Chapter Text
Alastor would certainly never say it out loud, but it is nice to have some peace and quiet around the hotel.
There’s plenty to keep busy with—new limits to test, guests to corral, power to regather—without any nonsense from Heaven mucking up his day or more shenanigans in Hell rearing its ugly head. With things calmer, his role in the hotel settles into a pattern that changes little from day-to-day.
He uses his imps to serve the hotel guests breakfast. He gathers the mail. He reviews the new guests and makes sure they all have rooms. He does a brief patrol of the perimeter. He takes a lunch break. He kicks out guests too violent to reasonably stay within the hotel grounds. He definitely doesn’t eat any of them! Then he does another perimeter patrol. And finally, he eats dinner with the staff and goes to bed.
It is nice! It doesn’t make him want to chew his own legs off from boredom at all!
The first few weeks had been a true relief, yes. The wound on his chest had healed after his second deal with Rosie, but he’d realized about five seconds in that he hadn’t put any verbiage about how to heal the damn thing, so she’d sealed it up with a messy wad of scar tissue that aches and pulls in a way he’d had to get used to. That nasty little witch. He’s a bit delighted by it.
And there had been his genuine hotelier duties, some business following Lucifer in the shadows of the walls to see what he gets up to (he’d stopped that very quickly; the answer was too embarrassing), and killing a few select uppity sinners in strategic places to get the word out that the Radio Demon was back, truly back! But that had been months ago.
Now, when he opens the mail that morning, the inane chatter of the full hotel dining area droning behind him, it’s almost a relief to see a letter from VoxTek Industries addressed to a Miss Charlie Morningstar. A bright teal envelope, made out in a slanted, pointy hand that Alastor can only assume is Velvette’s. Certainly Valentino can’t see well enough to be so neat, and Vox has always been such a slob.
It’s a lovely excuse to dip out of breakfast, leave the masses to slobbering all over whatever delight Niffty has cooked up that day, and take the long elevator up to Charlie’s room.
Perhaps an interview! Or a brand deal, as they call it. VoxTek had done quite a bit of scrambling in the last several months, launching all sorts of redemption-themed products: a good deeds journal that screamed at you if you didn’t write in it enough, a series of romantic, soft-core porn movies, and a variety of breathalyzers that he could tell Valentino had designed because they looked a little like—well. Certainly nothing classy!
“Alastor? Did you need something?” Charlie says from her windowsill, in a voice that implies he’s been standing in the open elevator doors for a bit.
“You have some mail,” he replies smoothly, stepping in to let the elevator close behind him. “But nothing too important. Do you have a moment to look?”
She’s been very distracted these days. Mysterious phone calls from family, not like it’s any of Alastor’s business! He’s only tried to access her phone four times to figure more out about it, but its technology absolutely hates him. Perhaps, he thinks while chewing the inside of his cheek, something about the VoxTek—
“Your mouth is bleeding,” she says, very politely, and Alastor draws out a handkerchief to dab it away. How embarrassing! But she extends a hand to take the lurid blue envelope from between his claws as he does, collapsing back down against that little spot on the windowsill she’s so fond of.
She has been tired lately. If whatever is in that envelope upsets her, then, hm. Alastor will have to take care of that! Rosie had been very specific, after all: no harm to Charlie Morningstar, and he takes that seriously! Emotional harm is very real, as the inane therapy sessions at the hotel always drone on about, and he is more than willing to get out there and solve that problem—
“It’s… money.” Charlie’s clearly puzzled voice jerks him out of his reverie. Alastor had missed her opening it.
“Cash?” Alastor replies, extending his spine to crane over her in the way that typically makes her laugh, but all she does is furrow her brow as she continues to unfold the papers enclosed.
A check slips out and into Charlie’s lap. The value of the dollar has certainly gone down since Alastor’s time, but the number of zeroes clearly printed there has him raising his own brows. “What could those two possibly be trying to buy you off for? Or is this for a brand deal?”
That, at least, makes her look up and stifle a laugh. “Since when do you know what a brand deal is?”
“I keep up with these things, my dear. All in the effort of running the hotel smoothly.”
“Uh-huh,” she replies, fond but distracted as she turns her gaze back to the letter. Alastor sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t snatch it out of her grasp.
Finally, when she finishes, she carefully takes the check and lays it behind her on the ledge. And then she stares out the window, towards V Tower in the distance. There are only the two Vs on top of it now, with Valentino and Velvette now running the entire show. Vox hasn’t been seen for ages.
The way Charlie is looking at it, though, is wary. Silently, she lifts the letter to Alastor and he seizes it in a moment. She’s still too distracted to care.
It’s brief, written in that same slanted, pointy writing as the envelope had been addressed in.
Dear Miss Charlie Morningstar,
In the effort of mending fences between our respective companies, VoxTek would like to set up a regularly recurring donation to the Hazbin Hotel. The company—and we as overlords—extend our apologies for the incident(s) that occurred earlier this year, including but not limited to: mass hypnosis/manipulation, kidnapping and subsequent grievous bodily harm (friends and family), attempted murder (you, your girlfriend/wife, hotel staff), successful murder (sinners), attempted deicide, being handsy, etc. We hope this is the beginning of rebuilding the trust between the royalty of Hell and our technological faction.
Please find enclosed a check for whatever purposes best suit the Hazbin Hotel’s needs. Expect one per month.
Thank you, and trust us with your charity needs!
The names of all three Vees are signed at the bottom: Velvette indeed as the owner of the slanted, neat handwriting, Valentino a messy scrawl with a heart, and Vox a jagged, harsh scribble.
“You’re holding that very tightly,” Charlie says in a carefully blank tone he’s heard her use during therapy sessions. He uncurls his claws from the letter, only distantly aware that he’d almost torn it in two.
“I didn’t think you needed money,” is all Alastor can think to say. He must be running a bit low on iron, as sluggish as he suddenly feels. More meat must be required.
“Ugh, it’s so corporate talk! And they obviously don’t even remember Vaggi’s name!” Charlie bursts out, which Alastor thinks is quite besides the point. “And this is the first time we’ve even heard that Vox is back in the game. I mean, it’s a weird game, because it has to be a game, right? But still—”
Alastor does his best not to shove the letter directly into her face to quiet her down, and only moderately succeeds. It flutters down to her lap, where she snatches it back up. “Oh jeez, maybe there was some… tracking device or really delayed bomb in here. Or anthrax! I should’ve had Baxter—”
“If there had been anything like that in the envelope, I would’ve sensed it and taken care of the problem,” Alastor replies. He had not actually done that before bringing the letter up here, but he takes a peek into that supernatural space where overlord magic hangs and finds nothing of the sort now. “Should I dispose of the check, then?”
Charlie groans and slumps back in her windowsill. “No, no. You’re right, we don’t need money, especially with my dad hanging around. Power of all creation, so we’re good—” Alastor grinds his teeth, “—but I’ll put it in Angel’s fund or something. You know. Just in case.”
“Of course, my dear,” Alastor says, as genially as he can, and also trying not to roll his eyes. There had been a lot of Angel’s fund, Angel’s room, Angel this, Angel that, in the past several months. From what Alastor can see, Angel is very busy being the face of the Vees non-redemption themed products, from porn to loungewear, and has no intention of ever returning.
Angel isn’t stupid for going back, or for signing his soul away in the first place. Alastor had made the same mistake after all, but if the little spider isn’t clever enough to get himself out of it the same way Alastor did, there’s nothing he can really do about that.
So that too, is none of Alastor’s business! He has only eaten two of Valentino’s producers in the erstwhile, and simply hired another bartender to fill in for when Husk drunkenly collapses in the storeroom.
“Is there anything else?” Charlie says. Alastor shakes his head and turns to go before she reaches out a hand to stop him. “Do you think—I mean. One letter doesn’t mean Vox is back in the game, right?”
The letter is abandoned by Charlie’s hip now. It’d be strange to pick it back up again, except that Alastor has already forgotten what Vox’s signature looks like and is struck with the odd sensation he’d made the whole thing up.
Vox, back in the game. Does one signature make that so? He’d been half-convinced for the first few months following the attack that the other Vees had killed him for good; any number of angelic weapons had been left laying around from the shortly-lived Carmine alliance. But Vox’s name had continued going on certain products, and he’d done a voiceover for a commercial a while back Alastor had heard on a walk to Cannibal Town, and that ridiculous duo of reporters had even begun mentioning him again here and there on the news weeks back.
So, not dead. Alastor dreams he’s a head still. That they’re using him for a tablet in Vee Tower, or have hung him on the wall as a digital photo frame. Or that they’ve dropped him in that oversized shark tank of his and let him glitch out at the bottom. Sometimes, when he eats someone strange for dinner, he even dreams that head is boxier and younger, and when someone really disagrees with him, that the head leaks from its eyes.
“You’re bleeding again,” Charlie says.
Alastor turns his head a rictus one-eighty to look at her. She doesn’t even blink. “Well, it is time for my lunch! I’ll keep you informed should anything else arrive, and don’t forget you have a counseling session at noon!”
She does not call him out on the fact that breakfast was just served, nor his obvious and hasty exit, for which he can be thankful for. He is also thankful she doesn’t see his shadow swipe the envelope on the way out. Odd behaviors get guests thrown in mid-afternoon therapy sessions, and he’s hardly immune!
***
Another check comes the next month, for the same amount. The note accompanying it is virtually identical, with the singular change being Vox’s name signed before the other two, as opposed to last.
Alastor grinds his teeth as Charlie puts the second one in safekeeping for Angel right in front of him, then tucks away the envelope and note into her desk. “Are we sure you don’t want to do anything about those? You were alarmed last time about it,” he says, as pleasantly as possible.
It must not be very pleasant, because Charlie frowns at him. “I know you and Vox have your—” she waves a hand, idly, “—whatever, but if he’s not going to do anything but send us money, I’m not about to pick a fight.”
Me and Vox do not have a whatever, perches on the tip of his tongue, but even he can recognize it’d sound petulant. Vox’s little meltdown on top of his cannon had been very loud and public—much like everything else about Vox—and there had been quite a bit of sordid whispering going around about his and Vox’s history. No matter how hard he’d tried to set the record straight on his own broadcasts, he’s been the subject of public gossip, a television special, and the investigations of several brave reporters who made their way into the hotel and somehow never made their way out. He wouldn’t know anything about that.
Another reason he’s been so focused on regathering public fear and scrounging back together his reputation. So typical of Vox to make things difficult for him, even when not on purpose!
“And so a fight we shall avoid!” Alastor says, as perky as he can manage, and makes his exit.
That lasts about four hours, until a delivery arrives at midday. A squadron of VoxTek employees scurry to and fro, unloading boxes out of the back of a truck, ferrying them to foyer, and stacking them in the entryway under the curious gazes of the guests milling about.
“You’ll need to sign for this,” a gruff hammer-headed sinner says, coming up to Alastor with a clipboard in hand.
“I’m the hotelier, not the owner,” Alastor replies, stiff-backed and from between closed teeth. Garbage, surely! Nothing about the delivery is screaming danger, but even in the best case scenario, VoxTek products are cheap, overly-sleek pieces of—
The clipboard is shoved into his hands. Alastor manages one growl before he sees the paperwork, indeed made out to one Alastor Roux. He scoffs at the sight of it. An ancient name, and certainly not a real one, but it’s proof Vox himself is behind whatever nonsense this is; he’s the only one left alive in Hell that was privy to that ridiculous alias. “You gonna sign or what?” the sinner repeats.
Alastor glowers at him, letting his sclera go black and threatening. The lifeless eyes common among VoxTek employees stare emptily back, and it’s hardly any fun if they’re wishing for death! Alastor signs.
He sends an imp for Charlie and does a quick scan of the dozens of stacked boxes as the deliverymen clear out, but just like the letters, there’s nothing overtly suspicious about them: no overlord magic, no technological miasma rising from them. Whatever Vox has sent, it’s not any of his regular products. Alastor can typically smell all that plastic from a mile away.
Both Charlie and Vaggi appear less than a minute later, looking appropriately apprehensive. “Courtesy of Vox himself. I had to sign!” Alastor gestures broadly to the stacks.
Vaggi has brought her spear, which she uses to prod at several of the boxes. The stack sways slightly, but perhaps does not deserve the fierce glare she gives it. “They’re pretty light,” she mutters, clearly dubious. “Any idea what the hell is in these things?”
“Nothing dangerous, I can assure you,” Alastor says. “Would you like me to open them?”
The women exchange glances, beginning to talk lowly under their breath. But Alastor doesn’t hear a no! He’s quick to bring down one of the top boxes with a tendril of shadow and give the tape a slice. Charlie squawks as Alastor leans in to survey whatever nonsense Vox has thought up now, shrieking about danger and bombs and the ethics of accepting gifts from capitalists, but stops abruptly as she catches sight of the box’s contents. And then she gasps.
“Are those—!” Charlie squeals.
“Yes,” Alastor replies. Only a little burble of static gives away his surprise.
Charlie lifts out one of the stuffed sharks. It’s almost half her size, easily three feet, and the white of her fingers vanishes into the overly-plush gray of its sides. “Oh, they’re so soft…” Seemingly unable to help herself, she gives it a little squeeze, and Vaggi’s eyes go gooey at the sight.
Alastor resists the urge to scoff at them. Toys! Of all the inane things. At least when he picks one up, they do seem to be just that. No hidden cameras gleam out from their eyes, their teeth mere triangles of knitted felt. He digs his claws into one to check for any Trojan horses Vox might’ve been smart enough (laughable!) to slip in, and only gets an exasperated Alastor! from Charlie.
“Hang on, there’s a note.” Vaggi peels the folded paper away from the side of one of the boxes, that same slanted Miss Charlie Morningstar printed neatly across it. After she reads, her face grim, the note gets passed to Charlie, hers pleased, and by the time it makes its way into Alastor’s hands, he’s almost salivating.
Dear Miss Charlie Morningstar,
We heard that the Hazbin Hotel is officially closed to new guests, with a waitlist program beginning soon, and would like to extend our congratulations on your utmost success!
Please find delivered x8 boxes of Shok.wav Plushies CLASSIC, x8 boxes of Shok.wav Plushies ARMOR, x8 boxes of Shok.wav Plushies SLUMBER, and x8 boxes of Shok.wav Plushies JUMBO.
We at VoxTek know how conducive mental health is to redemption, and hope that guests enrolled in your therapy program find these relaxing and fun. Hopefully Shok.wav can be an emotionally supportive friend to all!
Thank you, and trust us with your therapy needs!
The letter is typed this time, but the signature is Vox’s and Vox’s alone. The girls are too busy fawning over the toys to see Alastor burn the note to ashes.
It’s a jab at him, Alastor knows it is. He’s hated that stupid shark from the beginning, since Vox brought it home to their apartment one day and covered an entire wall with an enormous aquarium. It hadn’t even been big enough to justify the size of that tank back then, only the size of Vox’s forearm, and growled all day long. Even at Rosie, who had been scandalized! Vox did nothing to correct it, only pressing the flat of his face against the glass and cooing at it constantly, which of course made it spoiled and infinitely worse.
And it barked at Alastor every wretched moment it saw him. He would’ve skewered and eaten it for dinner had he gotten his way!
Not another soul in the hotel sees this for the mockery of him that it clearly is.
Charlie happily hands out most to those she feels are making the best strides in counseling as a kind of reward, and a few more go to the sinners mired in the pits of depression as encouragement. Both groups take quickly to carrying them around the hotel like real pets, and while some rename them, most don’t, so all hours of the day Alastor is subject to Shok.wav, buddy, let’s roll out. And Shok.wav, you’ll never guess what my ex-wife said to me in therapy today. And Shok.wav, you’re the only motherfucker in this hotel that can handle me. And so on.
Charlie tells him that the one he punctured with a claw isn’t suitable for gifting, and also gives him those puppydog eyes of hers when he implies he’s going to disintegrate it, so it sits on his fireplace mantle. On the strategic edge, of course, so when it falls in it won’t be his fault.
The jab, regardless if Alastor’s the only one who understands it, solidifies his—well, not concerns! Vox was and remains a ridiculous excuse for an overlord, a simpering fool who thinks the mild annoyance the toys strike in him is akin to psychological warfare. Alastor was able to defeat Vox at the height of his power with the hypnotized masses of Hell at his back, and indeed alongside that fucking biohacked animal as well, with only minor scrapes. He’s genuinely not concerned.
Solidifying his intrigue, perhaps. Vox is back. Vox is plotting something. With his chains broken and his power returned, it should be easy enough to knock him down again, but he’ll have to keep an eye out. Vox has been known to—only sometimes!—have decent ideas, and surely not all of them can be as stupid as the sharks. Surely not.
***
Over the next two months, the Hazbin Hotel becomes the less-than-proud recipient of: two more checks, new designer staff uniforms, twenty boxes of nonalcoholic beer, the latest collection of VoxTek’s PG-13 romance movies, and five more boxes of sharks (MINI prototypes, one of which immediately goes on Charlie’s phone keychain; Alastor’s eye isn’t twitching at all).
Charlie herself has been the too-excited recipient of: a customized JUMBO plushie that says I believe in your redemption! when you squeeze a fin, a whole new wardrobe, and the promise of an all-expenses paid wedding should her and Vaggi ever tie the knot.
Their angelic visitors have become the mostly-confused recipients of: a personal apology signed by Vox himself, twenty gift baskets of Hell’s best fruits, candy, and self-care products, and designs for a wing prosthesis that shoots confetti. Emily had tried not to be visibly excited about that last one, and had failed miserably.
Each had been accompanied by an effusively kind typed note, signed by Vox personally; the signatures of the other two had dropped off by the fourth gift.
The problem with Hell, Alastor thinks mutinously as Emily gleefully reviews her prothesis prototype with Baxter, is that no one can hold a grudge properly anymore.
When everything is so undeniably awful literally all of the time down here, things like mass death via angelic cannon and a brief few weeks of cult activity are replaced very quickly in the never-ending news cycle of horrors. Helped along, of course, by the fact that Vox still very much owns the media.
Alastor is disgusted at the thought that if Vox came back today, if he simply slid into his typical press conferences and public appearances like he’d never left, no one would say a thing about it. Sure, his approval ratings might take a while to be rebuilt. But an overlord overreaching for too much power and falling short is about on par for the course down here.
Which makes it all the more irritating that he isn’t fucking doing it.
Valentino remains the public face of VoxTek. Velvette remains the clear strategist behind the company. The two Vs atop the tower remain only that. Whatever Vox is planning, regardless of how stupid or silly the plan ends up being, he’s planning in private.
Alastor has never known Vox to do anything quietly, and that is what—not concerns!—intrigues him.
“This stuff is nice, Alastor, but it’s not worrying or anything,” Charlie tells him. The firmness of her voice is somewhat ruined by the twirl she’s doing in front of her bedroom mirror, a custom suit covered in sequins that sparkle as she spins. “The second Vox seems to be up to something serious, you know I’ll want you to step in. But for now, it just seems like he’s doing all this to boost his name around the hotel. Approval ratings, y’know?”
Alastor does not point out the obvious, which is that everyone seems to be playing right into this plan of his, and that Vox’s sky-high approval ratings are what allowed him to go on that little rampage last time.
“Still! The way he’s selecting you out of the hotel staff to fixate on doesn’t bode well. After all, he was so threatening to you those months ago. Putting his hands on you!”
“You do the exact same thing, Alastor,” Charlie sighs, and Alastor lets out a shocked burst of static. He does not! But it does make her stop spinning to face him, face serious. “I know he’s probably doing all this to get out of the hole he dug for himself. And I’m not falling for it! Really!” She gives the air a little shadow-box. “I’ll stop accepting the personal gifts, if it makes you feel better. But the stuff he’s gotten for the hotel is really nice, and I can’t really turn them away when they show up in the foyer and everyone sees them.”
And she does. The rejection of Vox’s personal gifts to her only increases the speed of gifts for the hotel and the constant monetary donations, which Charlie somewhat desperately begins investing in local businesses with. But he can tell she’s not taking him seriously.
So it should be more vindicating when, four months after this entire nonsense began, he’s awoken long before dawn by Charlie shrieking his name.
The nature of his magic means he hears it like an explosion between his ears, the last syllable tilting up into an almost-scream, and his body is falling through the shadows in the floor down to the main foyer before he can fully process the sound. Charlie has never—he’s never heard her sound that way before.
For all he’s been pushing the idea for months, Vox is nowhere near the forefront of his mind as he hurtles through the blackness. He’s convinced for one, blistering, confused moment that he’s going to emerge in the hotel’s entryway to Vaggi’s dead body, because surely nothing else would have dear Charlie in such a tizzy, but when he hurtles into solidity, it’s another figure in the doorway.
“Hey, Smiles,” Angel says, his own grin exhausted.
Alastor, frozen, looks him up and down. Angel Dust, live and in the flesh. And fur! Alastor has only seen him in advertisements in the long walks he takes around the city sometimes, looking for lunch, and certainly he’s never looked so haggard and trembling in those. Although his eyes are never quite as bright either.
“What a delightful surprise!” Alastor manages, and finds with some stupefaction that he maybe doesn’t mean it wholeheartedly, but isn’t lying either. “Here I thought we had truly seen the last of you. But why am I the only one so happy to see you?” This he directs at Charlie, who stands off to the side and looks nothing but stricken, small and huddled in her pajamas as Vaggi rubs her back in small circles.
She, teary-eyed, shoves a manila envelope at him. It’s blue. It drips with overlord magics. It feels like it hates them all, and if Alastor looks at it too long the space behind his eyes begin to hurt.
Only then does Alastor think of Vox, and it’s with more vitriol than he’s summoned up in months.
The top has already been torn off, and Alastor eases out a long, folded, and tattered piece of paper between two claws. He knew what it was the moment he set eyes on it—he certainly has enough of them in his own back pocket—but it still pulls up the corners of his smile into a tight grimace as his eyes immediately draw to Angel’s signature at the bottom, Valentino’s right below it.
A soul contract with an overlord is an impossible thing to break. The words become shackles, the signature becomes a key. As long as neither party breaks the terms dictated, the contract remains ironclad, and any overlord worth even half a glance would ensure those terms skew heavily to their own liking.
They are, however, amendable.
Stapled to the bottom of Angel’s contract is a new half-sheet of paper: newer, crisper, and with a brief few paragraphs in typeface. It is not a hastily tacked-on addition; Valentino’s power leaks from that new section as well, and the moth’s second signature is already scrawled across the bottom.
Should Vox, Media Overlord and current CEO of VoxTek Industries, (“Amender”) request the dissolution of the Agreement, the Employer will be required to terminate the Agreement. The Parties previously noted within will then separate, with the Employer releasing all belongings, personhood, and ownership of the self back to the Employee.
This requested dissolution must be done in good faith, with no impositions being made upon the Employee in question. Should the dissolution be requested, the Amender will sign below. The Employer and Employee are required to sign below at the time of dissolution, upon which the Agreement will be considered null and void.
Vox’s signature, glowing and blue on the dotted line, burns Alastor’s retinas.
“Is it real?” Charlie’s voice gasps out. Gosh, he really has been staring for quite a few minutes now. “It can’t be real, right? It’s a joke, a fucking cruel joke—Alastor, you’re the overlord, you know better than any of us, is this—”
And Angel’s voice, frazzled and sickeningly hopeful, “Al, c’mon, you gotta tell me if this is some kinda trick. Val just fuckin’ threw it at me and walked out, I could barely understand what the hell I was seeing and I came right here in case I was readin’ it wrong—or, or dreaming or something—”
Vaggi as well, the whole peanut gallery! “This has to be a trap. This is a obviously a collaboration between those two sick fucks and that cannot be good, and Angel, I’m so sorry, but we have to check you for hypnosis—”
“He can sign it,” Alastor says, and everyone stops all at once, like a dial turned to dead air. The silence balloons in the same way, crackling and almost alive. “There is—” and a warble of his own static rises up his own throat, clicking in the darkness. He hadn’t turned on the lights when he came downstairs, what a hotelier he is! He swallows instead. “There’s no reason I see why Angel cannot sign it. The terms are clear, with no wordplay I can perceive. Should Vox have a plan, of which I am certain, it doesn’t involve trickery of that sort.”
Angel immediately and silently holds two hands out. Alastor places the contract in one and his best pen in the other.
For all Valentino’s typical showmanship, the magenta collar that appears on Angel’s neck as he signs breaks with only the faintest, gasping little wheeze. The contract vaporizes itself a second later. And then it’s all over.
Alastor steps back to let them all cry. Never been one for those grandiose displays of emotion, he’s afraid.
As he begins to dissolve into the shadows, Charlie lifts her head from where it’s buried in Angel’s shoulder and looks him directly in the eyes. He can read every worry there, and vindication curdles in his stomach like a bad pair of eyeballs. She gives him one quick nod, and he a tilt of his head in return.
But investigations can wait for dawn. There’re still another few hours left before the hotel awakes, and Alastor is very concerned, and very tired.