Chapter Text
The static in the air was particularly thick that morning, a low-frequency hum that vibrated through the floorboards of the Hazbin Hotel. Alastor, the Radio Demon, stood behind the front desk, his fingers rhythmically tapping against the dark wood. He was meticulously straightening a stack of guest check-in forms, though the hotel had precious few guests to speak of. His smile was fixed, as always, a wide, jagged crescent that served as both a mask and a warning. However, behind that grin, his mind was a cacophony of calculating thoughts.
The air shifted, the scent of ozone and old-fashioned perfume, lilies and something slightly more carnal, wafting through the lobby. He didn't need to look up to know who had entered. The bell above the door didn't ring; Rosie didn't need such trivialities to make an entrance. She simply was there, a presence of elegant lace and sharp intentions.
Breaking a contract with the Overlord of Cannibal Town was not a task for the faint of heart, and Alastor had done so with a flourish that had left their professional relationship in tatters. Since then, Rosie had made it her hobby to frequent the hotel, not as a guest, but as a spectator to his rehabilitation efforts. She found a morbid delight in watching the prideful Radio Demon play concierge to a group of lost souls.
"Still playing house, are we, Alastor?" Rosie’s voice was like velvet over gravel as she leaned against the mahogany desk, her black eyes tracking his every move.
Alastor’s smile tightened, his shadow flickering slightly on the wall behind him. "Efficiency is the soul of any successful venture, Rosie. Even one as... experimental as this. I have duties to attend to, and I intend to perform them with my usual panache."
Rosie chuckled, a sound that lacked its usual warmth. She began to pace the lobby, her parasol clicking against the tiles. She stopped by a portrait of Charlie and Vaggie, tilting her head. "It’s fascinating, really. You, the man who once tore through the streets of Hell, now worrying about the thread count of bedsheets. Why do you not want to help the hotel in a more... meaningful way? Why this charade?"
Alastor adjusted his monocle, his gaze following her. "I am helping, in my own fashion. But I believe your definition of meaningful involves a level of optimism I simply do not possess regarding the Princess’s little project."
"Oh? And what’s that supposed to mean?" Rosie asked, turning back to him, her expression shifting to one of genuine curiosity mixed with her usual mockery.
"I think that even if sinners make it into heaven, they will be faced with persecution," Alastor said, his voice dropping into a smoother, more broadcast-ready tone. "Someone will fall, though if it is the snake fellow, or someone else, I don't know. After all, discrimination is a huge part of human life. Why wouldn't it follow into death?”
Rosie narrowed her eyes, stepping closer until she was directly across from him. "No, I don't believe that. I mean, sure, that's part of it. But there's something else, isn't there, Deer?" She leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Yes, I thought so. Tell us what you believe the most important reason to keep sinners out of heaven is.”
Alastor felt the static in his chest tighten. He leaned forward, matching her intensity, the shadows in the room deepening as he spoke. "I think heaven is a trap."
Rosie paused, her amusement momentarily replaced by a flicker of confusion. "Explain."
"I have always wondered, if free will is associated with evil, with fallen angels and Lucifer specifically, then do those in heaven have free will?" Alastor’s voice was cold and analytical now. "For it to truly be paradise, they cannot. A mother would never truly consider any place paradise without her child. A person who was killed cannot live with the one who took their lives in paradise. The only way it can truly be a paradise is if, once a soul arrives, it is modified to fit the heavenly standards, and any portion that does not qualify is discarded."
Rosie’s smile had vanished. She stared at him, the weight of his words settling in the quiet lobby. "Wait, what?"
"Memory modification, at the very least, is needed. If not full on mind control," Alastor continued, his shadows growing taller, dancing with a life of their own.
"So, what, people don't belong in heaven?" Rosie asked, her voice uncharacteristically small.
"No. I don't think so," Alastor replied simply.
"Then why allow them in the first place? Why not just send every person to hell?"
Alastor paused, his gaze drifting to the grand staircase where Charlie often descended with a bright "Good morning!" He felt a rare moment of hesitation. "...I don't know," he admitted softly.
Rosie saw the opening. She wasn't here just to listen; she was here to dismantle his composure. "You have a theory. Tell me."
Alastor let out a sharp, jagged laugh that crackled like a broken record. He knew she would regret asking. "I think they use the discarded pieces from the winners to power heaven itself. I think the winners themselves are nothing but potential batteries."
"Batteries? To run what?"
"To run everything," Alastor said, his excitement for the macabre leaking through. "What makes up angelic grace? Discarded soul bits perhaps? I do not know. But I also do not want to find out. What I do know is that something powers angelic magic, and something powers grace. It could be the place itself, but if that were the case, it would have run out by now. So where is it coming from?"
Rosie stepped back, her parasol clutched tightly in her hand. "You think heaven is a trap? That's ridiculous."
Alastor’s grin widened, more menacing than before. "Is it?"
"You know it is," Rosie hissed, though there was a tremor of uncertainty in her voice.
"...then why does no one know the requirements for getting into heaven?" Alastor countered, his voice smooth as silk.
Rosie looked away, scanning the ornate carvings of the hotel lobby as if looking for an exit. "So, what? You think they take more souls when they start to run low?"
"I think they cause natural disasters when they start running low, because hell sees such a small percentage of those killed in natural disasters," Alastor said, his eyes glowing with a faint, infernal light. "I've asked around for the last ninety years or so, but I know, perhaps twelve people who died in floods, earthquakes, tornados, tsunamis, hurricanes, and so on."
The silence that followed was heavy. Rosie looked at him as if seeing a monster she hadn't quite accounted for. "That... that can't be right," she whispered.
"It might not be," Alastor conceded, his tone returning to one of polite conversation. "It is a trend I have noticed, but it might mean nothing at all. Perhaps paradise is simply beyond human, or demon, understanding. Perhaps there is a strict requirement, and most who die in natural disasters qualify immediately before or after death." He turned his head as Vaggie entered the room, her spear held loosely at her side, her expression suspicious.
"The princess said it herself,," Alastor said, raising his voice so Vaggie could hear, "if Hell is forever, Heaven must be a lie.”
"No, that's not-" Vaggie began, her eye flashing with anger.
Alastor ignored her protest, his focus shifting entirely to the former exorcist. He was very curious about this, and the fact that his pet theory was disturbing the more unshakable of his social circle was a delight he hadn't expected. "Tell me, Vagatha, during your time in heaven, did you see people mourn their lost loved ones who they would never unite with again? Did you see anger when they realized someone they loved was not there? Did you see parents, searching desperately for their lost children? Or, was everything peaceful, serene, and perfect?"
Vaggie froze, her grip on her spear tightening until her knuckles turned white. A heavy dread filled her eye. "I didn't-"
"No, you didn't see that, did you?" Alastor pressed, his voice full of dark triumph. "And yet, that is a normal part of humanity, grieving the lost loved ones. One would assume heaven would be filled with such people... everyone is missing someone. Yet, no one ever grieves them up there. Why? Because they hide it? No. Because they cannot feel the grief. They cannot remember the tragedy they once knew. Why? Where did those feelings go?"
He leaned over the desk, his shadow looming over both Rosie and Vaggie. "Were they simply sealed away, making those winners mindless puppets who feel only what they are allowed to? Or, were those feelings taken and used for something else?"
Rosie took a step toward the door, her composure finally shattered. The discomfort she had intended to inflict on Alastor had backfired spectacularly; she had come to mock his new hobby, but instead, she was leaving with a vision of a paradise that was more horrific than the Hell they inhabited.
Alastor watched her go, his smile never wavering. He picked up his pen and returned to his guest forms, the static in the air settling into a low, satisfied hum. He had duties to perform, after all. The hotel needed its concierge, and the batteries upstairs weren't going to question themselves. Not yet.
---
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of mundane tasks that Alastor performed with an almost aggressive level of perfection. He polished the silver in the dining hall until it reflected his jagged teeth with terrifying clarity. He reorganized the library, categorizing books by the level of existential dread they inspired. Every time he sensed Rosie’s presence, she was still lurking in the gardens, watching through the windows, he would simply hum a little louder, his radio broadcast picking up a jaunty, 1920s jazz tune that masked the sound of his own racing thoughts.
He knew what Rosie was doing. She was waiting for the mask to slip. She wanted to see the Alastor who had broken the deal, the one who was vulnerable because he had chosen a path that didn't involve the cannibal colonies. But Alastor was a master of the stage. If the world was a theater, then Hell was the grandest, most grotesque play ever conceived, and he was the lead.
Charlie joined him in the lobby around noon, her face bright with an oblivious hope that Alastor found both exhausting and strangely fascinating.
"Alastor! I was thinking about the new welcome brochures," she said, waving a stack of colorful papers. "I thought we could add a section on 'Heavenly Expectations'!"
Alastor’s eyes flickered toward the window, where Rosie was visible, pretending to inspect a wilted rose bush. "A marvelous idea, Charlie! Though perhaps we should keep the descriptions... vague. We wouldn't want to overpromise, would we?"
"What do you mean?" Charlie asked, her brow furrowing.
"Oh, just that 'paradise' is such a subjective term," Alastor said, his voice crackling with a hint of irony. "Some might find the absence of memory a relief, while others might find it... a bit of a hollow victory."
Vaggie, who had been standing by the pillar, watched Alastor with a renewed sense of dread. She hadn't forgotten his words from earlier. The idea of Heaven as a place of forced forgetting haunted her. She remembered the faces of the winners, so bright, so happy, but she couldn't remember a single tear. Not one.
"Alastor," Vaggie said, her voice low. "Why are you telling us this? If you think it's all a trap, why are you here? Why help Charlie?"
Alastor turned to her, his smile widening until it looked painful. "Because, my dear Vagatha, even a trap needs an audience. And if the Princess manages to crack the golden gates, I want to be there to see what spills out. Besides..." he glanced toward the window again, catching Rosie’s eye. "...it’s much more entertaining than anything else happening in this drab little corner of the afterlife."
Rosie finally turned away from the window, her silhouette disappearing into the red haze of the Pride Ring. She had seen enough for today. Alastor was still Alastor, even if he was playing a different part. But the seeds he had planted, the discarded bits, the batteries, the mindless puppets, those would linger long after her perfume faded from the air.
Alastor let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He adjusted his bowtie and looked at Charlie. "Now, about those brochures. Shall we use a font that screams Eternal Peace, or something a bit more... permanent?"
The Radio Demon went back to his duties, the static in his soul momentarily quieted by the successful redirection of his own discomfort onto those around him. It was a small victory, but in Hell, one learned to savor the little things. Especially when the big things, like the nature of Paradise itself, were far too terrifying to contemplate for long.