Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Oh, shit!” 

“Is that the Radio Demon?!”

“Run!”

Alastor hummed happily, watching as sinners scattered like mice simply because they had seen him. He twirled his staff in his hands, eyes half lidded as he walked. He doubted he’d ever get tired of the way people acted like simply seeing him was a death sentence. It was such a stark contrast to how he was seen when he was alive, and it certainly a good change.

It was a bit of a pity though, as he had been hoping to gather a few more Overlords for his portfolio. He hadn’t killed an Overlord in quite a while, and his latest target had been smart enough to hide whenever he came around. Oh well, it wasn’t as if he minded the terror. The screams complimented the Louis Armstrong he had playing from his staff wonderfully, and were music to his ears.

In the twenty years Alastor had been down here, he had formed quite the reputation as a complete monster. It was hard not to. After all, he was a cannibalistic serial killer who arrived with more power than anyone had ever seen. He had slaughtered countless Overlords, adding their screams to his staff. Century old Overlords had fallen to his power, as had many a sinner. He was the kind of person parents warned their children about. The kind of person whispered about when the lights went out.

It was wonderful.

Not only that, but he had chained hundreds of thousands of Souls to his own, including the Souls of many different Overlords. Why, just the other day he had chained the now former Overlord of Sweets to him! They were an odd fellow, one who preferred poison to actual fighting, and had quailed at the sight of Alastor the moment he had approached them. The chocolate-coated dog sinner had been on their knees immediately, begging him to spare their pitiful excuse of a life. They had offered their Soul before Alastor had asked, asking only for him to allow them to continue their baking business and allow them to continue to live. 

He had gained a nice, five-thousand Souls from that encounter. Nothing compared to the contracts he had quite literally torn from some of the bigger Overlords when he added their screams to his broadcast (the largest of his payouts being the hundred thousand he got when he defeated the Overlord of Music), but enough to be satisfied with the encounter. 

Unfortunately, as much as he loved the screams, he did find himself dreadfully bored. He had spent far too much time in the streets slaughtering others recently, and while his bloodlust was never fully satiated, he found himself wanting to change up his routine just a bit. Hence why he had wanted to go after the Overlord of Poisons. But, with the screaming, that was out of the question. Perhaps he would-

Something buzzed against Alastor’s skin. Something foreign, yet incredibly familiar. A radio frequency, and not one that came from one of his own radio stations. It was far too faint for that. In fact, it felt far more like his own internal frequency than one of the radio stations. Like his own powers. That realization made his music he was playing glitch, if just for a moment. 

Someone nearby could control radio waves. Someone nearby had powers that, in part, resembled his own radio-based powers. “Fascinating…” he muttered. With a twirl of his staff, he turned the music off. Seems like he was going to cure his boredom after all. Someone was trying to encroach on his medium. What a foolish decision!

Why, if it wasn’t his medium they were trying to take over, he may have applauded them for their gall! In this day and age, Overlord challenges were rare. Almost nonexistent really.  Ever since Alastor had begun hunting his fellow (if one could call them that when he was so much stronger than they were) Overlords down one by one. Honestly, according to Rosie, even before his arrival, it had been rare. The Weapons Demon and her husband had put a stop to that when they had achieved power, making many sign deals in order to prevent the constant upheaval of power. 

Too bad Alastor had fallen after Carmilla and her husband had made people sign treaties. 

Ears forwards, he tuned himself to the frequency, eager to find this upstart. It was weak, enough so that it made him pause. Now that he focused on it, it seemed too weak to be an Overlord. Freshly-fallen sinner perhaps? His nose twitched. 

Yes. The scent of sunshine and life was faint, but there. Someone had fallen with similar powers to him. Fascinating. Were they also a radio presenter? He was curious how his craft had progressed since he had died. 

Following both his nose (and his signal), Alastor passed a few others who had clearly scented the newcomer. Not surprising, considering how common it was for people to try to gain overlord status by trying to use the confusion and panic of newborn sinners to their advantage. It was a rather boorish way of gathering Souls, he had to admit. Certainly, one he didn’t particularly enjoy partaking in.

Even if he did end up deciding he would try to gain a newborn’s Soul, he would at least play the long con. After all, what fun was there in intimidating someone who just fell? It was much more enjoyable to spend the time manipulating them so that he could crush their spirits as thoroughly as possible! 

As the Radio Demon continued to walk, he noticed that the other sinners scattered upon seeing him, deciding that they wanted no part in whatever was to come next. Good. Alastor wasn’t particularly fond of sharing, and it would be dreadfully rude to appear with bloodstained clothes. 

Eventually, his nose- and signal- led him to turn a corner into an alleyway. Walking forwards, he passed a trashcan and was met with an… interesting sight to say the least. It was of a man, with navy skin and a navy suit with sparking iron-gray accents and a gray vest. The clothes were torn and far too small for his body, as was usual for freshly fallen sinners, and appeared to be smoking at the edges. Perhaps he had died in a fire? As he bent down, he could feel the static charge in the air increase.

Ah. Electrocution then. If it weren’t for his clothes, the Radio Demon would have assumed that this was a criminal, sentenced to death by electric chair. But the clothes were far too nice. It was clear he had died presenting, though what he was presenting was a question. He seemed too well dressed to be a radio host. 

The torn edges of his clothes that sat along his ribs seemed to flutter rhythmically as he breathed. Perhaps there were mouths there. He had seen many sinners with multiple mouths before, so it wasn’t out of the question. 

More interesting than the potential of multiple mouths, however, was what had replaced his head. It was an odd box, made out of different materials. Comparing it to a head, everything aside from the face itself was made of what appeared to be oak wood, while the face was made out of an almost grayish, rounded glass. Two knobs sat on his face, one on the left side of what would be his chin, the other on the right side, both flanking a silver strip- a logo perhaps? Below the left knob sat a button. On his head sat a small, half-dome like shape with two antennae coming out of it one longer than the other. 

It looked familiar. Almost like one of those picture boxes that he’d seen someone trying to peddle as some new-fangled entertainment venue a decade or so ago. It almost reminded him of the nickelodeons of his time, yet on a much smaller scale. Though, the picture boxes he had seen had a much smaller viewing area than what this appeared to have. He hadn’t paid much attention, if he was honest. Radio was the proper medium to express oneself after all!

Besides, why should he bother with fads that would end up fading in the next couple years? He was the Radio Demon! He was above this!

Tapping it, Alastor hummed to himself. It normally took sinners a few moments to wake up after death, but he had expected the man to have awoken by now. Curious, and still a little bored, the Radio Demon spun his staff around and carefully pressed the end of it against the button on the other man’s face. 

That seemed to work, as he watched as the blank glass slowly lit up. A pair of black and white eyes and a mouth appeared on it. 

“Ugh… what…” 

Alastor watched, amused, as the newborn sinner’s eyes shot open. He jolted fully upright, his eyes growing wide with panic. Immediately, he began clawing at his head, the fluttering of his clothes getting more intense. 

“Get it off, get it off, get it off,” he muttered, large, iron-gray claws scraping at his neck, cutting into his skin. Dark blue blood ran down his neck as the smell of it filled the air, the scent of ozone and something sweet mixing with the iron tang of blood. Interesting… 

“I do not believe that that will come off, my good fellow!” Alastor chirped, causing the new sinner to jolt once again. Black and white eyes snapped to him, as a spark ran through his antennae. 

A delightful, warbling cry tore itself from the other man’s throat as he scrambled back, head slamming painfully against the stone and causing the scream to cut off abruptly. His whole face shifted and seemed to distort, if only for a moment. The man stared up at him, terrified. 

“What the- what are…” The man paused, forcing a breath. Then another. He was clearly calming himself down, and the way he did it seemed to indicate this was something he had done before. 

Alastor watched, curiously, as emotions seemed to flicker across the man’s face. Confusion, fear, horror, and then… a dawning understanding. It was a flurry of emotions Alastor had seen before, on the few newborn sinners he had seen awaken for the first time. If he was a betting man, he would wager that this odd man just had his last few moments play out for him again. 

“Um, where exactly am I?” The man asked, though there was a curious look in his eye, as if he had an idea of where he might be. Even more curious, there didn’t seem to be a single ounce of disbelief or hope on his face. As if he had known when he was alive that he would end up down here. 

“Why, you’re in Hell, my good man!” Alastor chirped, twirling his microphone for effect. “Now, I know, that must come as a shock to you, but-“

“Not really,” The newborn said, rudely cutting Alastor off. Had anyone else done that, he would’ve taken their hand as a snack, but the lack of concern or even confusion was certainly enough to cause him to allow the little… issue to slide by. It was sadly a rarity that people accepted their sins. Most of the time, they held onto the sentiment that they were good people who simply made a mistake up until they gave into the fact that laws didn’t exist in Hell.

Alastor truly didn’t get it. After all, silly things like morality didn’t exist down here, so why did some people cling to the erroneous assumption that they didn’t belong here? This was Hell. No one was judged by whether or not they sinned- they were judged by how strong they were. An Overlord was an Overlord no matter if they were a murderer or a common thief as a living.

“Well! That does make things a bit easier,” he said. “Tell me, what is your name? I’m sure you are known as something other than a picture box!” He exclaimed with a laugh, ears forward. He gently tapped the man on the head with his microphone, which earned a satisfying “thunk”. It stood to reason that this new sinner’s ease at accepting his position was a side effect of being incredibly sinful. And if he could get his name…

“Uh, Vincent,” Vincent said, causing Alastor’s grin to widen. Oh, how he adored the naïveté of newborns. They had yet to learn that trust did not exist down here. 

“Just Vincent?” Alastor asked. Vincent was a common enough first name. He needed more. Vincent looked at him, frown on his face. Without a word, he pushed himself to his feet, stumbling slightly, his head clearly far heavier than he was used to. 

“Forgive me, my good man,” Vincent started once he was completely upright. “But considering where we are, I believe a simple first name may be sufficient for now,” he explained, the smile on his face both perfectly polite and full of distrust. 

“Though, I must ask that you forgive me, as I seem to have missed your name,” he said, reaching a hand out. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr….”

Interesting. He was far smarter than he appeared. “Hm. Seems like that box head isn’t all that indicative of your intelligence!” Alastor said with a grin. Reaching out his hand, he clasped it to Vincent’s hand. “Alastor! Pleasure to be meeting you, quite a pleasure!” He said. 

“A quick word of advice, don’t use your first name down here. If anyone you have wronged ended up down here, well. The man who came up with the idea can attest that you won’t be treated well!” He said. Vincent raised an eyebrow. Or whatever the moving picture equivalent was. 

“I assume that fact simply slipped your mind until after you asked my name?” Vincent asked, tone still perfectly polite. Alastor grinned. 

“Perhaps,” he said cryptically. “Or, perhaps, I simply wanted more information about you,” he said with a laugh. Vincent’s eyes seemed to flash as he grit his teeth. 

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you allowed me my privacy when it comes to personal information. Knowledge is power, and I’d rather keep the power you have over me to a minimum,” he said. His tone was tighter this time, but Alastor didn’t care. This man was already proving to be interesting. 

“Hm. Rare is it for someone to come down here with some level of self-preservation.” Alastor tilted his head. “So! What would you like to be called instead, Picture Box?”

Vincent tilted his head slightly, folding his arms across his chest as he tapped his claws on his arm. For once, Alastor was quiet. He may not have changed his name, but he was aware it was a pretty monumental occasion, and he was feeling generous enough to allow this odd fellow time to think. Why, if he didn’t, this man might choose a dreadfully stupid name, like Shockwave or Vark!

So, he didn’t speak. Just turned on some quiet Jelly Roll Morton. Vincent blinked. “That’s old jazz,” he commented, turning his full attention to Alastor. “Haven’t heard that style for decades. Louisiana jazz, right?” He said. For the first time during this whole interaction, Alastor’s grin lost its dangerous edge. 

“Good ear!” He said, actually meaning it for once. “Jelly Roll Morton! The father of New Orleans jazz,” he explained. “Quite the up and coming artist in my day,” he said. Vincent nodded, tapping his claws against his arm again. 

“Is it possible to come up with a name later?” He asked. 

“Pardon?” Alastor asked, looking at Vincent. 

“Is it possible to wait to come up with a name?” Vincent asked. “I’d rather give this a bit more thought.” Alastor hummed. 

“Why, of course it is!” He said. Vincent nodded. 

“Alright. Until then… just uh, call me “V” if you need to say my name,” he said. Alastor nodded. 

“V it is!” He said, looking at Vincent. “Now, pardon the question, but were you a radio host in life, by chance?”

“You got the “host” part correct, but I was a TV talk show host. Why, are you a radio host?” He asked, gaze sliding to Alastor’s microphone. “Your voice does seem to have that familiar fuzzy edge to it that the radios of my childhood had.” 

“I am indeed, some in fact, call me the Radio Demon!” Alastor said, pushing just a bit of power out in order to turn his eyes to radio dials. Vincent let out a quiet, surprised hiss, rearing his head back (and then stumbling). 

“What- what was that?” He asked, holding his head. His antennae was sparking. “That buzzing what- it’s still there?“ Alastor hummed. 

“Those, Picture Box, are radio waves!” He said. “Though I do wonder why you can sense them. Does that have to do with this “TV” you spoke of? You do seem to have a rather odd moving picture box in place of a head.” 

Vincent stared at him for a moment, confusion in his gaze. “Do you happen to have a mirror?” He asked. Intrigued, Alastor snapped his fingers, a full-length mirror appearing in front of Vincent. Vincent’s eyes widened, hand coming up to his head as he looked at his reflection. 

“I… my head… what…” He trailed off, an expression of disbelief on his face. Again, Alastor was quiet. 

Hm. He really was bored if he was allowing this interesting person to have a moment to come to terms with his new look. Ah well. If Vincent took too long he could always eat him. 

Actually, would Vincent taste good? The box on his head certainly looked unappetizing, and his claws seemed almost metallic. Was he machine in nature? Or organic? A mix? If there was a mix, what would it taste like? Metal itself didn’t taste particularly good. He’d tried it before, as the Overlord of Steam had been more metal than organic, and she had ended up a bit too crunchy for his tastes. But his skin seemed to be organic. Maybe, if he was hungry, he could just chop off the head? 

Vincent was certainly one of the oddest-looking sinners he had seen, if not the oddest. He still wasn’t entirely certain if that bulky head of his was in fact one of those picture boxes he had seen, or if those “TV”s were the correct name of those picture boxes, but he was definitely growing more confident in his assessment. 

He watched, curiously, as Vincent put his hand against his face, fingers slipping into what Alastor had assumed was glass, only to be yanked out immediately as Vincent shuddered. There was a panicked look in his eyes, one that faded quickly. 

“I… my head’s a TV,” Vincent said eventually. 

“Ah, so that is another name for picture boxes!” Alastor exclaimed, gently poking his staff at Vincent’s head. Vincent, still mostly preoccupied with looking at himself, simply swatted it away. 

“Uh, yeah,” He glanced at Alastor. “Do you… not know what this is?” He asked. “You sound like you’re from the states… wait, how long have you been down here?” He asked. 

“Over twenty years,” Alastor responded simply, once again allowing the transgression to pass by him without much care. Newborns didn’t know the new rule set, after all!

“From the thirties? That makes sense,” Vincent replied. “Uh, yeah, this is a TV. They’re like radios but project pictures,” he explained.

“Fascinating!” Alastor said as Vincent let his hands drop. “Hmm. I’ll tell you what, I find myself quite bored, so! Would you care to accompany me for lunch?” He asked. “There’s a lovely little diner nearby, and I find myself rather intrigued by your appearance,” he said. Vincent tore his gaze from the mirror. Patting his pockets, he winced. 

“I appreciate the offer, but it seems my money did not come with me,” he said. Alastor waved his hand. 

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll cover it! After all, you are essentially as helpless as a newborn child!” He said. Then, he looked Vincent up and down. “But first…” A snap off his claws, and Vincent’s ruined, living clothes were replaced by a simple, charcoal gray suit with a navy tie and a silvery chain. The same kind he had seen many men wear during his life time. 

Vincent shuddered. “Uh, thank you. If you’re sure, then I will be happy to accept your offer,” he said, slipping into a more professional manner. 

“Excellent!” Alastor said, spinning his staff. “Then let us depart,” he said. Vincent just nodded, keeping his mouth shut. His gait started unstable, clearly unused both to his height and the weight of his head. It quickly solidified, however, and by the time they exited the alley, he had begun to walk normally. 

“Do you know why Hell is black and white?” Vincent asked out of curiosity once they were out of the alley. Alastor’s ears perked in interest. He knew himself to be colorblind, mostly unable to see reds and oranges, but he had never met anyone unable to perceive color at all. 

“You see everything as black and white? Fascinating!” He commented. “I have heard of sinners being able to only see in monochrome, but never stumbled across one myself!” He said. 

“… I guess this is supposed to be punishment,” Vincent said, sounding genuinely upset. 

“Ah, cheer up, you picture box, there’s not much to see other than gray, dark yellow, and even more gray!” Alastor said. “Not many-“

“RADIO DEMON!” 

A screech echoed through the air, the sound causing Alastor to simply twitch an ear, but next to him, Vincent jolted, clearly not expecting the noise. The action caused him to stumble, and Alastor got the feeling that he’d see that happen quite a few times more  before he grew bored of the man. 

More screams as people took one look at Alastor and bolted, with one stopping to give Vincent a pitying look before diving into a trash can. Alastor’s grin turned sharper. 

“Apologies! I have gained quite the reputation down here,” he commented, gaze sliding to Vincent, who was now looking at him warily. 

“Right…” he said, falling silent for a moment. “Forgive my curiosity, but can your staff play any music?” He asked curiously after a moment. The lack of fear in his voice was curious, and honestly? Alastor found himself already enjoying the fact that he had stopped. Vincent was a fascinating man, that was for sure. 

“It can play any song I’ve heard, though I rarely play anything past the twenties. The best decade, as I always say!” Alastor said. “Jazz and swing music are much better than the stuff they put out today,” he said.

“Is that so?” Vincent asked, stance still tense but more open than it was. “I’ll have to see if I can find some Frank Sinatra on a jukebox then when I managed to get some coins,” he commented. Alastor hummed, curious. 

“What is a “jukebox”?” He asked. Vincent blinked before shaking his head slightly (and then stumbling). 

“Right, that will take some getting used to,” he said. “Nickel-in-the-slot machines? That’s what they were called when I was a kid anyways,” he explained. 

“Ah! Yes, I do remember those. There was one at the speakeasy I would go to on occasion,” Alastor said, smile softening as he remembered the many fond memories he had of going there with Mimzy. “Though I must say, I did play piano, so I did not use them particularly often.” 

“Speak… I fear it may take me a while to wrap my head around the time difference,” Vincent admitted. “Speakeasies don’t exist anymore,” he explained. “They repealed the eighteenth amendment in ‘thirty-three,” he said. 

“Really? I was starting to wonder if they would ever do it! It was no secret that most cities had speakeasies,” he said as he turned down a street, eyes locking on an, admittedly rather gaudy neon sign that read “Constance’s Diner”. The sign had changed recently, to match the times the owner had said, but he still knew it to be rather good food. He did own the Souls of many who worked there, after all. 

“Holy crap!” Vincent yelled, the sudden shout causing Alastor’s head to snap around unnaturally. He was staring at something, the blatant horror on his face enough to quell Alastor’s annoyance over the sudden noise and the curse. He followed his horrified gaze and-

“Ah.” Alastor paused, resting his microphone in front of him as he watched a pair of sinners… roughing each other up, to put it lightly. “Yes, unfortunately that does happen,” he said, guiding Vincent forwards. 

“But… I don’t…” Vincent sputtered, eyes wide. Alastor patted his arm. 

“You will get used to it. Nearly every law you can think of no longer exists down here,” he explained. “Why, by the time the day is out, you’re likely to see multiple murders!” He said with a laugh. Vincent continued to sputter as Alastor led him away. 

“But… that was in broad daylight?” He said, clearly baffled, though not horrified which, again, was fascinating.

“Mm, as I said, most taboos don’t exist down here,” Alastor said. “I don’t think I’ve gone a single day without seeing someone do something that is considered illegal in the living world,” he explained. Of course, about ninety percent of the time that somebody was him and his murderous, cannibalistic tendencies, but he usually saw at least one or two taboos being broken by someone else on a daily basis. Vincent nodded slowly, as if he was thinking about something before his eyes widened a fraction and he minutely shook his head. 

“Right, sorry it’s… odd,” he said, plastering on a grin and oh. Well, well, well, wasn’t that interesting. He, too, knew a smile was the best way to keep people guessing. 

What he was thinking, Alastor couldn’t begin to guess, but already, he found himself growing more and more interested in this man. Perhaps this would go on for longer than a few hours. It could be fun, watching him eventually anger the wrong person and get torn apart. Maybe even someone who had the power to essentially end his life. 

“No worries! It is quite a shock to the system, hm?” Alastor said, gently guiding Vincent into the diner. He was met by the mismatched jet-black and gray gaze of the black and yellow swan sinner who manned the host stand. Her eyes lit up with a sort of nervous excitement, a multitude of sharp-toothed smiles appearing in multiple places on her body. 

“Mr. Alastor, welcome! Would ya like your normal table?” She asked, each mouth moving in tandem. Next to him, Vincent seemed to stiffen a tad, but a quick glance showed his smile had never faded. 

“Yes, my dear, and get me two menus, please!” Alastor responded. “My friend here would like the, ahem, blander menu,” he said. The hostess looked between Alastor and Vincent for a moment, seemingly confused before her nostrils flared and understanding visibly dawned on her. 

“Ah, he’s new-new, ain’t he?” She said. “Gotcha. Right this way, fellas!” She said. Grabbing two menus, she led the pair to Alastor’s favorite booth, the one in the very back. 

“Thank you, Cygnus,” Alastor said, sitting down. 

“You’re welcome, Mr. Alastor,” Cygnus said, dipping her head. “I’ll get your coffee started right away. What would you like to drink, sugar?” She asked, turning her gaze to Vincent. 

“Just a coffee, thank you,” he said, sounding perfectly polite despite the fact that Cygnus’ appearance was certainly rather frightening. Once she departed, Vincent turned to look at Alastor. “I assume you come here often?” He asked. Alastor nodded.

“You assume correctly, my good man!” He said. “Now, I’m feeling quite magnanimous today, so I’ve decided I will allow you to ask whatever questions you deem appropriate!” His ears tilted forwards as he schooled his grin into something more inviting. Vincent looked at him warily. 

“What do you want in return?” He asked. 

Alastor’s grin grew almost genuine as he tilted his head. Giving his living first name had clearly been a result of not knowing how the game worked down here, if he was picking up on things this fast. Still, the Radio Demon was nothing if not a showman. “Pardon?” He asked, as if he didn’t know exactly what Vincent was thinking. 

Vincent’s eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly. “This is Hell,” he pointed out. “I highly doubt anything comes for free down here. You are already treating me to lunch, and likely expecting something from that, so any information on top of that is likely to come at a cost,” he explained. “Furthermore, I ended up here for a reason. I am well aware of how cutthroat things are.” Oh. Oh, Alastor liked him.

“Well, it seems you may survive down here just yet!” Alastor said, giving a quick “thank you” to Cygnus as she dropped the coffee off. He dismissed her with a flick of a claw. “I do not want anything from you for lunch. You are already giving me what I want- entertainment,” he said, daintily picking up a single sugar cube in his claws before dropping it into his drink. Politely, he offered the bowl to Vincent, who shook his head. 

“No thank you,” he said. “And for the questions? What do you want in return?” He asked. Alastor chuckled. 

“Why, all I ask is you continue to entertain me!”

Vincent was quiet, black and white gaze calculating. It sent a thrill down Alastor’s spine, the way he was clearly examining him. It was as if he was assessing his threat level. “Alright. I’ll bite.”

“Splendid!” Alastor said, lifting his drink up to blow on it. Automatically, Vincent reached forwards, and Alastor watched his claws bump against the mug, causing him to frown in confusion. Alastor let out a quiet hum as he tapped the table. 

Without a word, he flicked his gaze down to his hand, turning his cup so that he could show Vincent the slow, deliberate way he slipped his claws through the handle before wrapping them around it. 

Vincent, copying what he was shown, nodded when he managed to grasp his drink. Quietly, he nodded his thanks, lifting his cup to blow on it as well, only for nothing to happen. “What..?” Vincent muttered, confused. He blew on it again, and once again, no air came out, but he did jolt, the action causing his coffee to slosh over onto his hand. 

A delicious yelp of pain filled the air as Vincent quickly put the cup down, jolting it again as he struggled to extract his claws from the cup. Very reminiscent of when Alastor was first learning to handle his own talons. Perhaps Rosie’s tittering laughter at the sight of Alastor throwing his teacup away by accident had been understandable after all.

The panicked moves caused more coffee to spill from the cup, the dark liquid running across the table and dripping onto the ground. A strip of dark coloring formed on Vincent’s face as he grabbed napkins from the dispenser and hastily shoved them against the spilt coffee. There was panic in his eyes, and Alastor simply sipped his coffee in amusement. 

It didn’t take long before Vincent’s claw brushed against the liquid, and the moment it did, three things happened. Vincent let out what could best be described as some mix of a squeak and a gasp, the light hanging above the pair flickered, and a blue spark traveled from Vincent’s claw to the liquid. 

Alastor watched closely as Vincent pulled his hand away like it had been burned, head tilting in interest. His nostrils flared as the faint scent of ozone that emanated from the newborn in front of him increased. 

“Wh-what was that?” Vincent asked, turning his hand over. The Radio Demon hummed as he took another drink of his coffee. 

“That, Picture Box, was power,” he said after allowing Vincent to squirm for a moment. “Your power. Now, forgive my rather forward question, but would I be correct in assuming that,” he paused to look around, noting that every patron in the diner was as far away from him as possible, “your death had to do with electricity?” 

Vincent shifted uncomfortably, eyes going wide as his hands fled up to his face. His chest heaved as he sucked in a breath, and his antennae sparked. His face turned fuzzy, and the faint sound of static filled the air as he shakily grabbed more napkins and worked on mopping up the rest of the coffee he had spilled. 

“I- uh, yes,” Vincent said as he slowly cleaned the spill, taking care not to touch the liquid. The moment he was done, a shaking hand reached for his coffee, and Alastor watched as he slowly inserted his hand yet again. He winced as the cup hit his mouth, but he managed to keep from jolting this time. 

“Good! Seems that I have yet to lose my touch!” He said with a small chuckle. “You see, Picture Box, our deaths and the circumstances around them tend to affect what we manifest as,” he explained. He gestured to Cygnus, who was now seating another sinner pair. “She did not look like that in life, and I can assume you did not look like that,” he said. “I certainly didn’t look like this when I was alive!” He let out a laugh as he took another drink of coffee. 

“While I will not ask the specifics of your death, as it would be quite uncouth of me to do so, the fact that you died in a way that involves electricity means you likely have a certain set of powers,” he explained. Picking up one of the soaked napkins, he allowed his eyes to turn dark. “No two sinners have manifested with the exact same set of powers to my knowledge. Each of us has something…” he trailed off, igniting the napkin with a burst of pale-yellow flame, “unique.”

Vincent blinked, staring at Alastor’s now empty hand for a moment before turning his gaze to his own. The Radio Demon watched, intrigued as his entertainment for the day snapped his fingers, a small spark lighting up before falling away.

Interest sparked in Alastor’s eyes as he watched the newborn try again, producing a slightly bigger spark. Then, he looked back to Alastor, a mix of awe and understanding etched onto that big, blocky face. “I can control electricity.” 

He had made a good choice, deciding to indulge this man for a bit, hadn’t he?

“It certainly seems like it!” Alastor said before snapping his fingers. The rest of the dirtied napkins on the table exploded into pale yellow flames, dissolving to ash in mere seconds. Vincent stared, eyes full of curiosity before his gaze turned to Alastor. 

“How did…” He trailed off, as Vincent tapped his claws against the table.

“I die?” Alastor finished, ear flicking in annoyance as his smile grew tighter. Cygnus, who had been walking up, likely to take their orders, let out a strangled gasp. “I will grant you clemency this time, but it is considered incredibly rude to ask how someone died,” he explained. 

“Oh, uh, I apologize,” Vincent said, that dark strip forming on his face again. “I didn’t realize it was taboo, I did not intend to offend,” he said. Alastor hummed softly. 

“Well, at least you have manners. Perhaps I don’t need to see if you are more flesh than machine,” he said, chuckling at Vincent’s wide-eyed expression. “Oh, relax, Picture Box. I jest. After all, why would I eat you when we are at a diner?” He asked, ears swiveling towards Cygnus. 

“Ms. Cygnus, dear, I believe I am ready to order,” he said, neck snapping towards her. Vincent let out a strangled gasp, but Alastor paid him no mind as he watched one of his contracted Souls walk closer. 

“Alright, what can I get y’all today?” Cygnus asked. “Ya want your usual, sir?”

“Hm. I was thinking of trying something a bit different,” Alastor said, glancing at the menu for a moment to remember the name of the dish he was looking to try. “I believe I’ll go with the chicken à la king today,” he said. Cygnus nodded, jotting it down on her little notebook. 

“Alright. Normal meat substitute? And do ya want it blue?” She asked. Alastor hummed. 

“As much as I’d like to get you to serve it raw, I will take it blue,” he said eventually. He turned his head towards Vincent. “And you? What will you be having?” He asked. 

“I’ll have the same, though, uh, cooked, please,” Vincent said, flashing a smile. Both Cygnus and Alastor paused. 

Ah. Right. Alastor hadn’t told him that little detail yet, had he? 

“Sugar, are ya sure? Mr. Alastor’s tastes are a bit… unorthodox,” the swan sinner said gently. Vincent scoffed. 

“Well, I’ve never heard of someone eating raw-“

“It’s sinner meat, Picture Box,” Alastor said. A hiss of static filled the air as a spark danced up Vincent’s antennae. 

“What?” Vincent asked, confused. Amusement bubbled in Alastor’s chest at the dumbfounded look the silly little Picture Box had on his face. 

“I’m a cannibal,” he explained as if the newborn sinner in front of him was merely a child- one he didn’t mind traumatizing. Vincent’s reaction however… it was interesting. There was disgust in his gaze, yes, but buried underneath it, there was a gleam of something. What it was, Alastor couldn’t tell. Curiosity perhaps? 

“Oh, god…” Vincent mumbled, though he didn’t seem as disgusted as he should be. “Um. Just, uh…” 

“Regular?” Cygnus asked, and Vincent nodded. “Sure thing, honey,” she said. Alastor grinned, passing his menu to her. Vincent did the same, though he looked a little ashen- which was actually an impressive feat considering his face was already gray. “I’ll have those out soon.”

Grabbing his coffee, Alastor took another sip. “Remember, what I said about taboos?” He asked. “Cannibalism isn’t seen as an issue down here,” he explained. “Some can’t stomach the thought of eating someone who had once been human, but I assure you, cannibals aren’t nearly as rare as you may think,” he said. Vincent stared at him a moment before slowly grabbing his coffee. 

“So, that joke about eating me…”

“Was a threat,” Alastor confirmed, widening his smile to show off his sharpened teeth. 

“I… alright then,” Vincent said, taking a drink. “Do places, um, label their meat as human and non-human?” He asked. Alastor dipped his head into a nod. 

“Most reputable places do, yes,” he said. “But down here the term is sinner and non-sinner,” he explained. Vincent nodded slowly, clearly absorbing everything. 

“Is… asking considered a faux pas down here?” He asked. “I’d rather not offend if I can help it, and I… clearly don’t know what the social norms down here are,” he said, picking his words carefully. 

“Ha!” Alastor said with a bark of laughter. “Social norms in Hell! Truthfully, there aren’t many. Manners, while important, are shamefully underutilized. However, there are a few- most revolving around things that are considered impolite to ask,” he explained. “Asking if something is sinner meat or not is not one of those. In fact, it’s rather common unless you are in Cannibal Town- then that question is liable to get you eaten,” he said, grin turning sharp. 

“Uh, noted,” Vincent said, a look in his eyes that told Alastor he likely wanted to ask more.

“There are a few… taboo questions to ask,” Alastor started, deciding to be… well, not nice, but certainly something like it. “All of which have to do with what is referred to as your “Living Time”,” he explained. “Asking for what someone looked like as a human is liable to get you hurt,” he said, a hint of danger in his tone. “Death is life’s great equalizer, and as such, asking about things like skin color is considered… impolite, to say the least. Many, many people down here relish in the way their skin color no longer affects other’s views on them,” he explained. 

“Second, is asking about why someone arrived in Hell,” he continued. “Of course, many people do not see much of an issue in sharing their crimes- many see it as a badge of pride!” He said. “Just be careful that you aren’t sharing your crimes with those you hurt until you’re sure you are strong enough to win any fight that may start!” He chuckled, tilting his head slightly. 

“I, for example, am quite proud of my accomplishments!” He said cheerfully. “They always made headlines when I was a living. I made quite a name for myself, I must say.” Vincent raised an eyebrow.

“Did you?” He asked. “Is it rude to guess?” He asked curiously. 

“Mm, normally, yes,” Alastor confirmed. “However, I always find myself… curious as to what others think I ended up down here for,” he said. “So, Picture Box, go ahead! See if you can guess why I arrived down here!” He said. 

Vincent looked him up and down, cyan claws tapping on the table. “Well, you mentioned cannibalism, so I must assume that has to do with it…” He frowned. “But your comment about making headlines means it was something a bit more public…” A calculating look entered his gaze, as if he was putting pieces of a puzzle together. “Forgive me if this is rude but, would I be correct in assuming you died around ‘thirty-two?” He asked. 

Alastor clicked his tongue. “Asking anything about someone’s death, date included, is considered rude,” he warned. Vincent opened his mouth, likely to apologize, but Alastor held up a finger. “However, I am admittedly curious as to why you think so, so I will allow you to continue,” he said. 

Vincent closed his mouth, a faint click sounding in the air, which was quite odd. How did a moving picture create a sound? Oh, how Alastor wanted to dissect the man. He wanted to see how his fellow host ticked. 

“Well, it comes from a few things,” he started. “When you played uh, Jelly Roll Morton earlier, you mentioned it being New Orleans jazz specifically. So, I can assume that you likely come from Louisiana- likely New Orleans,” he said, and Alastor nodded. “You died over twenty years ago and didn’t know prohibition ended, which means, at the latest, you must’ve died before ‘thirty-three.”

“Furthermore, you said you were a radio host- and clearly are associated with radio,” Vincent said. “It’s a guess, I’ll admit, but, since you said you were proud of why you arrived down here and that you made a name for yourself… it reminds me of a story I actually wrote about in the paper I worked at when I was much younger,” he said, and Alastor felt a thrill of excitement go down his spine. Vincent took a deep breath. 

“There was a string of connected disappearances in New Orleans in the mid to late twenties and early thirties that ended abruptly in ‘thirty-two. Believed to be perpetuated by the “New Orleans Radio Killer”. He-“

“Turned on a radio at the houses of those who vanished into the night,” Alastor finished. “Always the same station. Always the same volume.” Despite everything, Vincent’s smile grew. 

“So, it was you?” He asked. Alastor laughed. 

“Guilty as charged, my good man!” He said. “Though, perhaps not charged, ha!”

“Certainly not charged,” Vincent said with a chuckle of his own. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that the top suspect only died in ‘forty-one. You clearly were never a suspect,” he said. 

“Well, I was quite careful…” Alastor said. “How many “disappearances” were attributed to me?” He asked. Vincent tilted his head before jerking it back up as he overbalanced. 

“The final count was eight, I believe,” he admitted. “Though, many believed the number to be as high as ten,” he explained. Alastor hummed, almost disappointed. 

“It was twenty-four,” he said. “My first kills were in the ‘tens,” he explained. “Many disappearances at the time were caused by my blade,” he said. “The radio being turned on came a bit later.”

Vincent whistled. Again, it was odd to hear such a sound come from someone whose mouth didn’t seem to even be real, but Alastor didn’t comment. “Impressive,” he said. “No bodies ever found… you were efficient, Mr. Alastor,” he said, lifting his cup and tipping it forwards slightly as if he was toasting Alastor. 

“The bayou has a tendency to make unwanted things… vanish,” Alastor said, sadistic glee seeping into his smile. “You know, many would find your flattery over murders a bit odd, V,” he said, crossing his legs and leaning his chin on his hand. 

“I am an odd fellow,” Vincent said, flashing a smile. “Besides, I did find myself quite… enthralled with your kills.” Once again, Alastor found himself quite pleased with his decision to indulge this newborn sinner. He was certainly a fascinating individual. “What are the other taboo questions?” He asked. 

Alastor hummed. “Three and four are the date of death and cause of death respectively,” he said. “Though, the date of death is usually far less of an issue to ask about,” he explained. Vincent nodded, guilt flashing in his eyes or- no. That wasn’t guilt. Not real guilt, at least. Simply a facsimile of it.

‘He certainly gets more interesting by the moment!’ The Radio Demon thought. 

“Many people do not like thinking of their deaths, and asking tends to cause stress,” he explained. “It is the same with death dates, though you… you are likely to have people identify you as new for a while,” he said. “Newborn sinners smell of the living world,” he explained. Vincent nodded. 

“And the final rule?” 

Alastor’s grin widened. “Never ask for a Living Name,” he said. “Living Names are power. Blackmail material. If you know someone’s true name, you can spread it to others. Why, the whole tradition started because a man who killed far more than I could’ve ever hoped to kill arrived here and shared his name with someone who he had hurt!” He laughed. “They tore his Soul to pieces- so much so that he couldn’t begin to reform! A newborn sinner who saw it was terrified of the same fate befalling them and came up with a false name on the spot!”

“… you know, I must admit, that does make a rather surprising amount of sense,” Vincent acquiesced. “Though, reform? What is reforming?” He asked. 

“As sinners, we have already died once, and as this is our eternal punishment, well. Those who decide our fates are not keen to allow us to escape that easily,” Alastor explained. Grabbing his coffee, he took a drink before making a face. Cold. 

With a snap of his fingers, pale yellow flames appeared around his cup. He inclined his head towards Vincent. The picture box-headed newborn frowned before understanding dawned on his face. 

“Oh! Yes, thank you,” he said. Alastor snapped his fingers again, and pale-yellow flames appeared around the other man’s cup as well. 

“Wounds that would have killed us as livings only put us in a deep sleep while our bodies heal,” he explained. “Despite us being effectively immortal, there are ways to get around that,” he continued after a moment. “If someone is, say, vaporized, they cannot reform. Their bodies need to at least exist for our healing to take effect,” he explained. “Though, we don’t cease to exist. Those eyes you see everywhere? Those are what remains of the Souls who no longer have a body to return to,” he said.

“It’s quite the pitiful existence, really. Unable to move, unable to speak… supposedly some scientists have attempted to see if they were able to hear or if they were conscious, the results of which I’m sure are in some book somewhere,” he said with a hand wave.

“So, don’t get caught by any atomic bombs, got it,” Vincent said, a grin creeping onto his face. Alastor smiled politely, confusion causing him to tilt his head. 

“Pardon?”

“Right, right. Thirties,” Vincent mumbled. “World War Two,” he explained, as if that was an answer. “It’s… honestly a long story, but to make it as short as possible, the Japanese bombed one of our naval yards in Hawaii, and we obviously took offense to that,” he started. “While Europe was fighting with the Nazis, we chased the japs back to their homeland and out of the pacific before throwing two bombs so powerful they made people vaporize at them to get them to surrender,” he explained. 

Alastor blinked. Truth be told, while exceedingly rare, that level of power wasn’t entirely unheard of down here. Why, he had seen Zestial completely obliterate someone who tried to attack him once! Not even a corpse remained, which was quite the pity. He would have certainly asked the Elder Demon if he would allow Alastor to take the corpse for dinner if it had remained. However, he had never imagined it would be possible for the Living World to do something even remotely similar. “I see… I did not realize there was a second Great War.” The flames died out from around the cups, leaving both steaming. “Though, I must ask. What, pray tell, is a Nazi?” He asked. 

Vincent blinked. “Kinda surprised you don’t know that at least,” he admitted. “I thought the man you were referring to who got destroyed for sharing his real name was Hitler?” The Overlord of Radio shook his head. 

“No, though that name does sound vaguely familiar. I was referring to H. H. Holmes,” he explained. Vincent nodded, eyes lighting up a fraction in interest.

“Oh yeah. The guy with the murder castle,” he said. “Fascinating work. Always wanted to learn more about his case. Anyways, Hitler was the leader of Germany. I’m not entirely sure what caused everything, but I do know he began invading neighboring countries before deciding to build concentration camps where he massacred any group of people he didn’t like,” he explained. “Jews, queers, colored folk-“ 

Alastor’s ears twitched with the urge to flick back, but he said nothing. So long as Vincent didn’t bring up any of his prejudices in Alastor’s presence, the Radio Demon would allow him to learn that they meant nothing down here. Gender, skin color, religion… even sexuality meant nothing in the face of power. 

“- and a bunch of other groups were targeted.” Vincent sighed as he looked down. “Over six million were killed in his little camps.” His gaze narrowed. “It was a genocide, plain and simple. Enough to cause even my stomach to churn,” he finished. “A good chunk of ‘em were kids. I know I’m in Hell and I got here for a reason, but even I gotta have standards.”

“I see…” Alastor said. “I must say, I have to agree with you on that,” he said. “Though, it’s likely he was torn to shreds the moment he arrived. Either by another sinner… or by someone else.”

“What, you mean the devil?” Vincent asked, clearly deciding to jump topics. “Is the devil down here?” 

“Well, you are in Hell, V- it’d be a surprise if he wasn’t here!” Alastor said with a laugh. “Though, if you see him make sure to tell me. He rarely comes out of his palace,” he explained. “Even I haven’t seen him!”

Interest sparked in Vincent’s face as he leaned forwards slightly, only to jerk his head up as his neck began to sag under the weight of his boxy skull. “Really?” The information gathering mode he had seen the picture box-sinner slip into earlier was back, and Alastor didn’t mind indulging in it. 

“Yes, though I have seen his wife and daughter,” he said. Again, Vincent sputtered, eyes going wide. 

“Wife? Daughter?” He asked incredulously. “The Antichrist is real?” 

“Ha! Antichrist. No, everything I have heard about the Princess of Hell is that she’s… sheltered.” He tapped the edge of his coffee cup with a single claw. “A pity, really. I was hoping for at least one of the so called “royal family” to be genuinely sadistic,” he said.

Vincent raised an eyebrow. “Is it not a good thing that they aren’t? What exactly would you gain from them being sadistic?” He asked.

“Why, entertainment, of course!” Alastor said, gesturing out at the rest of the diner. “Hell gets dreadfully boring, and listening to the screams of the damned is one of the best activities there is,” he said. “In fact, I have an entire segment on my radio show dedicated to it!” He said. “Were the devil and his family active threats, one would hear the lovely screams far more often- which would be quite entertaining.” Vincent took a sip of his coffee.

“Aren’t you also one of the damned? Wouldn’t you also be at risk of being tortured?” He asked, earning another bark of laughter from Alastor.

“Please,” he said, grin going unnaturally wide. “I’d like to see them try.”

Vincent shifted cautiously, eyes darting down to Alastor’s grin before he set his cup down, absentmindedly flexing his fingers from the other hand. A small spark fell from the tips of his claws at the action. He jumped, of course, eyes widening a fraction at the light, but Alastor didn’t comment.

Though he did note that Vincent seemed to already be getting used to calling upon his powers which was certainly fascinating. If he coupled that with how he was unfazed at being in Hell… ‘How many lives did you take, Vincent?’

Vincent nodded, brows pinched. “So, there’s a Hell royal family…” he muttered quietly. “I’m assuming there are more underneath them?” He asked.

“Oh, there are!” Alastor said simply. “The Sins, the Ars Goetia… though, frankly none of them are that important to sinners. In fact, they are rather useless!” He said. “All of them are! Truly, one would think they’d be eager to torture sinners or do something with their power, but all they do is sit in their mansions and act like they’re above us,” he said with a shake of his head. “It’s almost embarrassing, truly.”

“So, they’re just like Earth royalty?” Vincent asked, raising an eyebrow, and before Alastor could stop it, an unbridled snort escaped him. 

Which was… odd. When was the last time he had laughed at something like that without violence being involved? A while, no doubt. He liked this man.

“Exactly!” Alastor said, clapping his hands together. “Supposedly they are more involved with the hellborn, but they do nothing with sinners,” he explained. He took another sip of his drink. “That doesn’t mean there isn’t a ruling class or sinners. Power vacuums and all that,” he said with a hand wave. “Instead of beings from Hell who have no idea what it is like to be human ruling over us, we,” he paused, grin widening, “have Overlords.” Vincent raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. 

“Overlords are sinners who hold more power than any other Soul in Hell,” Alastor continued. “They earn their power in many different ways, and each Overlord picks a specific aspect to rule. Weapons, books, poetry, music…”

“Radio?” Vincent asked. 

Alastor froze, ears pointing forwards in surprise. “What?” Vincent’s grin turned into a smirk. 

“The man out there. He called you the Radio Demon, did he not? And you called yourself the same thing earlier,” he said. “Yet no one has said anything about the others in this establishment. It stands to reason that you are more… important than them. And, I know I’m new but so far you’ve displayed the ability to summon objects with a snap of your fingers, light things ablaze with unholy flames, and play any music you’ve heard with your staff,” he explained, counting off each example with his fingers. “Which is more power than I assume most have.”

“Furthermore, you have been shown more respect than I would expect down here. The hostess, Ms. Cygnus, has always looked to you first and has called you “sir” this whole time, while I have not been asked my name,” he explained. His grin sharpened as he placed his hands on the table, one atop the other. “So. Am I correct? Are you the Overlord of Radio?” He asked. 

Alastor blinked. Once. Twice. His ears were fully tilted forwards now, and his smile had slowly grown more and more genuine. Out of all the newborns he had decided to interact with, he had never had any of them put the pieces together so quickly. He had to explain it to all of them. Yet Vincent here had managed to put together his status with a mere handful of clues. 

For the first time in over a decade, Alastor found himself practically speechless. He wasn’t used to being identified like this, and if it were anyone else, he’d probably find it irritating. But sitting here, watching the other man’s black and white smile grow sharper, he found himself not irritated, but instead fascinated, and honestly, excited. Hell had grown boring, with all those he met fleeing from him due to his status as the Radio Demon. Rosie was the only one who he could reliably have a civil conversation with and, to be frank, his relationship with her depended on the day. She was far too content to yank his chain around. 

Magic thrummed in the air as Alastor allowed his antlers to elongate. “You, sir, are correct. I am the Overlord of Radio, and the strongest sinner in all of Hell,” he explained, slowly growing. Someone on the other side of the room screamed, and Vincent flinched, antennae sparking before he took a breath and a drink of his coffee. Limbs popped and cracked as Alastor grew, pale yellow stitches forming on his face. His eyes flickered into radio dials as fear-scent filled the room.

“Tell me, Picture Box, are you scared?” He asked, voice wrapped in static. Vincent, defying all of Alastor’s expectations, shook his head. 

“No.” 

“You should be,” Alastor said, leaning forwards. 

“Perhaps. But you claimed to want to use me for entertainment, did you not? Killing me would end whatever entertainment you are getting out of this,” Vincent said. There was a slight tremble in his voice, one that betrayed that he was masking his fear with a smile. Alastor’s grin widened into something genuine as he shrunk back down. 

“I like you,” he said, crossing his legs. “You intrigue me. Most quail at the sight of a monster.” Vincent hummed. 

“Well, then I would never be able to look in a mirror, now would I?” He asked, a trembling smirk on his face as he sipped his coffee. His hands were shaking, the motion causing the coffee in his cup to practically vibrate. The entire display had frightened him, that much was clear.

Yet, he insisted on acting as if it hadn’t. Which was, and Alastor quite hated to admit it, a rather smart move. Vincent had clearly realized that he would pounce on any visible sign of weakness. Which, of course, begged the question- how hard would he have to push to force that reaction that Vincent was so obviously holding back?

There was a quiet clearing of a throat, and both turned to look at Cygnus, who looked like she was about to step into her second death. “Your, um, orders are ready, sirs,” she said, placing the food down. 

“Ah, thank you my dear!” Alastor said, grin widening. “I do hope my little show didn’t bother you!” He said. Cygnus shook her head frantically. 

“N-no! No, it’s not a bother at all Mr. Alastor,” she said. Then she glanced over at Vincent. “Um, should I remove..?” Alastor laughed. 

“No, dear, he’s quite fine,” he said. “A fascinating fellow- I was just, hm, showing off,” he said, smile showing off far too many teeth. 

“Oh, um, alright then,” she said. “I hope you enjoy your meal, Mr. Alastor!” She turned her head to Vincent. “You too, Mr…” Vincent’s smile turned positively deadly.

“Vox. Call me Vox.”