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One week ago, Alastor had left the Hazbin Hotel.
He hadn’t mentioned anything in specific—simply trusted Charlie not to burn down the place while he was away. Not that it particularly mattered, anyways; it was a building, and buildings could be rebuilt. Alastor just wanted a clean exit, and an innocent comment.
And nobody had asked any questions.
“Charlie, my dear, my girl.” He had smiled, tilting his head like he was telling a joke. “I’ll be away for just a week! I hope my absence will not bother any of you… I’m sure all will be kept in good measure!”
And that was that. Of course, Vaggie complained that “it’s not like he ever did anything anyways, despite being the host of the hotel.” Alastor announcing his absence was more of a show than it would be if he had just left in complete silence. Charlie, on the other hand, reprimanded this.
“He keeps us safe! Sure, he may be a bit… spooky, but Alastor is honestly someone we need.”
And that was all the Alastor-related discussion there was. Everyone went on the same, routines unchanging, banter unrelenting. Therapy, some failed redemption, and all that other yada-yada hope and friendship crap.
One week.
And then, the door swinging open, radio static immediately wafting in like a cold draft of noise and subtle electricity. There it was, that same unmistakable smile, the microphone staff, the aura of power that seemed to always surround the Radio Demon like a drug.
“Hello! I’m back!”
But something was… different?
“…Uhm, hello!” Charlie smiled politely, her eyebrows pulling in towards the centre of her face in a daze.
“Ah, you wouldn’t believe the state of the roads these days.” Alastor continued pleasantly, already stepping inside. “Time truly does unravel infrastructure.”
The door closed behind Alastor with a click of radio static. The microphone staff struck the floor once as it was set down, all eyes in the lobby now turning to face towards the (familiar? It was familiar, wasn’t it?) voice.
“Now then.” Alastor said easily. “Have I missed anything?”
There were a couple beats of silence in which nobody answered. Charlie’s smile seemed to falter slightly, an almost confused expression dawning upon her features. Vaggie, who sat beside her, didn’t take her eyes off of Alastor once. She simply blinked—but barely.
Angel squinted. “Huh.”
Husk drained the rest of his drink, ignoring Alastor’s presence entirely.
Alastor waited a beat, unbothered, gaze scanning the room.
“Excellent.”
Alastor’s skirt swept haphazardly against the floor, the subtle click of heels (and Alastor’s musically soft hum) the only sound that could be heard throughout the lobby. Alastor walked towards the bar, taking a seat beside Angel and raising a hand to beckon Husk quickly.
“Whiskey.”
Husk poured the drink and handed it to Alastor, a slight gruff to his voice as he spoke. “So you can just go off and take a vacation for a week, but I can’t?”
“Mm.” Alastor thought for a moment, voice high while she wrapped a hand around the glass and made the liquor twirl a little. “No.”
Angel shot Husk a look; are we really not gonna talk about this?
Husk rolled his eyes, ignoring Angel’s voiceless question, and started wiping down the counter with a rag.
Guess not.
Angel sighed, turning back to Alastor and leaned an elbow against the bar like he was making casual conversation. “So. Big week?”
Alastor glanced at him, eyebrows raising. “Quite productive.”
“Uh-huh.”
…
Angel was silent for a moment, eyeing Alastor up and down. There was a slight smile on his face as he spoke. “Well, good for you, babe. You look killer.”
“Naturally.” Alastor responded, raising a hand to run a couple fingers through her shoulder-length curls.
Meanwhile, Charlie had edged quite a bit closer, trying to reconcile the voice (which was now quite a bit higher pitched than what she was used to, for, well… Alastor), the presence, the energy, with what she thought she knew.
“Sooo!” Charlie took a seat on the other side of Alastor, her posture uncomfortably pleasant. “Alastor! Is that what I should call you? …You look, uhm, good?”
Alastor didn’t even blink. “Why, thank you, my dear! Alastor is my name, I would think!”
“Is this supposed to be a funny trick or something?”
“Vaggie!” Charlie hissed, disappointment leaking through her words.
“What?” Vaggie placed her hands on her hips, apparently having followed close behind the other girl. “Alastor left for a week and came back a woman and nobody wants to mention it?!”
“Now, is that any way to talk to a lady, Vaggie?” Alastor hummed, taking a quiet sip of the whiskey. “I thought you knew better than that.”
Husk snorted. “Drink your whiskey. That shit ain’t cheap.”
Alastor smiled and did exactly that.
—
Vox was enjoying his evening. He had just thrown his assistant (well, ex-assistant, now) into shock.wav’s tank and watched as the big shark-puppy-thing ate it like a treat.
And suddenly, a notification from his phone. It was Angel Dust—of course, his borrowed spy. He had kept Angel around to use as surveillance on Charlie’s Hazbin Hotel; making sure that at least once a day, Angel texted him with updates on what had been going on. And to nobody’s surprise, most of Vox’s questions pertained to Alastor.
A photo. Vox clicked on it, expecting leverage.
He did not get leverage.
…
“…What.”
Vox started typing. Deleting. Typing again.
—
vox: what is this?
angel dust: its alastor
angel dust: back from the week off
vox: thats not funny
vox: what filter is this
angel dust: no filter
angel dust: just alastor serving CUNT 💅
—
Vox stared at the screen for a moment longer than he should have.
He zoomed in. Zoomed out. Zoomed in again.
The smile was the same. The posture, the staff, the audacity. The slight glitch that tore across a section of the screen, creating a noticeable outline where Alastor took up part of the photo.
It was Alastor. Definitely.
Vox’s expression changed subtly as his body went still. Slowly, he began typing again.
—
vox: send another
—
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
Then another photo came through.
A different angle this time; Alastor seated at the bar, legs crossed, heels visible beneath the counter. Angel’s hand half in frame, like proof-of-life.
Vox felt something sharp crawl up the inside of his head.
“…What????”
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, screen glowing against his face.
His phone buzzed.
—
angel dust: she ordered whiskey btw
angel dust: didnt even say anything about it
angel dust: like she’s always been like this
—
Vox laughed.
It was short. Flat. Unpleasant. Confused.
“Oh, fuck.” He murmured to himself. “He’s doing it on purpose.”
He hovered a finger over the screen of his phone, tapping on another contact.
—
vox: how fast can you verify an image is unedited
vox: and before you ask no this is not a joke
velvette: im busy, vox.
vox: pls help 😢
—
As far as the Vees were concerned (because of course Vox had to get everyone involved—he had to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating this!), the images were real—but actual surveillance footage of Alastor was nigh. The Radio Demon was good at staying off camera; a little too good for Vox’s liking. It made monitoring rather difficult, if not for Angel Dust’s helpful (and unknowingly extracted) output.
And so, Vox didn’t bother warning anyone that he was coming.
He didn’t even bother making a grand entrance. Simply pushed open the doors, and stepped inside without a second thought.
“Charlie Morningstar’s Hazbin Hotel. Did everyone miss me?” Vox chimed, throwing his arms out in an exaggerated stance.
Okay, maybe a little grand.
And before anyone could respond: “Where’s Alastor?”
Alastor did not turn around immediately.
She was still seated at the bar, another whiskey glass in hand, elbow resting casually against the counter. Radio static purred beneath the room’s noise, gentle and composed like a subtle ambience.
“Uh, Vox, hello!” Charlie yelped.
Vaggie groaned, slapping a hand against her face. “I have no time for this. I don’t even want to know why you’re here.”
It wasn’t until Vox cleared his throat—a loud, almost shrill and unpleasant noise—that Alastor bothered to glance over her shoulder.
“…Vox.” Alastor smiled, eyebrows furrowing. “What a pleasant surprise, old pal.”
Vox felt like someone had rewired his brain. Like there were wires running through it, but they had all been fucked up and rearranged without permission.
It was the same smile, same eyes, same voice (albeit a bit higher pitched); but it was unmistakably Alastor. The skirt. The hair. The way Alastor held herself like nothing had changed.
Vox’s grin twitched.
“Wo-ow.” His word dragged on, a slight bite to his laugh. “A whole fucking rebrand, Al! What is this? You…” He waved a hand, gesturing to Alastor’s silhouette. “Trying something new?”
Alastor had stood up by this point, walking over to Vox with deliberate casualness. She regarded him with a sense of mild inconvenience, like he was nothing more than a commercial break on TV.
“Mmm. I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Not sure—” Vox’s eyes narrowed, voice raising. “What do you mean, not sure?! You’re playing dress up or something!”
“I don’t see a problem with a lady playing a bit of dress-up, do you, Vox? I always knew you were a bit developmentally delayed when it came to treating women with respect…”
“What.”
Alastor hummed, turning on her heel as she began to face away from Vox. “Well, you did always struggle with object permanence… but I do think now is about time you scurry along. You’ve begun to overstay your welcome.”
Vox tightened his fist. “I’ve been here like two minutes! I—”
“Run along, now!”
Vox let out a gasp as Alastor shoved him out of the building with rapid pace, long black tentacles having wrapped around his arms and legs, running out through the front door. Vox was dropped on the sidewalk out front; staring with mouth agape in shock as he filtered through what had just happened in his mind.
Alastor was a WOMAN now.
And, to be quite frank, he didn’t hate it.