar is a straight shot from the entrance, just as you recall, but to your right, many of the card tables have been replaced by slot machines. You put a hand in your pocket and stride down the carpeted runway between the army of slots. At the end of the long, sprawling venue, the ceiling opens up into a dome, with five stuccoed pillars along its circumference and a rounded white railing that encircles a balcony for onlookers. Yellow light streams down through the opening of the circular peanut gallery, catching dust as it settles through the air, and below, three dogs sit at an oblong, green card table. 

 “So glad you could make it,” a low, growling voice greets you as you approach the arena. “Good to be back at the Mill, I’m sure.” Sparky sneers, his voice carrying through the empty gambling hall. He sits to the left of the head of the table, flanked on either side of his leather seat by subordinates. 

“It’s a little… smaller than I remember it,” you glance around boredly. Your canine host growls, and you step past the saloon doors barring the area, Neph looming behind you. 

“I’d watch your mouth if I were you,” he growls lowly, his two companions straightening in their posts at the poker table. 

You casually pull your hand out of your pocket and flip a single, silver coin, the shiny metal singing out as it flies through the smoky air. It lands in your palm with a quiet thump, and you run your thumb over its flat surface for the result. Heads.

“What’s this about, Sparky?” You ask, your eyes dangerously narrow. 

The goon to Sparky’s left flinches. They must have met you out in the courtyard. 

“You brought a guest,” Sparky snidely observes, eyeing your mantis companion. “How you doin', Stretch?” 

“Good evening, Sir.” Neph greets, though his tone is a bit clipped.

“Your girl here owes me a lot of money,” muses Sparky, a smirk spreading across his jaw. A thick, rotund cigar droops from his lip, and he takes a long drag. 

“I don’t believe I do,” you quirk a brow, your coin flitting between your fingers before settling back in your fist. Sparky blows a thick cloud of tobacco your way, the light catching the smoke as it rises through the peanut gallery. 

“Over two million dollars in debt,” he insists, eyeing his cigar as he pulls it from his sly grin. 

“The correct term is ‘winnings, Mr. Sparky,’’ you cooly inform him. 

“Two million that nearly put me on the streets!” He shouts at you, shooting up and slamming his girthy fist on the green felt. A beat of tense silence passes, and he settles back in his leather chair. 

“If you can’t lose it, you shouldn’t play with it,” you shake your head sagely, your voice stale with boredom. 

Sparky glares at you down the barrel of the table like he’s going to light you on fire with his gaze alone. 

“You’re going to give it back,” he demands, his tone quiet and gravely from the other end of the felted stage. 

“And how’s that?” you snidely ask. 

Suddenly, he pulls out a velvet, drawstring pouch and empties it. Sandy-hued stones clamber onto the fabric, round and smooth. He shakes the bag, making sure every pebble falls into the pile. You stare, unimpressed, at the odd geological display. 

“If you want to maintain your precious image,” he sneers. “You’re going to bet with every penny you stole from me.” 

You peer at him suspiciously. 

“I’m going to bet with all the dirt I have on you,” he grins, pinching a stone between his meaty claws. 

Now, your expression begins to harden. River stones. How does he know about that?

“And who exactly do you intend to blab to? The press?” you snarkily inquire, though your blood is running cold. 

“I have a vested audience who just so happens to be dealing for our little game,” Sparky gleefully informs you. 

The sound of cards shuffling in the air resounds behind him, and out steps a dapper, cheerful radio host, cards flying between his hands with mischievous flair. 

Your face falls. He looks happy to see you. 

“You have got to be kidding me,” you deadpan. 

“Hello, my dear! You should be delighted to know that I found the culprit of my radio-napping,” Alastor nearly sings to you. 

“What is this?” You glare at Sparky. 

“It’s just a few games of poker,” he shrugs, his smile itching with excitement. “Texas Hold' Em. Clear me out, and the Radio Demon doesn’t hear a word.” 

He leans forward and snaps his fat, ugly fingers. Stacks of chips appear on your side of the table in a puff of smoke, minted in green and red. 

“Though that isn’t going to happen.” 

It doesn’t take you long to count up the chips. Two million, forty-two thousand dollars. 

Texas Hold' Em, the culmination of card gambling. Each player is dealt two cards and given five communal cards to build the best possible hand. The game takes place in phases, the first when the cards are dealt, then three of the communal cards are revealed in the flop round, another revealed in the turn round, and the fifth and final card revealed in the river round. Each round is punctuated with an opportunity to bet, usually meeting a standard bet, but you're not sure how that's going to work, what with the rocks and all. 

“You made a deal with the Radio Demon,” you calmly observe. “There’s only one thing you would want from him in return.” 

“And what are you gonna do about it, Cotton Tail? Scared I’ll cheat?” Sparky spits at you. “You can always slide some hush money my way.”

He brings his smoldering cigar to his lip, the tip glowing red as he draws air into his sinister grin. 

You pass a glance at Neph. 

“Deal me in,” you flatly request, striding down the side of the table opposite your opponent, unimpressed. 

Sparky bursts into a fit of laughter, the dogs flanking him joining in. 

“Are you serious? Even with no possible way of winning?” He chokes. 

You step up to the table, giving your dealer a once-over and taking a seat, pocketing the coin in your palm. Alastor looks a little different in a vest. It suits him. He stands at the apex of the rounded end of the table, mediating much like the cigarette you shared that night on the roof. 

“How many rounds?” You ask. Neph is a statue looming behind you. 

“The art of gambling is knowing when to walk away,” Sparky muses, gesturing with the cigar between his fingers. 

You cross your legs beneath the table, and Alastor smugly begins shuffling several times over. He makes a big show of it, his eyes closed with pride as playing cards dance over his shoulders and into the air before landing in a neat pile on the green felt. He thumbs the cards once more into a bridge for good measure, the thick paper snapping together in sync. When he’s finished, his scarlet eyes flit to you for a reaction. 

You temperately blink, take a breath, then turn back to your opponent. 

Knowing the Radio Demon, he’s a man of showmanship. The two men at the table have vested interests in your loss, which is why you absolutely have to win. You know that Sparky is going to cheat, but the real question is how? He could replace his cards; he certainly has the manpower for it with his groupies, but Alastor would likely suggest a more seamless, less obvious approach. Regardless of how he does it, your power has no use here. You’ll have to play it smart.  

Every good game of poker needs a struggle. Alastor will want some entertainment, and he’ll only find it if there’s real risk. Sparky likely doesn’t know that. If he assumes that Alastor will covet a perfect win for him every hand, then you have a major advantage. 

“Ready to lose?” Sparky sneers at you. 

In response, you run a hand over one of the many stacks of chips beside you. Your fingers catch on the lip of each token, letting them go as you make your way up the small tower, the plastic coins meeting their neighbors with a satisfying click click click click. 

“Alright, everyone,” Alastor beams. “Let's have a fair game, shall we?” His smooth voice trickles to something sinister. 

With a flick of the Radio Demon’s deft wrist, a card flies neatly toward Sparky and then one to you—the thin, laminated paper sliding elegantly across the table’s fabric. Your first card arrives perfectly straight just in front of your clasped hands, the second following shortly after. They sit before you, two lines at an acute angle, resting on one another like swans in a lake. 

Customarily, the player to the left of the dealer makes the first bet, that being your dog-eared opponent. He glances at his cards and opts to check, waiting to bet so he can see your first move. You peel the paper up from the table. All you need to see is the corner, and there hides the five of diamonds and an ace of hearts. You can feel the weight of all the eyes in the room, and as you rest your cards on the table’s felted surface, you robotically push a stack of ten red chips toward the center of the table; two hundred grand into the pot. 

Sparky smiles like you just bought him a house. He leans in his seat like he might rest his arms behind his neck casually if he didn’t need them to play, and his tie is loose around his neck. He must feel like the king of mobsters. 

Alastor draws for the flop, and you make a point of watching only his hands. He discards the top card, also customary, and slips three into his palm, flipping them over and spreading them for the table to see in one smooth motion. Three of clubs, seven of hearts, eight of clubs. 

You look to your opponent, and he eyes your dealer ever so slightly before checking once again, taking another drag from his cigar. The room is so quiet, you can hear the tobacco smolder, even from across the table. 

“Check,” you flatly decide. 

Alastor quietly discards the top card from the deck and adds the turn card to the lineup: the five of diamonds. 

Across from you, Sparky chuckles. The bulbous fat and muscle of his chest ripples with the motion, and he takes a mighty hand to slide a clutch of stones into the pot. The sizes of the rocks vary, and you assume that the quantity of stone represents either the value of the information or the amount. A bit of an abstract play, and you can’t help but wonder what this bet would have to say about you. 

Eyes are on you once again, and you contribute another stack of red chips. If your opponent’s body language is anything to go off of, he was still apprehensive about trusting Alastor. The turn card must have washed his worries away, because he looks happy as a clam. You’re practically throwing money into the river of Sparky’s strange game, but you need him to believe that you think you can win. 

Finally, Alastor gracefully displays the river card after trashing the top of the deck. The queen of diamonds. All five of the lineup cards are out, glinting under the dusty spotlight above you. It’s up to you to build the best hand with them. Sparky leans forward, grinning cheekily as he pushes a few more stones from his pile. 

“Are you sure you wanna do this, Doll Face?” Sparky taunts. “You can always write me a check.” 

It’s hard to call when you don’t know the exact value your opponent is betting, but you push your bluff to the end by taking a single red chip and donating it to his cause. Twenty grand, all in one piece of plastic. 

“I could never deny you, Sparky,” you shake your head with benign sarcasm. “I know how much you love games.” 

You give him a knowing look, raising a brow, and his eye twitches. 

He throws his cards up, and they slide a few inches across the table’s fabric. Five of spades and the queen of clubs. He’s got a pair of fives and queens combined with the board, and when you flip your cards, you watch boredly as he laughs. You’ve only got a pair of fives, and the dog takes the pot. 

Alastor quietly begins shuffling for the next round, his hands moving deftly over the cards as they rattle together in a bridge, and you take a moment to study him. He’s got a pleased smile, focused on the blur of paper dancing in tandem, and when he catches your eye, he throws you a wink. You stare, coldly, then turn away. Seems like he’s having fun, so far. More than likely, he knows exactly what cards are falling into place, and he passes them between his hands with a few flicks before beginning to deal. One to Sparky, then to you, and so on. 

You peek at your hand when it arrives, maintaining your cold expression. King of diamonds, two of hearts. The red of the symbols stands pertinently on the glossy white paper. Sparky bets more rocks, the clambering stone knocking together as it travels across the fabric, notably leaving his newfound cash untouched. You check. 

Out comes the flop, three cards sliding smoothly under Alastor’s clawed hand. Eight of hearts, five of hearts, seven of diamonds. Sparky’s dark eyes are chewing you up, but you remain steadfast. He pushes five more stones into the pot, about the same size, but misshapen from the erosion of the water they were stolen from. What secrets must they hold to be worth betting on his hand? Whatever they contain, you push one hundred grand to the table. 

Out comes the turn card. Sharp claws remove the top of the deck and display a new card for the table, the nine of clubs. This is probably the quietest you’ve ever seen Alastor. 

Sparky checks. So do you. 

Finally, the river card slips from Alastor’s palm. The queen of diamonds. Sparky tauntingly places a single stone neatly onto the pile of rubble he’s contributed. You put on your very best stubborn glare and fold. Your cards hit the table, and Sparky cackles, his canine jaw stretching over his howl. 

The dog before you flips the hand he was dealt, and with the board, he’s got a pair of eights that steamrolls your high king. 

“Must be bad luck,” Sparky sneers as he collects. 

You almost laugh at his choice of words, fighting the twinkle of amusement in your eye. You’ve got to get rid of this cash, and fast. 

You huff a frustrated sigh and tap your fingers on the table. Your opponent toys with his chips as he takes another drag, humming around the paper wrap of his cigar. Alastor appears content, but already his eyes are starting to droop as you side-eye him. He goes about shuffling, snapping cards together, then again, and he does another from the air for good measure, his two hands pointing the cards to the table and shooting them into place just so that they fall neatly, one after the other. What a show-off. 

When he deals your hand, you peek at the corner with the same monotonous motion as before. King of hearts and the nine of diamonds, not too bad. Even better reason to throw some money on the table. Your face must remain as cold as the stone Sparky is betting with, and you look up at him as you wait for his first bet. 

He’s already got his eyes on you, and his cheeks are so full of satisfaction that you might have thought the round was over already. Rocks knock against one another as they migrate into the pot, this time enough to line the bottom of a small aquarium. A few stray pebbles sit where the pile he pushed once resided, and he picks them up and tosses them, the smaller stones knocking against the rest of his bet as they fall into the ring. You make an annoyed face, pushing in the other half of the stack left behind from your last round. 

“No need to splash the pot, Spark,” you chide flatly. 

His wicked grin chomps on the filter of his cigar. 

“I’ll do whatever I damn well please,” he drawls. 

You glance at Alastor, and this time, you catch his eyes on you. He turns to trash the top card and deal the flop round, and you feel something small jolt through you. You dart your eyes to the cards he deals, your heart picking up a little bit. Don’t be ridiculous, how could you get worked up over eye contact when there’s over two million at stake? You just stared him down cold a few minutes ago. Get a grip. 

Here comes the flop. Two fours, spades and clubs, and a king of diamonds. That gives you a pretty clean two for two, but you highly doubt you’ll get away with any of Sparky’s stones any time soon. You wait for him to make his bet. 

He lets out a self-congratulatory sigh, tapping ash into a tray, the two dogs sitting beside him snickering as he shows them his cards. You wrinkle your nose, if only because you can’t imitate the characteristic twitch, as he pushes almost all of his river stones into the pot. He doesn’t even say anything as he waits for your call. 

His round eyes nearly bulge out of his head when you push one million to the table. Even Alastor raises a brow, the only person remaining unresponsive being your assistant. 

“This is too good!” Sparky exclaims, howling with laughter as Alastor readies to deal the turn card. 

You rest your elbows on the table and clasp your hands, leaning your lips into your intertwined fingers. Your leg bounces under you for full effect. Neph twitches in your peripheral, glancing at your impolite posture, but he’ll have to cope for now. 

You watch, eagerly, with your opponent as the Radio Demon lays down the turn card—the ace of spades. Your eyes snap across the table, and Sparky meets your gaze, smugly dropping two stones into the pot. 

“Check,” you huff out, letting your brows knit together in a frustrated display. 

The room falls silent as the river card turns over—the four of diamonds. 

That gives you a full house, three fours, and two kings to back it. Now, all you have to do is sell it. You keep your chin anchored, but stare real wide-eyed at the dog across from you. He grabs the shoulder of one of his lackeys, shaking them with his thick palm. 

“Bring me a god damn drink,” he shouts excitedly. “The fucking Macallan!” His little friend scampers off. 

Sparky, the good sport that he is, snatches the remainder of his riverbed and throws it into the pile, eyeing you with sinister delight. 

You lift your chin, taking two green chips and pausing for hesitation before finally placing them with the rest of your bet. 

Your opponent erupts into pure, joyous laughter, his lapdog hurrying in with a waxed bottle of whiskey and a glass. He smacks his subordinate on the back, snatching the booze and the stout glass before shoving him away through his boisterous guffawing. 

“Get the poor woman a glass!” He insists. “She’s lost a fortune!” Off the kid runs once again. 

“One more game,” you request lowly, shrinking your posture so Sparky might enjoy looking down as his other dog collects his earnings. 

“I almost want to let you walk away,” he chuckles. “I’m gonna wear you like a fucking slipper.” 

Alastor retrieves the cards, silent as he works, and you look over to him. His smile is thin and unwavering, his eyes closed in concentration, and when he opens them and looks to you, something inside you squirms. 

He looks disappointed. 

Your mind wants to swim in what must be going through his head, but he starts throwing out the next deal, and you need to focus. You return your lip to the clasp of your hand, but pointedly furrow your brows with nerves. Sparky is still coming down from his high when he lifts his cards to see, hardly trying to hide them at all, while you delicately raise the corner of your draw. 

The ace and five of hearts. It’s a beast, but only time will tell what it will do for you. Sparky looks like he’s about to burst into laughter once again, his lip quivering as he rests the nub of his remaining cigar on the ashtray. He rips the wax off the vintage whisky and pours himself a drink, his runaway coming back with a glass for you just in time. 

“Check,” you mumble. Sparky slides you the glass of golden liquor, and it spills over on the felt just a tad on arrival. You pass it a glance, but remain hunched over your hands. 

“Radio Host, you want some of this?” Sparky casually asks, shoving his poor, exhausted lackey away for another glass. 

“If you insist,” Alastor obliges, his voice smooth and even as he readies the flop round. 

Three cards head the table: the two and four of hearts, and the five of clubs. Your brows knit in real nerves, and you glance up at Sparky. Could this be it?

Your opponent is swirling his drink and smiling at you like you’re the first meal he's seen all winter. He haphazardly slides a bunch of rocks between you as if he forgot he was supposed to bet, some of the stones clambering and not even making it all the way to the space between you.

You move the remainder of your green chips, leaving you with only two stacks of red. The green tokens stand tall against their riverside adversaries, and your eyes stray to Alastor. He squints back, and you take in a deep breath. 

The top card sits to the side, and the Radio Demon draws the turn card—the seven of clubs. 

Sparky shrugs. He takes another swig and starts pouring the dealer a drink when his huffing drink jockey finally comes back. 

You have to clear your throat to get him to make a move.

He chuckles and puts his drink down, pushing every stone and pebble onto the table forward in one dusty move. You glance at Alastor as he receives his beverage, and he looks remarkably annoyed. This is it. 

You remove a single red chip from your stacks, set it aside, and push in the remainder. Sparky glows with excitement, leaning over the table with his toothy grin. You both watch silently as the dealer stiffly turns the river card. You were right. He knows exactly what cards he’s dealing. 

The three of hearts. Sparky smacks his forehead with his girthy palm. 

“This is the greatest day of my life,” he gasps. 

He readies his arms around the chips he has amassed from you throughout the game, shoving them forward with reckless abandon. 

“Just for your beautiful performance,” he cockily chuckles. “I’m all in.” 

You look down, the shadow cast from the pale spotlight casting your eyes into shadow. A hand eases itself from beneath your chin, grasping your last chip, resting it on your thumb, and flipping it through the air into the massive pot on the table. It clacks between the pile of stones and plastic, settling perfectly centered before you and your opponent. 

Sparky slaps his cards onto the table with gusto. 

The king and ten of hearts. He’s got a flush. 

As he jumps up to collect his winnings, you calmly rise from your seat, as well, scooping up your whiskey and downing it in one shot. You shiver, letting out a quick breath, and pinch your cards in your first and second fingers before flipping them for your opponent with a casual shrug. 

The ace and five of hearts–straight flush. 

“Guess I cleared you out,” you hum, tossing your winning hand on the table.

You watch the glamorous, sparkling smile on the canine’s face wither. His mighty fist sweeps the pot off the table, the clamber of worthless chips and stones flying right at Alastor, along with his untouched whiskey, and he fades into shadow to duck out of the way. He reappears beside you, eyeing the raging dog with an annoyed squint. 

“You fucking bastard,” Sparky growls with fury. “You said I would win!” 

“I said I would give you the power to win,” Alastor corrects, though he doesn’t seem all that excited about the outcome, himself. “You’re the fool who butchered your only shot.” 

You slide your hands in your pockets as you turn to leave, Neph stepping aside to escort you, when you hear the telltale slide of a gun sliding from its holster. 

“Don’t you fucking move,” Sparky warns, his hand shaking with rage as he stares you down the barrel of his pistol. His dogs follow suit, and suddenly, you’ve got five barrels aimed and ready like it's rabbit season. Beside you, shadowy tendrils emanate from Alastor, and Neph straightens for a showdown. 

Sparky’s eyes widen when he hears the sound of a coin in the air. 

It lands in your palm, and you ready it at your knuckle, sending it up once more and waiting for it to crash back into your hand. 

“Do you really want to play this game again?” You ask him. 

Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick. 

The two gentlemen at your side turn to you, but you hold Sparky’s gaze. After a moment, his shaking fist slams his gun onto the felt of his poker table. 

“Get the hell out of my casino,” he lowly demands. 

—

The humid air of the streetside is a welcome change from the suffocating smoke of the Old Mill, and as you step out with Neph and Alastor, you turn to the Radio Demon and send a finger jabbing into his pompous, vested chest. 

“What the hell is your problem?” You demand. A real glare finally graces your features. 

He holds your gaze, clasping his hands behind him politely. 

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean,” he denies cheekily. 

The way he’s looking at you right now, it’s a little hard to stay mad. This is nothing like the searing glance he gave you at the card table; it’s warm and rounded, so unlike his usual scheming squint. You falter under his piercing eyes, completely taken aback. Street lights glow over the rusty old gambling strip, catching on the steam rising from a nearby truck, spotlighting down the sidewalk, and casting Alastor in a hazy glow. The whisky you shot is fluttering in your stomach. 

A beat passes, and a spiny claw rests on your shoulder. 

“Good day to you, Mr. Radio Demon, sir,” Neph bids farewell. 

You glance behind you, shaken from the moment, and give Alastor a conflicted look before shoving your hand in your pocket. 

“See you around,” you turn, starting down the strip with your assistant. 

Alastor watches silently as you disappear into the night.