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Panic. It’s really the only word that can marginally describe the state of 75% of the AV3 back at the tower. It’s the day of the fabled rebellion. Alastor said he was going to fight. The Vees said
“No you aren’t you stupid sunnuva bitch
”. So Alastor said
“I’m not going to listen to you like the dumb egotistical PRICK I am and I’m going to go ahead and fight the
first fucking man
alone without any weaponry.”
Well, he didn’t say that specifically. More…
“I’m going to support the hotel by summoning a defence shield. Once it breaks, I am planning to summon another. So on, so forth. You have nothing to worry about, my friends! I will be engaging in no violence. And in the case I happen to, I will be fine. One exorcist is nothing. Do not fret.”
Same shit. Either way, no matter what he said, Alastor ended up fighting.
Stress was
already
going off the charts when Alastor was wasting his energy magic-ing up some giant shield that lasted less than a minute. But when Adam, the world’s first-
fucking
-human decided to rally it up against the overlord, it was safe to say Vox pissed himself. Cameras were set all over the hotel for means prior to the extermination, so the Vees could get a good look into Alastor’s situation.
Well, before it was for security, and making sure no-one broke in (Vox put them up very reluctantly), but now it’s for making sure Alastor doesn’t get turned into fried venison. Adam flies above the hotel roof, his holy light causing the CCTV to unfocus for a second before bringing it back.
‘Oh fuck!’ Vox leaps from his seat, hands clawing into the corners of his screens, buffering his display momentarily. His oldest friend is about to fucking get his ass
whooped
into whatever’s beyond death-death. ‘What the fuck is he doing?!’
Valentino apparently didn’t believe Alastor would do something so stupid. He sits up from his seat, previously checked out of the conversation, hands gripping the couch behind him. ‘Is he seriously going up against–’
‘Adam!’
The tone from the live recording holds such affection and doting, if the cameras weren’t there, Vox would have thought they were having a tryst or some shit. ‘
First man, next to die!’
‘Who the fuck are you?!’
The angel snaps back.
‘Alastor! Quite a pleasure to be meeting you, quite the pleasure!’
Alastor plays with his cane, tossing it between his two hands. With
that
look of blind confidence, something that Vox has always secretly dubbed the
“I’m about to get my ass kicked really good”
look, the deer slams his cane onto the floor, electricity looping around him.
‘I’m about to end your fucking
life
.’
The next few moments are filled with unbridled havoc. As the two fight, the Vees lose their shit. Alastor is going to be so fucking grounded when he gets back
alive
and
unscathed.
He better
,
because he dragged himself into this shit, he’s dragging himself out.
‘AH! It nearly fucking hit him!’
‘Call his phone, call his phone!’
‘Do you seriously think he’s going to pick up
now?!’
‘I’m panicking! Do you not see the giant fucking axe trying to slice his head off?!’
And amidst all the yelling, just as Vox reaches for Valentino’s neck to strangle the prick, there’s a scream. Ironically, this sound, recognised for its alertion
to make noise,
brings the entire room to dead silence.
Eyes turn to the screen like a bomb had been dropped, eerie quietude filling the room as
Alastor flies across the fucking roof,
hitting the edge with a crash. Vox feels his mouth sliding off his face as the deer’s ears flit around in a panic, blood streaming from his lips. He grabs his
two-piece cane,
sitting up against the wall, like there isn’t a
giant fucking gash across his chest.
But still, he keeps up his confident persona, eyes flashing black, then crimson, then black. Vox both hates and loves it. The pit of horror in his stomach drowns out any other emotion writhing within him.
‘Have to disagree with you there..!’ His voice is trembling, bordering on pure panic, pure
fear,
something Vox hasn’t heard since their regular sinner days. When the possibility of death was a constant, a looming threat. ‘Radio’s not dead!’
Alastor spreads his arms out, hair astray, eyes shaking, and if that isn’t fear then goddamnit Vox doesn’t know what fear is. ‘But it
is
ending
this
broadcast..’
‘He better get his dumbass straight here.’ Vox spins around, away from the recording. It hurts him to look at it as much as it does to hear it. Velvette leans forth, squinting at the screen like it would turn off, had she looked away for even a second. ‘He better be right at my fucking feet I swear to
god.’
‘Get…’ Valentino trails off, a look of genuine concern washing over his face. ‘Something! A medkit!’ He snaps his head to the other two, waving his hands around. ‘When he gets here! He needs something! Go, go! Get a medkit, something, anything
!’
The two stumble over each other trying to get out of the main room.
**
Alastor groans, leaning the back of his head against his radio tower panel, shutting his eyes. Ugh. That brute had gotten the best of him… how humiliating. How utterly humiliating. His breath comes in raggedy pauses as he places a hand over his chest, wincing at how sharply it stings, how badly it
hurts.
He can hear, outside his tower, the hotel singing and cheering, the battle well past over. They haven’t checked his radio tower yet, where the man lies, legs thrown out in front of him, blood leaking down his torso at an alarming rate. The man should do something about his wound. If not, he’ll bleed out, and he feels as though dying from a lack of blood is far more degrading than dying on impact of angelic weapon. But where shall he go?
Perhaps he could escape to Rosie? Hm. No, no.. He can’t. She’s already healing from the fight’s impact on her people, he would hate to bother her further than he already has, growing all sentimental for that stupid princess and her stupid dreams.
Ugh. This is the worst assignment She’s ever put on him.
Cracking his eyes open— When did he close those?-- Alastor sighs, raising a shaking arm to his panel. He pushes himself up, to his wobbly knees, and looks around. Something to heal himself, something to heal himself…
He spots a small briefcase cracked open, on its side, the contents within slightly spilling out. Perfect.
Limping over, his cane forgotten on the panel, his movements trembling and pathetic, Alastor makes it to the suitcase, practically dropping onto his knees. His hands are shaking as he rips it open, looking within to find medical kit supplies. Bandages, stitches, yada yada… Aha. The emergency booze and cigar stash.
No-one’s allowed to smoke in the hotel, like it is to do drugs, or have sex, or act on violence or whatever. The most sinful edible Charlie will ever allow is booze. “But not
strong
booze, very
watered down
booze,” He remembers her saying during that particular group meeting. Both he and Husk had looked at each other, knowing smirks behind their eyes (Or, in Alastor’s case, his face), before Vaggie had snapped at them both, especially to listen.
“I know you two went through that alcohol strike,” She said, “I’m going to be checking to see if you two have some kinda stash.” Hence why both Husk and Alastor keep their Prohibition Era alcohol hidden away in places Charlie or Vaggie never check, for example, behind the glasses in Husk’s bar, below the counter. Or, right now, in Alastor’s radio tower.
Sitting back, Alastor winces slightly, reaching up to undo his buttons. With his shaking hands, he does not get a lot done, only undoing one or two of them, before tearing the rest off, coat be damned. He hastily undoes his suspenders and rips off his shirt, looking down onto his wound with unsure eyes.
The wound is still bleeding, a faint sparkle within it sending stings of pain into Alastor, as if someone were jabbing a needle into his open flesh, repeatedly, shallow, but deep enough Alastor can wince at it. It runs from his left breast to his right hip, a diagonal slash that causes plenty of pain. It burns yet feels like ice all the same, sending sweat and shivers down Alastor’s back, nape, forehead. Alastor sucks in a slight breath, running a claw along the edge of the wound.
It
screams
. Alastor can really only say that much. It
hurts
like no pain ever has
.
There is no way to describe how badly it feels, how aggressive the wound roars at him, forcing a wince out of him, more of a whine of pain. His bare back shivers, spine protruding more, bones moving out of place, in order to try and compensate for the pain. The air rushes out of his lungs with each breath, and every inhale feels like he’s breathing snow and icicles, pricking at the insides of his nose, sending his tear ducts ablaze.
Nevermind. Saying it hurts is no way to describe it. It’s another Hell inside of him, the Hell portrayed in the Dark Ages, Dante’s Inferno, all that media. The wound feels like all those portrayals mixed together, and then some.
He snatches the booze out of the kit, digging a claw into the cork to pop it off. A strong smell has him coughing, moving his head to the crook of his arm, the heaving of his chest sending more flashes of pain in his body. Nevertheless, he shakily puts the ring to his lips, tossing the bottle back.
Liquid courage floods his body like a fresh shield, forcing a sigh of relief from Alastor’s mouth. He lowers his head, looking at the medkit.
Seems it’s time to get to business, then.
Slouching a bit more, elbows holding him up, Alastor manages to conjure enough strength to get a tendril to pick up the needle and string, a glowing green. He hates using this string. It’s the string holding his being together, his hands to his wrists, his wrists to his arms, his arms to his shoulders. Alastor daresay he never uses this string. But he knows he does. Willingly or not, the string is a part of who he is, and this fact is only about to be further solidified.
Threading the glowing string through a needle, with much struggle and instability, Alastor holds the thing up, scowling at it, almost as if his distaste for the thing would cause it to lose its glow.
Sucking in a deep breath, Alastor lowers the needle to his chest.
‘Having a bit of trouble there, hm?’ Lavender petals rain down from the roof, dissolving onto the floor. Alastor startles, scraping the needle on an area of unharmed skin just outside the wound. He looks up to see whom the petals had left in their wake.
Her smile is posh and beautiful, black lipstick piercing into Her pale skin, black horns contrasting Her blonde hair, that of which flows to Her tailbone. Alastor grimaces slightly as he watches the woman approach, high heels clacking against broken wooden planks and glass, kneeling down in front of him.
‘May I have a sip?’ She smiles, pointing a sharp nail to the bottle of booze at Alastor’s side. He has no option but to smile back.
‘Be my guest, your majesty.’ Nodding, She reaches forward, planting a hand over Alastor’s wound as a stabiliser, grabbing the bottle. Alastor hisses, tears prickling in his eyes. ‘But– Ah!– What brings you to me at such a time?’
‘I wanted to check in on my
favourite
pet.’ She lowers her bottle onto the floor, swig taken, and turns Her attention to Alastor’s chest. ‘Who clearly isn’t performing very well.’
Alastor tilts his head. Offers no comment on Her complaint. ‘I
apologise.
A little miscalculation occurred on my part.’
‘I can see that much,’ She laments, woefully placing a hand on Her cheek, moving Her head into it. Alastor watches Her black-painted nails ghost over his chest, taking the needle from him. ‘I find it simply
adorable
that you decided to use
my
little trinket for your…’ She waves a hand in the general direction of Alastor. ‘
Issue.
’
‘It’s a quality resource given on hand,’ Alastor reasons, the lie slipping out of him with ease, as he brings the needle back to his skin. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me…’
‘Not at all,’ She smiles, sitting back. ‘Allow
me.
It’s what I can offer for your tantrum, trying to assist my daughter.’ With a small wave of Her hand, the string grows a mind of its own, piercing into Alastor’s skin. He lets out a startled scream at the intrusion, head ramming against the back of his panel, groaning, frothing through his gritted teeth.
She tuts. ‘Oh, hush, now. Get yourself together, pet.’ The intrusion stops, but the sealed wound does not cease the burning within Alastor’s chest. ‘They’re singing out there. Do you hear it?’
And indeed, Alastor does hear singing and laughter.
‘Hm. Don’t embarrass yourself out there.’ She taps his cheek a few times, petals flowing from Her fingertips, landing on Alastor’s skin and face. It rights his outfit, fixes his hair, and he feels the grip on his neck renew. How lovely. They make eye contact one last time, Alastor nodding a small thank you to his mistress.
Lilith hums, satisfied, and whisks Alastor off to the rest.
**
It’s late at night. Vox paces in front of the elevator leading to the main room, hands crossed, claws digging into his arms. Alastor’s not back. He made a sudden reappearance right when them lot were singing, and he disappeared into the hotel. Hasn’t come back. Vox is worried
sick.
Did he die in there? Has he decided not to return home from the hotel?
Has he finally concluded the hotel is better for him, where the two known heirs to the throne, a fallen angel, and Hell’s top pornstar reside? Pah. What is Vox thinking? Alastor wouldn’t leave him like that. Not with what they have. No way. Alastor’s not… like that. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t
dare.
Sighing, Vox sneaks a hand to the back of his head, claws fidgeting with the ports resting there. He… He’s not anxious. Alastor will come back. He always does. He did it before, he’ll do it again now.
As Vox stares down at the carpet of the entryway, he can’t help but notice the faint moulding in the corners of the walls, ever growing, smelling akin to a swamp. They increase and the smell intensifies until it’s so thick Vox can practically taste it on his tongue. Despite all the swamp-themed theatrics, he feels a faint chin run down his skin.
Told you.
Two footsteps tumble onto the ground, a faint curse spilling from pure lips. Vox wheels around, prepared to begin screaming. Alastor stands in front of him, expression weary, mouth parted and panting, his ears flat on his skull. His eyes are squeezed shut, an expletive hissing through grit teeth as his claws find stability in the wall, other hand raised to his chest.
‘You better have a good fucking explanation,’ Vox snaps. Alastor’s eyes fly open, body language in turmoil for a few moments, before he calms, putting on that same facade of indifference as always. The TV steps forward, grabbing Alastor’s arm, hitching it over his own shoulder. ‘A really good one.’
‘It was a small scratch,’ Alastor pleads, refusing to even mention how he
might’ve not gotten hurt.
Huh. Alastor not admitting he’s “fine”. Must hurt like a bitch. ‘I’ll be fine.’
Never-fucking-mind.
Vox fixes his gaze on the deer with a harsh glare, helping the man limp over to the common room. Alastor hums softly. ‘Where—’ He pauses to take a deep breath, as if moving five feet and saying one word had done him in for the day. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To the others,’ Vox snaps, ‘Because if you have the fucking gall to come back here like you didn’t just face the first man, you have the fucking gall to do so in front of them.’
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Ever since Alastor was “
grounded
” in such a way he couldn’t even leave the tower, having been injured by Adam and what have you, the eyes on him have somewhat intensified. He can see Vox watching him through the cameras way more frequently, feel the way Valentino watches out for him everytime he passes by, despise the way Velvette checks and “upgrades” his clothes to check for injuries.
Alastor could handle those. Little grazes, little brushes of skin against skin, they irked him, but he could always escape them, being locked away in his tower, or his room, or go hunting in the bayou no-one dares enter other than him. However. There is one event he just.. Cannot seem to escape anymore. Alastor knows he can’t, it’s difficult to avoid it, when three overlords pitt against you simultaneously. The dreaded biweekly event.
Baths.
He doesn’t hate baths, to be completely honest. The warm water is nice against his skin and he feels fresh after every session. But the products, the hands all over his body, the eyes on him, his deer features, plotting, searching for a way to hurt him… The thought makes him sick.
Initially when he had had his first “
mandated
” bath, everyone had joined him in the bathroom. He sat in the soapy water, knees to his chest, back turned to the other three Vees as Velvette ran her fingers through his hair, kneading in some product he could care less for. He could hear Vox panting like a dog at the sight of him, and he could practically envision Valentino’s eyes raking over his body.
Contrary to popular belief, Alastor is more deer than human, which, truthfully, given his backstory, isn’t that surprising. It’s something he despises. Fur intensifies over his chest, puffing out in a way Angel’s does, but to a much lesser degree. He sheds, antlers and fur, when it gets hotter. His hooves have to be trimmed and cared for. There are red and black dots along his back, like a
doe’s,
blended in with his fur and adapting around his protruding spine. He hates all of it. All of the traits. It was only ever useful before, when he was a regular sinner, it was easier to lure others into alleyways and kill them with his deer-like innocence. Now? Now it’s a
weakness
.
Eventually during the first bath, after far too many suggestive comments and evident discomfort, Velvette had kicked and banned Valentino from entering the bathroom. The moth had complained, saying he only wanted to help massage the soap into Alastor’s chest, but clearly, that was not the intention. Vox tried to remain civil, credit where credit is due, but he grew far too eager, hand sliding a bit too far down Alastor’s back, set for the sensitive spine ending. Alastor had screeched aloud, busted a few light bulbs. Vox was set on the curb next.
So now it’s only ever Velvette forcing him to do this. Alastor weighs whether it’s a good thing or not. On one hand, he’s always tender around women, feeling much safer in their presence, while on the other hand, Velvette is…
Velvette
. The social media
queen
. Anything and everything is set online for her life, from her breakfast to any small scratched on her. It’s quite the risk if she lets something slip. But, Alastor supposes he could trust her, at least enough to not run her tongue off.
Which brings Alastor to where he is now. Arguing with the woman over taking a bath. A childish fall from his greater days, he’ll say.
Alastor’s argument? Injured, should stay in bed, basically everything he hasn’t been doing so far, but he’s going to use these points against her anyway, because it helps him avoid these baths. Velvette’s argument? Detoxing, relaxing muscles, basically a lot more stuff Alastor should be doing if not resting. Pah. Pathetic. Alastor doesn’t need to relax, he has to get right back on it.
But, of course, nothing ever goes Alastor’s way. He finds himself being dragged into these baths, held underneath the water by the shoulder, shampoo scrubbed into his hair by sharp nails. It’s nostalgic in a way he despises it. But he would never admit that. Never in a thousand years, or past. Maman always had very sharp nails— Father liked it when she tried to fight back. But Alastor liked it, because they felt nice on his scalp, on his nape.
Today, Alastor sits in his room, flipping through some fan mail received on his most recent radio show. Vox had suggested he started giving more…
fan service,
during his works. Alastor didn’t want to know what fan service entailed, so he settled on opening a post office box, welcoming any sort of letter or artwork for Alastor to look at.
The fact that the “
sexual
” pile is growing more than the “
genuine
” pile is slightly alarming.
He hears himself being summoned from one of the other three outside. A faint call, asking for his help. Must be Velvette needing help reaching the top shelf again.. Alastor keeps telling her that she’s a doll, so therefore she
must
be able to get herself longer legs, but the woman constantly insists that she doesn’t need to. That her height is “part of the aesthetic”, whatever that means.
Sighing, Alastor threads his fingers through his hair, massaging the top of his scalp with his nails. He tosses the last bit of mail onto the sexual pile, getting to his feet, groaning at the slight crackle that comes from his knees. He’s getting old..
Dismissing his notes at his desk and drifting towards the door, Alastor pushes it open, hand lingering on the knob. ‘Yes, dear? You called me?’
‘I did,’ Velvette snaps, standing at the end of the corridor.
Alastor’s blood goes cold.
Wrapped around her arms, neck, and legs, soft styrofoam, the kind that makes the strange noise when you rub it. Her hands are adorned with yellow cleaning gloves, in front of her face a face guard, hair tied back neatly into a braid, travelling down to her calves. Alastor feels himself take a small step backwards, towards the safety of his room.
‘You know what day it is?’ She asks, taking a step forward. Alastor lets out a fake laugh.
‘Ha. Haha. No. Why? Don’t come closer please.’
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It’s never a good thing when a deer hears its call. A flash of white, a sudden halt in action, a tensing of muscles. Perhaps the cock of a gun, the whistle of a hunter, the footsteps of man. The deer interprets any noise unauthentic as threat, danger, and flee, being what it is, prey. It runs and runs from the hunter, hoping to outrun a bullet, outrun a pack of hounds, outrun the gelid breath of death. But, the story always loops back to the same 50-point buck, to the same blood leaking out onto earthen soil, the same slowing of breaths.
Alastor clenches his fists, claws digging into his palms with a grounding feel as he stares up at the apartment he stands before. He finds himself in the outer, more rundown areas of Pride, where sinners not dare question noise they may or may not hear from their surrounding areas. Alastor owns a few of the urban areas, this area included, though he never pays much mind to it. The forests are his primary land, any fool idiotic enough to enter never leaving.
Taking a deep breath, Alastor runs his hands down his coat, adjusting his collar, before entering the building. The inside reeks of blood, dried and rotten, paint peeling from floral walls as he heads underneath the ground, into the basement. The smell only intensifies as he sinks further and further down, his heels clacking on each stone step, his breath proving warmer than the surrounding air. Further underneath he goes, louder his breath becomes, ironic, seeing as anyone above couldn’t hear him, even if he were to scream at the top of his lungs.
He doesn’t doubt that being the reason She always chooses to meet here.
Heels hitting flat ground, Alastor blinks a few times to adjust into the darkness— The deer anatomy being what it is—, looking around for anyone in the basement. Why had She chosen to meet now? Yes, he may have gotten injured in the fight, but that.. That was months ago.
He was found out, healed by Lucifer, and Hell, they’ve even formed a certain bond, all that time in the same room for hours on end. Since then he’s been helping Charlie with her goal better than ever. If Vox were to act up, Alastor has him handled within a moment’s notice. If some lousy sinners try to start something, Alastor ends it with a snap of his fingers. He can’t think of anything he’s done to warrant.. Being
here.
He’s spent countless hours here, days, even, suffering, when he’s done the worst of things, the highest acts of insolence. When he had made his deal with Charlie, and She found out, when he had refused to show up on her call, too delirious with the pain of angelic power to think past survival.
A shuffle to his right catches his attention. He looks over, eyes widening only a fraction, as he forms a wide smile on his face, straightening himself. ‘Your Majesty! What have I the pleasure of hearing your call?’
Her heels clack on the floor, piercing the silence, echoing in the basement. Alastor swallows a load of saliva as Her face comes into view, serene, pacifistic,
plotting.
In Her hands appears to be a small plastic bag, one Alastor cannot see through, even if he had enough time to analyse it from where he stands–
A hand swoops up and grabs his jaw with force, squeezing his cheeks into his molars and canines.
—Which he doesn’t.
He lets out a small noise, one of surprise, but does not struggle to escape this grip. Her nails dig into his soft flesh, a sting that sends chills up his spine. She tilts his head upwards, moving his head side to side, something he allows with vile. They stand like this, in a long silence, Alastor not daring to look Her in the eyes, settling on squeezing them shut.
Eventually, his chin is released. Alastor’s neck protests as he allows his upturned chin to remain like this, for a few moments, before lowering it, watching Her. His body is unmoving, save his head, as She moves to his right, hand placed upon the wall, searching for a light. He should have turned that on when he entered. She’s going to hurt him for that later on.
He blinks a few more times to adjust to the sudden lighting of the room, coming into shape, a table, with two chairs seated on either side. His arms begin to spike with goosebumps, as Alastor turns to look at Her fully this time, cocking an eyebrow. She smiles warmly at him, clutching the small bag with two hands, before nodding to one of the seats. With a few seconds of reluctant delay, he moves over and sits down, smoothing down his slacks, removing the sweat from his palms.
The chair itself is an office chair, not an unfamiliar device to him, armrests proving nice to lean on as he works occasionally. As tempted as he is to lean, he, instead, places his forearms on the surface, letting his hands hang off the edges. She takes Her place opposite him, placing, with such elegance, the bag on the table, opening facing Her. Alastor swallows more saliva gathered in his mouth, licking the back of his teeth.
‘You may ease yourself, my fawn.’ She folds Her hands on the table, smiling at him, a scheme he dare not guess behind Her entrancing eyes. ‘Speak with me. How has Charlie been?’
‘She’s been doing dandy!’ Alastor laughs, wanting to somehow ease the tension in the room, knowing all too well his attempts are pathetically futile. ‘The seraphim upstairs, the short one, has been helping her cause, the hotel has been positively
bustling,
and—’
A hand is held up. Alastor’s next words die on his tongue, stuttering to a stop. He cocks his eyebrow as She lowers Her hand, smile falling a little less patient. ‘I didn’t ask how her playhouse was going, prey. I asked how
she
was doing.’ Her eyebrows crease, in concentration, or anger, he can’t tell for sure, sinking into his seat a little under Her gaze. ‘Your assignment dictates you take care of Charlie. Not indulge her in her little pretend land. Aren’t I right, Alastor?’
Alastor nods. When She doesn’t seem pleased with the answer, he forces something akin to all types of agreements mixed into one sentence. She nods, approving, before turning Her attention to the mystery bag sitting in front of Her.
‘I’ve noticed you’re awfully tense, nowadays. It’s been a while since I’ve reciprocated my
own
end of our little deal, hm?’ Alastor feels his mood shoot straight up. He sits a little more proper, nodding with a hum of agreement. It’s been
years
since She’s even hinted at holding up Her end. More than seven, in fact. Perhaps all those years of suffering could be worth it.
‘You…’ Alastor winces internally, speaking when unprompted to. ‘You mean it? Do you truly?’
‘Of course,’ She hums, sending an earnest smile his way as She opens up the bag, plastic crinkling. ‘I think it’s time you finally see your mother after all those years of being my perfect pet.’ He doesn’t even care for the nickname, shuffling forward. Her eyes catch this movement, a chide behind them. Alastor settles back into his seat, feeling his ears relax a bit, an uncontrollable motion to display his joy.
‘Has she… Have you seen her? Has she said anything about me?’ The woman shakes her head.
‘Shh, now, pet. All in due time. For now, you must do one last itty-bitty favour for me.’ She holds Her hand up, and snaps Her fingers. The noise echoes throughout the basement for a few seconds, nothing changing within, leaving Alastor to begin to voice his confusion.
His words catch in his throat the moment he feels chains around his arms. Tying him to the chair.
He pulls at the lavender restraints, panic seeping within him, flushing out all his excitement. When Alastor goes to look up at Her for explanation, he yelps, finding Her standing but a few inches away from his face, leaning down to tower over him. In Her hand, a syringe.
‘Keep still.’ Alastor winces, the best he can describe the noise that escapes him, reeling his head back towards the seat as his mouth moves on his own volition. Small, weak. Begging.
‘Wait– Ma’am, I– What’s going on?— Hold on, please- wait, what did I do?--’ A finger presses onto his lips. He falls silent without further noise, eyes widening as She shushes him, releasing his mouth. She turns Her back to him, picking the bag up, withdrawing a… vial. The liquid within it is amaranthine, slightly translucent, akin to tea.
‘You haven’t done anything, my deer.’ Placing Her attention back on him, She sticks the needle into the mouth of the vial. Her hands move dainty, and elegant, sucking the chemical into the needle. ‘This is your reward, is it not?’
‘Yes– Of course, but— Why… The needle?’
‘No questions,’ She scolds lightly, placing the vial onto the table. The sound of the syringe being flicked sends a few squirts of the liquid to hit Alastor’s pant leg, a cold substance which he cringes away from. Her eyes fall onto him, their weight crushing. ‘Now, I’ll repeat. Keep still.’
‘No, but—’ A sigh. He falls quiet within a blink, but it is far too late for repentance.
A hand grabs his hair, tilting his head to the side with a soft grunt. He winces, eyes fighting to look down at his neck, to see what She’s doing. The hair-pulling begins to ache, sending a pounding throughout his skull. But the injection hurts more. Slim metal punctures his skin, his cricothyroid membrane, sending something into his veins, cold, yet burning.
It sets his body on invisible flames, a scream ripping from his throat as She withdraws. He shakes his head, throat ablaze with nothing but that
chemical,
trying to rid himself of the pain. She stands back and watches him with an eerie indifference, hands clenching and shaking against the arm rest. He screams, and screams, pain never ending, relentless and Hell tenfold. His eyes fill with tears as his voice begins to go out, hoarse, weak and trembling.
He feels like he’s about to die. Sounds rip from his throat but they go uncared for, tearing his lungs to gravel, sending spikes of pain to his head, slow, throbbing, torturous. Alastor thrashes and thrashes, trying to escape the pain, this burning fire coursing through his veins, never leaving, never seizing. It’s a type of pain unable to become adjusted to, it refreshes and never stops in its consistency. Putting Alastor down to a screaming corpse.
Truly pathetic.
When his screams are reduced to nothing but whimpers and silent pleas for mercy, She speaks once again. ‘Do you want to know what I inserted, doe?’
‘Please,’ He cries, head lolling back against the headrest of the chair. A tear slips down his chin, slow, trickling into the collar of his shirt. ‘Please, I beg, please end it, please, please–’
‘Then beg.’
Alastor’s next word dies in his throat, a whimper leaving him, brain muddling together enough for him to drop his head, look through his tear-filled gaze to Her. She waits, patient, syringe discarded on the table. ‘Please, please, please— I don’t— Oh,
fuck,
I can’t– What did you inject– Please, I’m begging, please, make it
stop–’
She hums, satisfied. ‘Worry not, my toy. The pain will go away. And you’ll be able to see your mother once again.’ Stepping forward, Her hands place themselves on his cheeks, fingers coaxing his skin with such care,
such tender,
he’s tempted to pass out, then and there. ‘That’s what you crave, no? To see your mother?’ She leans down, Her eyes meeting his, a kiss planted upon his forehead. He shudders, skin crawling, disgust tempting to wrench a gag from his mouth like a vice.
‘You can thank me another time. But, for now, rest. Rest, and enjoy a mother’s presence.’
With that, Lilith closes his eyes for him, and Alastor promptly passes out.
**
‘Maman! Maman! Look, look, look! There’s a meter shower outside, Maman!’
A soft laugh. The eagerness of a child prodding their mother onto the front porch, in the dead of night. She wants to question why he had been up so late, when he has school tomorrow. But, regardless, she follows, staring up to where he points, into the black sky, littered with white slits of magic.
‘My, my! Seems there is, baby. How beautiful. D’ya mean a
meteor shower?’
The sound of a child blowing a raspberry. Soft grunts, before they’re hoisted into loving arms, followed by the admiring noises of two stars underneath a plethora of meteors. They shoot like wistful thoughts, coming, only to disappear within moments.
‘Why don’t you make a wish, honey?’
‘Wishes are stupid.’
‘Now who went ahead and blabbed all that to you? Try it! Make a wish, my dear.’
Silence follows the shower. The mother hums, soft, only once, in questioning, shifting her grip on the child. Her smile widens and her laugh heightens when she sees her son, eyes shut, cheeks puffed, wishing in silence. But, the meteors don’t seem to be stopping any time soon, so she keeps the haste to herself, holding him close to her.
‘That’s a long wish if I’ve ever seen one,
mon fils.’
‘Shhhh! I’m not done yet!’
‘Okay, okay. I’m quiet.’ Silence. ‘Are you done yet?’
‘Mhm! I wished for–’ A startled yelp, hand pressed over mouth. The mother laughs once again, rocking her son back and forth, gazing upon the stars together, lost in the shower.
‘If you go ahead and tell me, it ain’t never come true, baby. Keep that little trap of yours shut, okay?’ A small whine in protest at a pinched cheek. The two laugh together, before lapping into more quietude, staring up to the sparks in the sky, watching as they, with time, die down, becoming scarce, eventually invisible. ‘You have school tomorrow, let’s get you to bed.’ A tired complaint. Maman chuckles, adjusting her grip on her son.
She didn’t make a wish. Not when her wishing star is already in her arms.
**
Alastor sits up with a gasp. His head spins as he tries to make sense of where he lays. The sheets beneath him are familiar, red cotton beneath his hands, over his legs and hips. He looks around, taking in the sight of his room. How.. did he get home? He doesn’t remember anything past.. Ah. She must have sent him back to the hotel. Tired with a limp doll, sent to recharge until ready for use once again.
Groaning, Alastor presses a palm onto his neck, fingertips grazing his skin for point of intrusion. He finds none, leaving him to drop his hand onto the sheets again, with a sigh. His clock, on his nightstand, reads 4.20am. Unusually early, but he doesn’t look as though he’ll be falling asleep again.
Swinging his legs off the bed, Alastor makes quick work of resetting his bed to perfection, snapping his everyday clothes onto his body, tousling his hair enough so it seems acceptable. A little bit curly, he notes, but nothing unmanageable. He oughta get started on breakfast for the residents.
He finds himself in the kitchen within moments, stepping into the room with a stride, hands placed behind his back. The burning spanning across his body is gone, now, in fact, he feels marginally lighter than before. What did She mean by
“meeting his mother”
if She was just going to test out another one of Her spells? Alastor sighs and pulls open the fridge for inspiration on what to make. He sees a few recipes pop up as he pulls ingredients out, placing them on the counter, but nothing he’s eager to make.
Regardless, he finds himself preparing some nice bread pudding for the morning, a sweet treat for the residents. He’s not feeling keen to eat today, surprisingly. His appetite is normally the biggest around the early hours of the morning. Alastor sets on making and preparing the pudding, enough to feed a small town, to be exact.
He cuts up some soon-to-expire bread into even cubes, placing them into a wide glass tray. Pressing them down, Alastor pours milk over the bread, and presses down once again (With clean hands, of course, he’s a cannibal, not a neanderthal), making sure to make sure no unreasonable amount of milk hides at the bottom. Then, he adds yet another layer of bread, topped with more milk, and allows the dish to sit. Alastor covers the dish with cling wrap (An invention that is unbelievably useful, invented right the year Alastor was killed), and slides it further towards the back of the counter.
Grabbing the cornstarch, Alastor places some in a smaller bowl, pouring in two tablespoons of water to chase it. He mixes it until pasty and slides that next to the pudding base. His body drifts to the stove, bringing a pot with water in it, allowing it to boil. When the water begins to bubble and pop, he pours the mixture in, mixing with a whisk. That goes into the fridge.
Alastor cracks some eggs up and separates the yolk from white, that too, going into the fridge.
As the demon falls into rhythm, creating bread pudding as he always did with Maman, he hears the speakers begin to pick up with some jazz, the chatter of residents becoming apparent the more time passes by. If he’s lucky, he can get this done in time to cook up some more treats that they may enjoy.
Alastor’s just about adding the whiskey sauce along the top of the pudding when the first person greets him. The deer greets them back with a chirpy tune to follow him.He doesn’t turn his back from the oven as he hears her walk in, yawning with a slurred greeting for him. Alastor smiles, turning around with the glass tray in hand.
The bread pudding crashes onto the floor.
‘Woah! Oh my god, are you okay, Alastor?’ The lady gets up from the island, expression panicked as she rounds the surface, looking down at the mess he had made on the floor. He watches in a stunned silence as she kneels down, summoning a rag to begin cleaning up the mess. Soon, she looks back up at Alastor, eyes wide, expression questioning. But, in response, he can only really provide a singular question.
‘Mam…an?’
‘What?’ She stands, placing a hand on her hip, dressed in that
oh-so familiar
yellow sundress, hair in that messy bun, curly hair springing everywhere. But… that’s… not her. That’s Charlie’s voice. Charlie Morningstar. ‘Alastor, are you alright? You look pale…’
She raises a hand to touch his forehead. He flinches back.
‘Don’t
touch me.’
The woman withdraws her hand, as if burnt. Alastor takes a lengthy step back, pressing against the counter as he watches Maman try to take a step forward, her face a mix of concern and confusion. ‘Who are you? How are you–’ He trails off.
‘Alastor, are you
okay?
Is something wrong?’ She spreads her arms out, smiling,
smiling with Maman’s face,
with those crinkling smile lines, that he remembers so well, adores so well. ‘You can talk to me!’
‘Who are you?!’ Alastor reiterates, voice growing in volume. The lady flinches back, smile fading with gradual unease. ‘Who the hell are you?!’
‘Charlie! I’m Charlie!’ While part of it is true, she speaks with her voice, but Alastor… Alastor is smarter than that. That isn’t Charlie. Or Maman. This is a threat. An intruder.
‘Like Hell you are,’ He seethes. His hand flies out in front of him, a tendril growing from the shadows, shooting for her. The intruder gasps, jumping out of the way with widened eyes,
widened eyes and a fearful look on Maman’s face.
Maman’s face, afraid, because of Alastor.
His hold on the tendril falters.
It fades into nothingness, allowing the intruder to get themselves into gear, running out of the kitchen. Alastor snarls, focussing himself just as quick. He follows with heavy footsteps, slipping into shadows.
The intruder startles when he appears ahead of them, tendrils growing from his back. Alastor lifts himself in the air, slamming a tendril right where they stand. They leap out of the way with a loud cry, tripping over themselves onto the floor, staring up at Alastor.
‘Alastor! What are you doing?!’ Alastor doesn’t give a response to that, refusing to fall for the fearful tremble in
faux
Charlie’s voice. ‘Help! Someone come and—’
They’re cut off when a tendril wraps around them. Maman’s face contorts, falling from afraid to angered. Alastor finds himself fumbling his hold on his tendrils, watching Maman’s eyes turn red, a singular vermillion horn growing from her head. A trident slices through the inky shadow, dissolving it. They scowl and aim their trident for Alastor, something which he tries to avoid.
The metal slices through his supporting tendrils, sending him crashing to the floor with an
oomph.
The cut of tendrils with angelic metal burns him like it had been his own arm, forcing a cut off scream to rupture from his lungs. He sits up, only to freeze. Staring up into the fake Maman’s eyes, scowling beneath a toothy grin. Angelic metal pointed to his neck. Maman pants for a few seconds, narrowing their eyes.
Footsteps hurry into the lobby. Alastor looks around, refusing to turn his head. His stubborn slips, spotting these newcomers. Maman wielding a spear. Maman with a tommy gun. Maman with a deck of cards in hand. Why…
Why are there multiple… Mamans?
‘What the hell happened down here?’ The Maman with the spear yells. She has Vaggie’s voice, something that sends another flair of panic down Alastor’s spine, as he sits with his death mere inches from him.
‘Boss?’ The Maman with cards mutters, kneeling down to Alastor. He shoots backwards, away from Husk’s voice. He can’t do this. Surrounded by enemies? What a downfall for the Radio Demon. He needs time. To prepare. Get ready to slice the heads off these intruders,
torture them
for daring to use his mother against him.
Sending hands flying to ears with a pop of static, Alastor disappears into the shadows.
**
‘What the fuck is his problem?’ Angel is the first to speak, tucking his tommy gun back into his breast fluff. Charlie winces, sending her trident to whatever ethereal it comes from. She looks at the kitchen entrance, placing her hand behind her neck. Her ears ring from the assault Alastor had sent out right before he had disappeared.
‘I don’t know! He just— He turned around and saw me, and it was like he wasn’t expecting to see…
me.
But he said good morning to me! I don’t get it.’ Running a hand through her hair, Charlie frowns, concern lacing her traits. ‘I’m really worried… was that a stroke?’
‘He didn't look like he recognised
any
of us,’ Husk mumbles, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He looks up to the group. ‘Didn't he go on that outing yesterday? We never saw him come back.’ He should know– Stayed up all night drinking, thinking about life in general. Alastor always comes in through the front door before shadowing to his tower, to let Husk know he's back.
‘You sayin’ he's some kinda clone?’ Angel teases, wiggling his fingers about. Husk rolls his eyes, deciding to ignore the Spider for the time being. He looks back over to Charlie, cocking an eyebrow.
‘Did he
say
anything to you? Before he attacked?’ Charlie squints, shaking her head slightly. Something within her eyes then lights up, for she lets out a series of small
oh, oh, oh!
s before speaking.
‘He called me.. Ehm.. What did he say..? Maman! He called me Maman!’
Husk hums, low, soft. Maman? Like, mother? He always knew Alastor had held his mother close to his heart… But that doesn't make sense as to why he would call Charlie that. Come to think of it, he looked at
everyone
confused, like he wasn't expecting to see them, like they were the last person he was ever expecting to see, despite it being Fuck'o'clock in the morning when he started yelling.
The cat tries to piece the whole problem together. Went for an outing, didn't come back, somehow managed to be in the hotel regardless, started attacking when he saw Charlie, called her “mum”, then looked at everyone else looking like a confused mess, and left. Nope. Situation's far too fucking random for Husk to think.
Charlie frowns, eyes drifting to the floor. ‘We could try… Hm. He went out yesterday and never came back. Someone probably put him in his room, then. Right?’ A small hum of agreement. ‘So.. He might’ve been drugged. Right?’ She asks a bit more desperately. Eyes turn to Angel, who frowns, unable to deny his… “Experience”.
‘Yknow,’ He begins, ‘Thinking of it. He did look pretty fuckin’ drugged up. With what I don't have any fuckin clue. You'd have to do a blood test, probably.’ Angel then shrugs. ‘We ain't gettin no DNA sample anytime soon, though.’
A soft hum of disappointment erupts from the crowd. Charlie sighs, lowering her head to the floor. Then, a thought hits her. When she was trying to get Alastor to calm down, she had hit his tentacle thing! She feels
really
bad about hurting him, but maybe some blood is on her trident.
Stepping back, Charlie claps her hands. Golden sparkles build up from the carpet, drawing eyes, revealing her weapon, the tips stained in dark, inky-like blood. She grabs the thing before it can fall, and looks at Angel. ‘Will this work?’
Angel Dust steps towards the trident, peering at the blood. He seems sceptical, but nods regardless, giving Charlie four thumbs up. She smiles, baring her teeth. Vaggie nods, mentioning something about “grabbing a tissue” for the sample. Husk hums, watching her walk off, before sighing, pinching his nose.
‘I’ll go deal with Al.’ Charlie frowns, hesitant. ‘Trust me. He’s not gonna kill me.’
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It started with a small ache.
Alastor felt a minute sting in the canal of his ear, forcing a sudden intake of air from between his teeth. Charlie, standing ahead of him, drawing on her planning board, turns to look at him, cocking an eyebrow. Alastor narrows his eyes, clenching his clasped hands in his seat tighter.
‘Are you alright, Al?’ She asks, lowering her crayon to the platform at the base of the board. Alastor hums, soft, progressively finding himself to dislike the way Vaggie and Lucifer both follow Charlie’s eyes.
‘Whatever makes you think I’m not, my dear?’ Alastor tilts his head to the right, eye twitching at the sharp sting that whines from his ear. He rights himself. ‘Why, that’s as if asking the Devil has feelings!’ A quick look to Lucifer, whose eyes speak all the words he needn’t say as the comment hits him. ‘..Maybe that’s not the best metaphor, haha!’
Lucifer mumbles a small expletive directed towards the deer. The latter decides to be the
big
person (both physically and hypothetically) and turns back to Charlie, who focuses on her board once again.
After a tiny flick of his right ear, the pain had subsided as if it were never there to begin with.
However, Alastor found his pain to have persisted over the next few weeks. Tiny stings within his ear, that would cause him to have some kind of visceral reaction; Whether this be audibly gasping, squeezing his right eye shut, or holding a warm hand to the base of his right ear, the feeling was getting quite irritating.
People at the hotel, fortunately, hadn’t been the wiser. Whenever Alastor would have one of his little audible attacks, and eyes would turn to him, they’d only ever ask him if he was
okay
(Or, if you were Angel Dust,
did your vibrator bump up a notch?
The spider has been in the hotel medical bay for about a week now.), and move on with their lives once Alastor said he was
dandy.
But,
au contraire
, he was not
dandy.
The pain was beginning to spread through his ear and at times he
seriously
considered visiting Angel Dust in his cast-covered state for some medication. However, Alastor
refused.
This was just some tiny hiccup, he told himself in the bathroom mirror of his room as he splashed some cold water in his ear, a little sprain within a marathon. No need for any sort of help, like all his pains, it would go away after time.
What could have caused this? Alastor was rather careful with what exactly went inside his ears, thank you very much.
…Okay, well, there was that sinner who had gotten rather messy while Alastor ate him, a few droplets landing in his right ear, and not to mention, he had those radio headphones locked onto his head when he needed some jazz but the hotel told him
no loud music at 2am, Alastor—
How long had he had those in? The entire night, he reckoned, from his evening broadcast to his next evening broadcast— Good
lord, that
is a lot of time…
He yields. Maybe Alastor was a little at fault for this ache. It had intensified significantly the
one
time he decided to have a nap; Somewhere in the five hour period of which he had slept, his body decided to hone in on the sting. He’s been up since 3am in the morning.
Alastor checks the clock perched onto the wall in his room.
It is now 7am. Four hours of
non-stop
pain. It hurts in a way he simply cannot describe, as if someone had jammed water or something down his ear canal, and the water had a knife to poke and prod at the sensitive skin within. But occasionally, this poking and prodding would move on, to a full on
jab,
painful enough to make him press his fingers to his outer ear.
He had woken up with a small wince, due to the pain, and tumbled out of bed. He managed to manoeuvre his way into his bathroom, leaning over the vanity, towards the mirror. Alastor moved his head to the side so he could have a little look; Seemed fine. But his ear hurts like a
bitch.
Sighing, the deer bows his head and lightly sprinkles some cold water into the innards of his ear. It helped— Oh
heavens
that helped, Alastor could have fainted from the relief. But, as soon as the water had adjusted to his body temperature, the pain was back and this time his ear felt muffled.
He needed something cold that would last. And preferably wouldn’t cover his head in water. An icepack would be
lovely
right about now.
So, dressed in his night clothes, Alastor had left his room, ears down to try to minimise the sound of wind hitting his right ear, and moved downstairs. Didn’t even bother trying to move via shadow; They were often
much
too loud, the souls plagued at his hands whispering all around him, begging for his release, for his demise. What a nuisance.
The elevator chimes a melancholy tune, doors sliding open like a gaping mouth. Alastor feels the soft, gross lobby carpet hit the soles of his hooves— Not the first time he’s felt it, but 100% not a pleasant feeling. He makes a dull note to sand the bases of his hooves down when he gets back to his room.
It’s peacefully silent, Alastor’s hooves lightly patting the maroon flooring as he moves towards the kitchen, grimacing at the flicked on lights. It means two things; Either someone is in there, or they forgot to turn them off when Alastor had ceased for the night. Lovely. He’s not exactly in the mood for conversation, much less witty comebacks and quips.
The aching in his ear is so strong, so
unbelievably strong,
Alastor’s not entirely sure he’s had such a strong pain in such a domestic location like the hotel. Nothing comes to mind when he thinks of a feeling more hurtful than this. But he’s not going to
tell
anybody, what’s he gonna say? What are
they
gonna say?
‘Uhm… C-C-C-C-C-Charlie-sama?’ Alastor mumbles, fiddling with his indexes, legs crossed as he stands, eyes towards the floor. ‘I…. need h-h-h-h-help…’
Charlie groans, moving her hand away from her forehead, baring her teeth into a snarl as she glares at Alastor, hair rising and flaring as her horn grows. Alastor lets out a little yelp, ears dropping to his head. ‘What is it, Alastor-kun?’ She growls aloud, clenching her fist. Alastor hides his face behind his hands, cartoonishly peeking out through a gap in his fingers. ‘Why are you interrupting me at my important work hours, where I have more important stuff to do?’
Alastor gulps audibly, head rising with the motion of his saliva. ‘I-I-I-I-I-I… My ear hurts, Charlie-sama… P–P-P-P-P-P-P-P-Please help me!’
The princess stares at this inferior deer for a prolonged moment. Rage in her eyes grows and her hair floats ethereally around her head, horn growing from a tiny stump to a tool of destruction. Alastor feels his knees buckle as he cries out, tears flowing like elegant streams of river, sobs wracking from his body as he weeps.
‘I-I-I-I-I-I’m so sorry, Charlie-sama! I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I didn’t mean to! This pain is so s-s-s-s-strong, I couldn’t bear it! I need help!’ Alastor weeps, head flown back as he sits on his knees, tears flying out in front of him. ‘T-T-T-Tasukete, Charlie-sama!’
‘Oi, oi, oi!’ Charlie rumbles, holding her hand up. Alastor sucks in a surprised gasp, tears pouring from his eyes like faucets, hands held with each other in front of his chest. Charlie tuts, looking away, the fire in her eyes fading. ‘Tsch! Your
ear
hurts… Alastor-kun, more like Baka-kun… I guess I could help you….’
Alastor shivers, a full-body experience as he swings the fridge open. Cold air presses reprieve against his face and ergo his ear as his claws tap over the items in the freezer, small powders of ice gathering at the red tips.
Claw
tips, he means, not the
other
tip, first of all that would hurt, second of all that—
…He’s been spending too much time with Angel.
The deer grumbles softly, grabbing a thicker block with jagged edges from within the freezer, proudly displaying its name to be
I-C Pack.
How terribly creative. But, it’s better than nothing, and Alastor shuts the door, holding the pack to his ear. He angles it, careful, and slips a corner into the canal, sighing in unfiltered ecstasy as the ache in his head subsides, protesting slightly, before disappearing completely.
Alastor keeps the item there for a few more moments. Then a few minutes. Then, he’s been standing there for so long, he doesn’t even notice the I-C Pack melting. When the first strand of cold water rolls past the tip of the I-C Pack, as it’s angled, and over his claws, Alastor lowers it, opening the fridge to pull out its twin, a purple version.
With a satisfied smile, the ache courageously defeated and pain no longer Alastor’s demise, Alastor takes the I-C Pack and leaves the bathroom.
Cross off Alastor’s sin of Pride and replace it with Pure Dumbassery (Trademark), because he did not get better.
It was around 9am– the same morning he had the I-C Pack descend on him like Jesus did with his followers or whatever the story is—, the day’s conquests had already begun, and Alastor found himself participating in one of Charlie’s physical bonding games.
Dodgeball.
He had never enjoyed it, particularly, his classmates when he was younger always wanted to play the
Wall Ball
version of it.
Guess who always had ball imprints all over him after a game of Wall Ball?
So Alastor deemed himself superior to Dodgeball, and simply strategized an amazing plan that was so ingenious Lucifer himself pat him on the back and congratulated him for his intelligent plan. (No he didn’t. But, Alastor likes to think he did.)
‘Alastor,’ Charlie whines from the other side of their makeshift court, ‘You can’t just stay on the sidelines the entire time and dodge the balls.’
‘That is exactly what the game is called, no?’ Alastor answers, calmly side-stepping a ball thrown so aggressively by Vaggie it surely rivals Adam’s holy beams. ‘Dodge the balls. Dodgeball.’
‘You’re the only one left on your team, dimwit,’ Vaggie barks from the other side, placing a hand on her hip. Angel from behind her scans Alastor’s side of the court, nodding. ‘And you have all the balls on your side.’
Alastor follows Angel’s sweep of his side. Indeed, it seems he
is
the only one left on his side; Husk had gotten hit on the very first (
gentle,
to be kinder) ball thrown by Charlie. Niffty was put in timeout for penetrating the balls with her needles. Alastor hadn’t even noticed he was the only one left! What a terribly pitiful situation.
For the other side, Alastor means, not for himself.
‘Mmm,’ Alastor hums, rubbing his chin. ‘I suppose I could chuck a ball or two, just for the thrill of it.’
He turns, placing his hands on his hips, scanning the multitude of balls sadly rolling around, out of bounds. Alastor snaps his fingers, tendrils rumbling from the court floor, picking up a ball each. There are complaints from the three on the opposing side, who all cry out in tandem as Alastor returns their favour tenfold.
However, flicking the tendrils to throw the balls like that. That
hurt.
Alastor lets out an audible wince as a sharp jab stabs his eardrum, hand flying to the limb, back bending slightly to try and somehow compensate for the pain. Don’t ask him why he thought it’d help, he doesn’t know either.
He’s up within a moment’s notice, dusting off his suit with a cocky smile. Charlie, knocked to the floor from the ball, groans, rubbing her nose. ‘Satisfied?’ Alastor purrs. ‘Lovely! I’ll be leaving, now.’
Leaving to go shove an I-C Pack down his ear,
fu-u-u-uck
this hurts. He had thought the ache would stop once he had pressed something cold against it. Why was his body being so stubborn?
Stepping back into the hotel, Alastor makes a linear beeline for the kitchen, speed walking inside. His ear feels muffled and it aches all over and at this point reliving Adam’s attack would have been more bearable because at least Alastor could drink himself to a point of numbness. Can’t exactly shove hard vodka down his ear, can he?
Is it an infection? Can’t be. Alastor would have to go and check the library for some help. Or… worst case…
use the internet.
Euugghh.. That’s so gross. Alastor can’t think of a worse backup plan.
It’s probably air pressure. Ah yes. Staying on the same atmospheric air level for.. as long as he's been in Pride, has caused an imbalance in Alastor’s ears, causing one of them to pop and the other to muffle. And ache. And sting. And be Alastor’s sole reason for suicide. He can picture the note now.
To whomever may find this,
My ear fucking hurt.
A riveting send-off!
Ripping the fridge door open, Alastor snatches his trusty purple I-C Pack, holding it to his ear. He sighs softly. The sigh promptly turns into a startled
gasp
.
Sharp stings erupt from everywhere in his ear, Alastor drawing the I-C Pack away from his ear like it had burnt it, which is really fucking ironic considering it’s an
ice
pack, did he set it to
infernal hellfire mode?
Is that even possible? He doesn’t know–
‘Alastor? What’re you doing?’
Alastor freezes. His eyes trail from the ice (hellfire?) pack to the intruder. Charlie cocks an eyebrow, strands of blonde hair stuck to her white forehead, rosie cheeks a bit more prominent. In her hand, an empty water bottle. Alastor had forgotten the phenomena known as
being in a hotel with like seven other fucking people.
‘Nothing,’ He blurts intelligently, lowering the ice pack to his hip as if the action would claim his immediate unquestioned innocence, and Charlie would say
“Okie Dokie dude! Totally tubular, let me skirt on out of here!”
Charlie cocks an eyebrow, eyes moving from his face to… above his face. ‘Is your right ear okay?’
‘What makes you ask that?’ Alastor makes a very innocent move of stuffing the I-C Pack into the fridge, spinning around with a smile. The movement makes his jaw ache, because who knew the jaw was connected to the ear?
‘It’s… Uhm.’ Charlie swirls a finger in his direction. ‘Lop….
sided?’
‘Well, I should hope not,’ Alastor smiles, forcing his ear to stand upright. His body delivers to himself a gut punch, forcing a slight wince from his throat, ear lowering. Charlie’s eyes widen at the sound, promptly turning apprehensive.
‘I knew it! I knew something was wrong with you! You’ve been doing that for weeks, you just didn’t want to tell us!’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Alastor laments, inspecting his nails to feign indifference from the
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
siren echoing in his head. ‘My ear is fine.’
‘Alastor,’ Charlie warns calmly, tone falling domineering. Alastor narrows his eyes at her, lowering his hand. She won’t tell anyone, would she?
The ache in Alastor’s ear speaks for him. ‘I’ve had an ache in my ear for the past few moons, and was seeking some sort of alleviation for the pain! Nothing to worry about, I’m sure.’
‘Oh man,’ Charlie frowns. ‘Are you alright? Do you want some medication?’
YesIDoPleaseGiveMeSomePainKillersOrSomethingIAmActuallyGoingToWitherAwayFromThisActuallyUnbearablePainPleasePleasePleasePlease—
‘No, I just need some time to rest, is all.’ Note to self, Alastor; Fucking dumbass.
Charlie narrows her eyes sceptically, placing a hand on her hip, water bottle forgotten on the counter. ‘I’ll rephrase; Do you
need
some medication?’
Alastor rocks his head side to side for a few moments, contemplating. Apparently his ear did not agree with the motion, and expressed as much through a sharp sting in the deepest parts of his ear. The deer hisses, eyes squeezing shut as he presses his fingers into his ear, gently, to the side of the canal, waiting for the pain to subside. His hearing is muffled through his right, now, but his left still lets him pick up on Charlie’s shallow gasp.
‘I’ll go get you some ear drops,’ She says, ‘But in the meantime, can you pretty please with a cherry on top go and rest on the parlour couch?’
And let everyone see him cry over a little ouchie in his ear?
‘Very well.’ Note to self 2.0, Alastor? Go ahead, tie a rope around your neck, and go
bungee jumping.
Alastor finds himself laying down on the couch, right side up. His expression comes off somewhere between constipation and immense shell shock. Angel is lounging on the other couch, sucking on a lollipop while scrolling on his phone. His eyes drift up, then down. Then they shoot back up again.
‘You look like shit,’ The spider comments, which is so gratefully accepted. Angel points upwards, towards the roof of the lobby. ‘Aren’t you normally lurking around up there, Smiles?’
Alastor points upwards with a finger of his very own. Angel barks out a laugh, dismissing the deer, and goes back to scrolling on his phone, the amusement never quite leaving his eyes. Meanwhile, the deer continues wallowing in his own pained misery. This sucks. It actually sucks. Why is God so cruel to him? What did he do?
….What did he do,
specifically?
Pain bangs at the side of his head and it has his leg physically twitching outward, ramming against the couch arm. Which brings around another danger that Alastor was just
so
eager to see.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Vaggie snaps. Alastor glares at her from the corner of his eye, and, like the big man he is, ignores her with a small huff. Vaggie’s head reels back at the behaviour (Because it was so intimidating and mature and
not
annoying and/or childish), and she looks over at Angel. ‘What happened?’
Angel lets out a shrugging noise. However the hell you describe that.
It’s at that moment Charlie returns from her pharmaceutical endeavours, leaning over Alastor as she poofs into existence with rainbow glitter. ‘Are you alright, Alastor? I got some earache drops.. Hopefully they should help.’
‘Smiles’s got an earache?’ Angel asks, looking up from his phone with a smile.
‘They
hurt,’
Charlie emphasises, goat ears flicking, ‘I’m surprised he managed to last over a couple
weeks
with the ache.’
‘Owch,’ Vaggie whistles, placing a hand on her hip. Her eyes move back to Alastor, who stares up at her with deadpan eyes. ‘Do you want me to put it in for you?’
‘That’s what she said,’ Said the spider, soon to be crushed, as soon as Alastor could get past this pain and tell left from right, up and down.
Vaggie tuts, scowling at the spider, turning back to Alastor with a… surprisingly calmer look. She takes the drops from Charlie and scans the box, reading through with a complacent look, brows furrowing. ‘Insert every one to two hours…’ She looks back at Alastor. ‘Kay. Pick a position. I’m gonna put the drops in, and you’re gonna stay like that for 30 minutes, okay?’
Alastor hums. His ear hurts far too much for him to try be smart right now. He can be embarrassed later. Vaggie leans over the back of the couch, down to Alastor’s face, shadow covering Alastor in a slight draft. Alastor wonders, for a moment, is this what all those patients feel like in those insane doctor movies?
He feels something cold against his ear. Shit that feels so relieving– What the hell is that.
‘Did someone just spit in my ear?’ Alastor mumbles, ear flicking. Vaggie withdraws the pipette, groaning slightly in disgust, scolding Alastor not to move. The medicine is like… thick. And cold but warm at the same time.
It’s clogging his ear, like… Like the time Alastor got waterboarded but the guy was an idiot and drenched only his ears thinking it was deep enough to get Alastor’s nose wet. That was a while ago but he still likes to think back on it. Hahahahahahahahahahah what the fuck is this feeling.
Sounds come muffled after that. Vaggie says something along the lines of asking Alastor how it feels, to which he hums lightly. Charlie gives an excited squeal, clapping her hands. She says something about a book or something and runs off. Because Alastor’s vulnerability is just the
perfect
trust building exercise to partake in. Thanks Charlie.
So here Alastor is. Lying down on the parlour couch. Reading Pride and Prejudice on his side. It’s… an experience. Definitely. He doesn’t know how long it’s been but his left arm is starting to hurt from being crushed by the rest of his body. Charlie’s sitting beside Angel, watching Alastor as if he were some interesting animal experiment to observe, smiling and nodding encouragingly everytime Alastor looks over. He wouldn't be surprised if he started hearing David Attenborough from nowhere particularly.
And here lies the deer, the little bitch, the little waa waa mama's boy, wallowing in his wittle eaw ache awwwhhh how miserable.
Thanks David Attenborough.
‘How long has it been?’ He asks aloud, to anyone, really, as he slams the book shut against the floor. The medicine doesn’t seem to be dying down or anything. He’s worried it might leak into his brain.
‘Do you wanna sit up?’ Vaggie asks, glancing up from her phone. Alastor gives a mixed response of yes and no. The woman nods, placing her phone down. ‘I’ll go get a cotton ball, give me a second.’
Alastor lays there for a couple of moments. His ear hurts like a bitch. Sigh. What a terrible day. The Great Radio Demon reduced to a… Radio Demon. Oh! Woe is him. His ear hurts so much, no one could possibly ever understand his lament, they’re so fake, Alastor’s surrounded by fake people with fake intentions and fake… something else, Alastor doesn’t know, his ear hurts.
‘Okay,’ Vaggie mumbles. ‘Here, I’ll put this in and you can sit up.’ She lowers the cotton ball to his ear. Well,
lowers,
is really sugarcoating it. More… rams. With force. And malice. And the rage of 60 suns or however the saying goes.
Alastor lets out an audible cry of pain. Why the hell did she stuff it in so aggressively? What did he ever do to her to warrant such brutality? Ow! What the fuck! That really hurt! Just when the pain was starting to numb into plain old “Water in my ear” feelings, she goes ahead and brings it back tenfold.
His leg rams against the couch arm as Alastor brings his hands up to his ears, covering them, fingers shaking above the offending cotton ball. Vaggie stares down at him with a confused look. ‘What happened?’
‘What happened
?’ Alastor spits, wincing when his volume intensifies the pain. ‘You just rammed a cotton ball into my ear! Have you no decency?’ He winces, shutting his eyes, clutching his ears.
‘It hurts that bad?’ Charlie gasps, that disgusting look of empathy in her eyes.
Alastor groans, rolling onto his other side, his ears hurting and screaming like no tomorrow. Vaggie stares down at him, the asshole, and walks back to her spot, picking her phone up. And despite his brain killing him and the medicine clogging his ears, Alastor manages to get himself to sleep.
Somehow.
Well well fucking well.
This is beyond an earache. Or change in atmospheric pressure.
Alastor sits up with a gasp, a gasp not appreciated at all by his ear, who screams in pain the moment Alastor inhales. He winces, holding a cold ass hand— Thank
god
it’s Hell Winter..-- to his ear and looking around. He’s back in his room. And the pain has gotten
so much more intense.
Flopping down on his back, Alastor lets out a sullen groan, willing the pain away, though he knows God’s probably propped himself up on cloudy pillows with a bucket of popcorn to laugh at Alastor’s suffering. Fucking asshole. Sorry he didn’t mean it. But holy fuck this hurts. He can’t sit still. Maybe— Maybe rolling onto his other side could help? No, his back? What the
hell,
owowowowow.
Sighing, Alastor sits up, eyes bleary from passing out for what? 18 hours? He scans his room for some unknown reason before getting up and out of bed, hands pressed lightly onto his ears as a way to find solace in this ear-aching hell. Tears begin to prick at his eyes from the sheer intensity of the pain, his inability to do anything about it, and he wipes them away before they can start leaking.
How embarrassing! He’s crying over an earache!
Groaning to himself, Alastor continues moving, wiping his eyes and trying to divert his attention away from the fuck ass pain in his ear. He makes it out the door and about a good few three steps.
Then a stab of pain sends him crumbling to the ground. He squeezes his eyes shut with a no doubt ugly grin on his face, clawing at the soft fur around the damn biological listening devices. Whimpers and honest-to-god cries of agony escape his lips as Alastor feels the world darken around him, pain so indescribably
there
it’s just too much to handle.
He doesn’t even process the footsteps rushing up to him amidst his whining and misery. Hands are on his shoulders and lifting him up, the changes in scenery far too much for his ear to handle, he cries and feels an actual
tear
run down his cheek.
The hands place him on a soft surface and the fabric is just god-
awful,
overstimulating all of his touch senses, sending him further writhing as the cotton ball from earlier is plucked out of his ear.
Someone grabs onto the tip of his ear, pulling it back with force. Those little cum drops or what the fuck ever they were stuff themselves back into his ear, clogging it up further. It takes him a good… 10 minutes… to open his eyes.
Charlie stands over him with a worried look. He’s been forced to lie down on the parlour couch— No wonder the fabric felt so overwhelming— and there’s currently a new cotton ball being stuffed into his ear. ‘Are you okay, Al? It’s getting really bad. Maybe we should go to my dad for help..?’
‘No,’ Alastor breathes, panting as if to calm the hellstorm conjuring up in his ear. Jesus
Christ,
call Ed and Lorraine Warren, Alastor thinks he’s possessed.. ‘No, no I don’t need help.’
Charlie winces slightly, opening her mouth to say something, before thinking better of it and nodding.
It had taken Alastor approximately 15 minutes and 42 seconds to go from prideful “I don’t need help” overlord to “JesusChristOhMyGodEndMeEndMeEndMeOwOwOwOw”. No sooner than Charlie had gone to the other couch to watch over him, did Alastor crumble. He didn’t
care
whoever the hell they went to, Alastor just needed this pain to
stop.
Drug him up, leave him woozy and barely conscious, throwing up a pharmacists fucking dream, he didn’t care. The pain hurt like an absolute
bitch,
he’d been enduring it non-stop for the past weeks or whatever. Deny it as he might, he was getting desperate for a release.
At some point, lying down on the couch of a textural nightmare, Alastor had managed to shut his eyes and fall asleep. It did not last long. He had managed to shut his eyes and pass out like a log for a healthy four hours, before he was awoken to waves of pain against his skull, forcing his eyes open, his body to toss under the blanket Charlie had at some point summoned.
Fuck… What did he do to displease the gods this time…? He was by no means a devoted follower of this branch of scientology, but this pain seemed…
much
for a tad bit of atheism.. Alastor needed to pray. Pray to them, beg them to stop while holding his prostrate like a statue. He didn’t care how long he had to mumble prayers, how much he had to sacrifice as offerings. Just to get them to stop this pain, even for a few hours, it’s all he would ever want.
…Gods?
Welp! That’s it folks! This is the tipping point! Alastor has officially lost his goddamn mind.
He groans softly, sitting back up, trying to ignore the pain pulsing in his ear. Charlie sleeps on the other couch, seemingly having passed out after watching Alastor. The deer gets to his feet and throws the blanket over the princess. He then moves to the kitchen to overdose on some painkillers,
fuck
he’s had enough.
To think it started with a
fucking ear ache.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Desc. Of deer lingering by a lot, getting close wuen he saw other people
He had read it a long time ago. He doesn’t know how long
long
is, but it was time.
Reincarnation comes in many forms, comes in many forthcomings, comes in many finalities. You could choose between reincarnation and submission to the afterlife. You might’ve been born again into a family with your social status. You may be reincarnated, simply because that is how the cycle of life goes.
Golden light soaked glow into his tan skin, and sitting upon that grass, Arthur felt alive. No worries. No camp to get back to. No traitor to bead out. No nothing. At times, having nothing to do, felt overwhelming, juxtaposition making a right fool of him. Sitting and wandering and journaling with no aim and no border, it was all he had ever fantasised in his dreams. An eternal golden hour, a serenity no predator could disrupt, a smell of fresh grass and morning dew, stretching on endlessly like the stretching of leather across a journal’s cover.
Arthur hadn’t chosen the afterlife himself, no. It wasn’t a decision he had made himself. He hadn’t had much of a social status, nor a family to be born into. And he supposes he was some deviance to nature, in a way, morality and beliefs all over the place. He never came back. Never saw that sun move again. Never heard another person’s voice again, and in turn, never found himself speaking much. He’d seen bison and wolves and all those creatures, he recognised them just as they’d recognised him, but they all came, they all went. Lived their lives, lived something new and better than the mess Arthur had tried to fix before. Arthur was happy for them. Arthur was happy they lived. They were happy he was happy. However upset to see him stay, to see him lag behind. He tried not to mind too much.
There wasn’t anything waiting for him up there. Unlike Charles, who had his tribes, and John, who had his family, Arthur had no-one. Mary had surely found another, forgotten him like leaves forgotten from trees in the wind. Dutch… Well, Dutch had to leave the moment he turned his back. Hosea was dead long ago, and Arthur hadn’t caught him in… this place. Arthur had no-one. Arthur was simply no-one. Arthur didn’t need any-one.
He tried not to mind too much.
**
Scene abt the deer runnijg away from him but he catches it and tje two topple off a cliff
Waking up felt laborious. He felt he weighed mounds of dirt, layers of earth, years of civilisation. But, he woke. He woke, the sting of the sun hitting his eyes with a strike. Noise flooding into his ears like he had risen from the depths of the ocean, transparent and pristine in nature. Air rushed into his lungs like never before, body stiffening, shooting into a sitting position. Back off the ground. Head above the dirt.
Alive.
‘It’s… It’s a miracle!’ Arthur stared into nothing, perhaps everything, eyes locked ahead of him, in some form of shell shock. ‘It’s a goddamn
miracle!’