Chapter Text
Sitting on the curb in the pouring rain, Alastor presses his stinging soaked face into his equally soaked hands and reminds himself, not for the first time, that this isn’t the lowest he’s ever been in his (after)life; not by a long shot. He still has his job, which is certainly a marked improvement over the stock market crash of 1929. A truly hilarious period of history, without a shadow of a doubt, in spite of his own life crashing and burning along with it. He doubts he’ll ever be that ill off again, no matter what bullshit that damned Moth tries to put him through.
Case in point: he happens to have just been rendered homeless once again, for the first time since he first manifested down here as a matter of fact, and it is entirely the fault of Valentino. A punishment of sorts, though he’s more than sure the bastard was merely in a foul mood and needed an underling to take it out on (like any other maladjusted Overlord with temper issues.) That doesn’t mean he shant resent the circumstances as the pain of the acid rain sinks beneath his ashen brown fur and stains his skin. It hurts, but he’s long used to toughing out unpleasant and torturous sensations in the pursuit of his goals and, at present, his goal is to sit here and wallow in his own self-hosted pity party. It isn’t as though he has anywhere else to go anymore.
He’s surprised it took seven years to lose his shoddy apartment, all things considered. After his most fiscal client cancelled their monthly sessions without warning, he’s not been raking in the cash as efficiently as before, and his Boss has not been happy. As though Alastor was any happier to lose his favourite client without warning, honestly!
Yes, yes, he’s been made pointedly aware that having a favourite client is a bad move to make. They are paying for services, and any emotional attachment is most assuredly one-sided under those prerequisites. He knew full well long before said client first booked him out that playing favourites is a fast track to misery, he doesn’t need his coworker Betty Boobs to remind him of such every single time he works his scheduled dance sets; funnily enough, he isn’t stupid!
Besides, to be attached means to be reliant, and Alastor hasn't been emotionally dependent on anyone else for his welfare since his Ma while he was still alive, and that’s not about to change just because he stumbled upon the only paying customer who didn’t care for engaging in sexual intercourse with him. (Ah the irony, a sex worker who’s averse to sex. Why, the jokes practically write themselves! Ha, what a laugh…)
However, despite knowing better, he still finds himself thinking of that final session over and over in his head, examining each and every interaction and expression to suss out any dissatisfaction, but… it had been much the same as the many that came before. Nothing stood out as a red flag, and he couldn’t imagine money was the issue either.
It couldn’t have been considering his client had been the King of Hell! Lucifer Morningstar himself who, as it turns out, is in truth a poor neglected Husband who was so desperate for physical contact he decided to hire out a hooker who’s rather well known for certain… specialisations. Alastor hadn’t been the first choice, of course not, but somehow he managed to be the last (as far as he’s aware, though he’s sure he would’ve heard if the ‘mystery client’ had booked anyone else’s time in the past 7 years…) and considering the Devil wore his wedding ring the entire time… it was a job. Just a job! The easiest he’s ever had down here, but a job all the damned same. He’s just missing the distinct lack of effort Lucifer required of him; he was practically printing money each time he was portalled to the Palace! No wonder Valentino’s been so passive aggressive these last few years.
Ears flat against his head, he runs his fingerless-gloved hands over his bare arms to smooth down the thin layer of black-to-brown fur, wincing at the stinging burns he can just barely see under the street lighting. Bending down to dip his hand into his shadows, he pulls out his Hellphone from the small pocket space to tap over to his contact list, squinting at the screen as he selects the only person he believes would not hold this situation against him, jabbing his thumb on the green call symbol.
It rings, and rings, and rings, and… rings out? Huh, so that’s how it is going to be is it?
He tries again, and again, and again! Frustration growing and bubbling each time the recipient fails to answer his call. ‘He’s probably building something.’ Maybe, possibly, but it could also be the case that he simply doesn't have his phone nearby at the moment.
As much as he and Pentious have bonded over their shared disdain for modern technological advancements, the conveniences that Hellphones are designed to provide are working against him in his time of need. Karma’s come out to play, the Spirits hold no pity for his plight, and it’s leaving him in the dirt. He needs to have a long talk with that damn Snake Demon and remind him he owns a phone for a practical reason (Alastor’s been forced to use one, and he’ll drag Pentious down with him kicking and screaming if he has to!)
A green vignette is creeping into the corners of his vision, static simmering in the air around him and pulling at his thoughts. It’s been a while since he’s been this out of control of his own abilities, he’s certain his eyes must surely resemble radio dials at the moment as he glares at his phone screen; at the small icon of Pentious grinning to camera with fingers held in a peace sign (there is no peace, not when Alastor gets his hands on that forgetful sack of Snake meat!)
He’s made aware of a unique aura signal tugging on his senses through the airwaves, approaching from… somewhere. He won’t remain sitting here alone for long it would seem, and so, with a deep breath and a reminder that he can skin that slippery inventor another day, he shoves his phone back into the pocket space his void shadows provide, straightening his ears in a bid to look the slightest bit less pathetic.
His hair is curling in the rain, and he fists it in two large clumps as though his hands would be enough to hide it. His curls are private, a hallmark of his heritage he was forced to flatten in life, continuing to do so in death because his natural hair texture is something entirely his. Something that can’t be taken from him like so much else has, an illusion of control he despises the weather for breaking on today of all days.
The strange signal is closer now, too close. Pushing to his feet, he backs up to rest his back against the wall of the building behind him; not that it keeps him any dryer. The soggy bricks only add a cocktail of dirt to the back of his waterlogged shirt, cold and veering on the wrong side of unbearable.
It’s then that a limousine, of all things, drives around the corner and comes to a stop in front of him. The window winding down as a stranger sticks their head out, a single pink eye narrows as they glare at him (ah yes, what wonderful manners his fellows down here have!)
“Ay you!” They (she? Best not to assume…) practically barks, thin grey face contorted in a spiteful scowl as though he is to blame for every misfortune this random person has ever suffered. Hmmm, perhaps he is, he has killed a lot of people… “You want to be a good person!” What a statement to make so confidently.
“Do I now?” He really doesn’t. Being good chafes like nobody’s business and he has no intention of reliving those horrible years of doing so again.
The stranger’s glare only strengthens. “Yes! You do! And you know why cabrón? It’s because being a good person is going to spare you from being fucking Exterminated!”
… Ah, a radical. He’ll take his chances with the muggers over this angry little moth, thank you very much. But before he can say so, another head pops up from within the limousine, and he freezes at the sight of the unpleasant moth’s travelling companion.
“Vaggie, we’ve talked about this, no one’s going to want to stay at the hotel if you order them to like a commander! you have to ask politely, okay? Let’s give it another try.”
That’s Lucifer’s daughter? He would recognise her anywhere. The blonde hair, the red cheek spots, the large doll-like eyes… she looks downright identical to her portraits (disregarding her outfit of course) and he… has no idea what to feel about that.
This is Charlotte Morningstar, the daughter who’s been very thorough in cutting her Father out of her life and, sure, it’s not his business. It isn’t!
The bitchy moth (Vaggie? What an unfortunate name) takes a deep breath, pressing their hands together in a mockery of a prayer before turning to him with the most strained smile he’s ever seen; and that’s up against quite the smorgasbord of competition.
“Excuse me Sssir, my name is Vaggie and I’m a… a Fallen Exorcist. And I am dedicating my new life down here to the redemption and rehabilitation of Sinners to prove that Exterminations are completely fucking pointless! My partner and I are opening the Happy Hotel and you, buen señor, are being offered an opportunity to be our very first resident. What do you say?”
“Haha, that was quite painful for you wasn’t it?” He remarks as his aura emanates a laugh track, his smile stretching as Vaggie’s forced smile drops like a sack of bricks. How entertaining! “As much as I would love to involve myself in this fruitless endeavour of yours, I’m afraid I’m as poor as a church mouse. I do wish you luck drawing in other poor suckers, though!” He waves with more cheer than he feels as he turns to stride off. He doesn’t know where he’s going just yet, but anywhere that’s away from Lucifer’s absentee offspring and the literal Exorcist would probably be a good start.
“Wait!” And he does, if only because the daughter sounds all too similar to the father, and he turns to squint at little Miss Charlotte through the rain. “The Happy Hotel is free room and board for all residents, as long as you put forward an honest effort into redeeming yourself. Pay with your time, not your money! Um… does that sound good?”
Seriously? All he has to do is pretend he’s working towards self improvements and they’ll allow him to live in their hotel for free? And all he has to do is put up with the presence of an Exorcist and the spitting image of someone he misses used to work for? That seems far too good to be true.
(But Alastor’s not above agreeing to those terms…)
Welp, it’s not like it’s the first performance he’s ever put on for the sake of getting what he needs, he would make for a terrible showman, a terrible Radio Host, if he couldn’t walk the walk when required. He belongs down here, that’s never going to change (and he doesn’t want it to), but he can sure as shit act like he doesn’t if that’s what these ladies need from him in exchange for a sturdy roof over his head.
(At least, he’s reasonably sure Vaggie is a lady. You wouldn’t be named something like that if not, right?)
“Hmmm, fair enough.” He taps his chin and shrugs, enjoying the delighted shock that spreads over Vaggie and Charlie’s faces as his words register; as though they didn’t expect their clumsy sale’s pitch to work. And it probably wouldn’t have, were it not today and he not this desperate to get out of the damned rain! “How could I possibly say no to a deal like that?” He rhetorics as he strides towards the clearly-expensive vehicle.
They immediately retreat inside and open the door for him, allowing him to barely-refrain from scrambling onto the plush leather seats across from them. He pulls on his seatbelt and, tucking his knees against his chest (careless of his mucky shoes digging into the seat), he plonks his head against the window frame as the true extent of his acid burns hit him, now that they’re unstimulated from the rain. He stares blankly at the passing scenery, pointedly ignoring Vaggie’s bitching and Charlie’s placating as he just… breathes.
It’s fine, he’s fine, everything’s fucking fine!
As a decrepit building comes into view, a large neon sign proclaiming “Happy Hotel” a huge eyesore on the roof, he turns an unamused smile to the girls across from him who are looking back as though he’s a particularly fascinating zoo animal. He’s certainly chained like one.
The place looks serviceable, and he’s of the opinion that the Happy Hotel is a dreadful name for anything that exists here in Hell, sure, but he’s not about to make things easy for these two as he cocks a deadpan eyebrow and scans it with his eyes.
“Groovy, I hate it.”
(The Hazbin Hotel would work for a much better name…)
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