Chapter Text
Alastor stumbles through the wreckage of Charlie's hotel, the business they'd built together little more than a pile of smoking rubble now. His knees buckle when he tries to recenter himself. He knew he couldn't beat Adam, not realistically, but he had hoped to buy the residents of the hotel and Rosie's cannibals more time than he had. And oh, if the irritation on Adam's face wasn't worth every moment of delicious torment. If he wasn't on his leash, maybe....
But it was not to be.
Coughing blood, Alastor heaves in air and clutches his chest. The crimson liquid oozes out between his fingers. He crawls to his feet, his vision blurry and the wretched facsimile of a heartbeat pounding in his chest. His internal radio crackles concerningly.
So, Alastor Altruist dies for his friends, hmm? Alastor thinks blithely.
That won't be how this ends. He'll live, probably, if only just. Alastor staggers into the twisted frame of his radio tower, barely swallowing down an agonized noise as his chest touches the metal. Radio static buzzes around him and his shadow spreads up the closed door of the tower. Alastor would scoff at the concerned downturn of its jagged mouth if it wouldn't make him cough up more blood. Bleeding as he is, he doesn't have much to spare. His shadow tugs at him, urging him to go back, to seek help, but when Alastor remains where he is, quaking with exhaustion, it instead gives the door a push. If Alastor dies, he would rather it be somewhere secluded, somewhere no one will worry over him and prolong the inevitable. He climbs into the tower.
Under the stress of his injuries, his hold on his demonic powers begins to slip. His limbs lengthen and his slavering jaw unhinges. The wound across his chest grows with him, but the pain eases when pitted against the fettered pool of energy fighting back his weakness. It will take time, and lots of it, to heal a wound of this magnitude—maybe too much. Soon, he has to bend his limbs to fit within the confines of his radio tower.
It takes effort to keep himself from morphing further, his shadow climbing the wall behind him with a pained smile. It chitters lowly, keeping vigil as black spots slowly encroach on Alastor's vision.
"Oh, my dear friend," Alastor croaks, stifling a grunt and sinking to his knees. Feedback squeals softly from his person when it jostles his injuries. "You worried little thing."
The shadow bends low when Alastor's power calms and he shrinks back into his normal form. He can hardly see now as he slips down onto his side. His shadow swirls anxiously. It even goes as far as to gently nudge him back toward the door. It's not as though Alastor wants to die, but accepting help has never been a strong suit of his. One too many betrayals soured him to most interaction both with people and the other denizens of hell. Deals are easier, clear-cut, and he maintains control.
People are... messy.
A mildly hysterical giggle leaves his grinning maw, accompanied by canned laughter. Both literally and metaphorically from a cannibal's perspective.
His shadow nudges him again, a wordless plea for him to get up, to move and tend himself at the very least. Alastor tries. He truly does, but when he attempts to push himself up with his arms, his right hand slips in the blood pooling beneath his chest and he goes down again. Pain lights through his senses at the impact.
The last thing he sees is his shadow pooling around him. It can't save him. Maybe no one can.
After all, redemption is wacky nonsense.