Chapter Text
You stood in front of a mangled corpse that was once your father. The blood was pooling under him and sleeping into the cracks between the wooden panels. Your hand trembled as the bloodied knife slipped from your grip. This is what you wanted to do.
Your knees buckled from under you as you looked at his face. No longer able to recognize him. You didn't even know you had it within you to do this kind of thing. “Don't act so surprised. He deserved it.” The shadow of a staticy voice spoke to you. Alastor. He gave you the power to be able to do this. He made it possible for you to murder that bastard.
“You know what to do next.” He said as you caught the glimpse of your discarded knife. That was the deal. He would help you with killing your father and you would give him your soul. And that meant doing anything he wanted you to.
You were of no use to him alive. He made that much clear, and you were sure you were gonna get caught so the only way out was death. You took the knife back into your trembling hand and swallowed thickly.
“Come on dear, no need to get cold feet now.” He taunted you. You could feel shadows creep up on you. It sent a shiver down your spine. The shadows coiled around your wrist, bringing it closer to your throat. He couldn't kill you. You knew that much, but it didn't stop the hitch of your breath.
You shut your eyes and took a deep breath, then with one swift move you sliced your throat.
The world went silent before it went dark. The sound of your body hitting the floor was muffled, like it happened underwater. Your blood spread quickly, pooling beside your father’s. Oh the irony. You were always afraid he was going to kill you one day, and now you killed him before ending your own life. You would've laughed if you could.
Your vision flickered — once, twice — and then the floor beneath you dissolved into static snow. Then you felt yourself falling. The space around you turned red. You blinked a couple times to clear your vision before hitting the floor. Surprisingly you seemed unscathed. Looking around you saw a red sky and a pentagram spreading across it. You also noticed you were in a city. It seemed like a contorted version of a normal city. Everything was more hellish. Your eyes widened. You were in hell. How could you forget?
With difficulty, you managed to stand up and dust yourself off. Your throat still hurt, although it was now more of an ache. Bearable but annoying.
You heard static behind you and immediately turned around. You had never seen Alastor, just heard his voice and seen the silhouette of his shadow, but now he was standing right in front of you.
“Well, well, well,” he purred, his voice lilting with that ever-present sing-song cadence. “Looks like my favorite little soul made it down here in one piece.” He looked you over, his gaze lingering on your throat. “More or less.”
You opened your mouth, but your voice came out raw and broken, most likely from the way you died. “So this is it? Hell?”
Alastor’s chuckle was like an old vinyl record skipping. “Oh, my dear, this is just the beginning! Hell is a very lively place, I assure you. You’ll find it quite... stimulating if you know where to look.” He clasped his hands together, the sound of crackling static following the motion. “Now then, how does it feel to be free of dear old Dad? Well not quite free, he's down here with you now as well, ha ha!” There was a laugh track playing, it seemed from nowhere.
Your stomach twisted at his words — he’s down here too? — but you couldn’t bring yourself to look terrified in front of him. Not when he was the one who dragged you into this bargain in the first place.
Alastor’s grin only widened at your silence. “Oh, don’t look so glum, my dear! You won!” he exclaimed, spreading his arms wide as if presenting the entire damned city to you. “You escaped his control, his cruelty, his… oh, what’s the word?” His head tilted sharply, grin twitching. “Ah yes — disappointment!”
You clenched your fists. “You said I’d be free.” Your voice rasped through your damaged throat, more air than sound. “You said—”
“I said you’d be done with him,” Alastor interrupted cheerfully, stepping closer. The smell of ozone and the sound of static made your skin prickle. “And you are! You don't have to play by his rules anymore. You're in hell, as free as can be with your soul owned by me.”
Alastor’s grin didn’t falter — it never did — but something behind his eyes flickered, sharp and knowing. “You should be grateful, darling. Most people who wind up down here don’t even get the courtesy of being introduced to Hell.”
You swallowed hard, your throat burning as if the knife were still lodged there. “Grateful?” you rasped, your voice cracking into a bitter laugh. “For what? For dying? For this?” You gestured to the skyline — the jagged buildings, the blood-red glow, the constant hum of chaos that seemed to pulse through the air like a heartbeat.
Alastor’s grin didn’t waver, but the shadows around his feet rippled in amusement. “For opportunity!” he declared, stepping closer, his tone like a radio host introducing a grand show. “You see, my dear, Hell is a punishment for most, yes. But for a select few like myself, it’s a stage!” His arms spread wide, and the static in the air crescendoed into a hiss. “And every sinner has their part to play. Yours, however, is special.”
You took an involuntary step back. “Special?”
“Why yes!” Alastor’s grin sharpened. “Not everyone gets to start their second life in debt to me.”
He leaned forward slightly, voice lowering — though his tone stayed deceptively bright. “I didn’t choose you at random. There’s potential in you. You’ve already proven you can take a life — even one that held power over you. That sort of resolve is rare.”
You felt the air around you tighten, the city itself seeming to listen. “What do you want from me?” you asked, though part of you already knew the answer.
His eyes glowed a bright, unnatural red. “Oh, nothing too difficult. Just… entertainment.”
Your blood went cold. “Entertainment?”
Alastor’s chuckle was like an old radio tuning between frequencies. “You see, Hell can be so dreadfully dull. Screams, fire, guilt — it gets repetitive after a few decades. But you — oh, you, my dear — you bring something fresh. Chaos, pain, regret…” He inhaled theatrically, as if savoring a scent. “Delicious!”
He turned around with pep in his step. “Come along now, my dear.” He beckoned you to follow him. “As much as I enjoy a riveting conversation we should probably do it off the streets.”
You hesitated. The streets of the city stretched endlessly in every direction — a mess of neon lights, flickering signs, and the constant hum of chaos. The air itself felt alive, pressing against your skin like static. Every instinct screamed at you not to follow him… but where else could you go? He owned you and you were scared of what that insinuated down here.
Your bare feet scraped against the hot pavement as you trailed after Alastor. Or rather hooves. You looked down as you heard the click they made as you walked. You nearly stumbled.
“Careful now, wouldn't want a dear like you falling.” He looked back at you to see what happened to make you stumble. Seeing your confused face as you stared at your hooves he laughed. “Ah yes, the transformation. After you die your body… adjusts, so to speak. I'll lend you a mirror after we’re at our destination.”
Alastor hummed as he led the way, his cane tapping rhythmically against the cracked pavement. The sound echoed like the ticking of a warped metronome. You followed silently, your mind reeling from the speculation of how you might look like right now.
Then you could finally see why this was hell. As you walked you finally saw people. Well, twisted versions of people. Some with animal features, some just plain disturbing. You literally saw someone get attacked without anyone so much as reacting. You turned your face before you could see what fate awaited the poor soul.
You quickened your pace until you were nearly at Alastor’s shoulder, as if being closer to the monster who owned your soul was somehow safer than being anywhere near the chaos around you. Your hooves clicked faster against the pavement, uneven and shaky, but you didn’t dare fall behind.
“Eyes forward, darling,” Alastor chimed without even turning around. “The sights here can be… distracting. And you strike me as the type who’s a bit squeamish.” He clicked his tongue twice. “Though that will change with time. In here you either adapt or you die.”
You clenched your jaw and kept walking.
Finally, he came to a stop in front of a tall, narrow building wedged between two others. At the top sat a radio tower. You could only guess what he broadcasted from up there.
“Home sweet home,” Alastor announced, pushing open the door with a theatrical bow. “After you.”
You stepped inside cautiously, looking around the space.
The interior was… surprisingly cozy.
If cozy meant ‘a rustic hunting lodge swallowed by a haunted broadcast station.’
Warm red light glowed from lanterns strapped to the walls by vintage wires. Deer antlers — real or fake, you couldn’t tell — hung down from carved wooden plaques. A radio in the corner crackled softly with a swing tune you didn’t recognize.
Alastor breezed past you, humming along, his cane tapping in beat with the tune. “Do make yourself at home, my dear. It’s not often I extend my hospitality to newcomers. Consider it a… welcome package of sorts.”
You looked around again, arms curling close to your chest. Your eyes scan every little detail, like how the place seemed decrepit but also in pristine condition at the same time. As if it was meant to look abandoned. “This is your place?”
Alastor paused mid-hum, turning toward you with that ever-present, Cheshire-sharp grin. “Why yes! I do need a place to be able to broadcast, it’s very important to me as the Radio Demon.” His voice dropped into a low, pleased rumble, as though he were showing off a prized possession. “I also find it… pleasant to have a place where I won’t be bothered by your average sinner. A venue for quiet—” he punctuated the word with a jazzy flourish of his hand, “—reflection.”
He stepped further in, the lights flickering in response as if greeting him. Shadows pooled at his heels like obedient pets. “Speaking of reflections!”
He snapped his fingers.
A shadow slithered forward, stretching and rising until it formed a jagged, rippling rectangle of darkness. Its surface brightened into a mirror. The glassy surface shimmered like a disturbed puddle before solidifying into something reflective.
Alastor gestured toward it with an extravagant flourish.
“Go on, dear. Take a look. I’m simply dying to see your reaction.”
You swallowed, throat aching, and stepped forward.
Short, velvety fur covered your cheeks and trailed down your neck, a pale cream that faded into darker tones along your jawline. Your ears were tall and tapered, twitching unconsciously at every little crackle coming from the radio in the corner. Even just seeing them move made something in your stomach twist.
Horns curled back from your head, smooth and sharp-tipped, small for now but unmistakable. Your eyes were yellow and had horizontal slits for pupils.
Although the most distinct feature was your stitched up throat. It looked like the way you died has followed you to the afterlife. You touched the stitches. It ached a little but didn't hurt as much as you expected it to.
Behind you, Alastor let out an approving hum. “Marvelous, isn’t it? Death often brings out a sinner’s… truest self.” His reflection in the mirror didn’t match his real posture — its grin was too wide, its eyes too bright, the head tilting in choppy, unnatural increments like a broken video reel.
You tore your gaze from the mirror. “So I’m a goat now?”
Alastor suddenly now had a book on goat species in his hand. “Not quite. What exactly you are right now is a Chamois.” He hummed as he read the entry.
Alastor flipped a page, then another, humming like this was all a delightful curiosity and not your entire existence being rewritten. “Mountain-dwelling, nimble, excellent climbers… ah! And terribly good at fleeing predators.” He snapped the book shut with a crackle of radio static. “How poetic. You spent your whole life dodging danger, my dear. Now you get to embody it.”
You bristled. “I didn’t choose this.”
His grin curled, sharp and amused. “No one does. But Hell chooses for you. And isn’t that half the fun?” He snapped his fingers again and both the mirror and the book disappeared. “Now, I do have a broadcast to do. Make yourself at home.”
The light seemed to dim, shadows stretching behind Alastor. His tone then turned darker as he leaned closer to you. “But you’re not allowed to leave.”
Then everything went back to normal as he straightened back up, his grin smoothing back into its usual theatrical charm. Your ears flicked back instinctively, your new instincts pulling at you in a way you didn’t recognize. Fight or flight — chamois or not, the urge to bolt made your hooves shift against the floor.
Alastor noticed instantly.
“Ohhh,” he crooned, drawing out the sound as if tasting it, “don’t look at me like that, my dear. I won’t hurt you.” His grin widened. “Not unless you give me a reason to.”
That didn’t help.
Alastor chuckled — not kindly, never kindly — and turned away as if your fear were nothing more than a charming garnish to his evening. He strode toward the stairs. Going up he left you alone.
The sound of his footsteps faded upstairs, leaving you alone with the crackling lanterns and the faint hum of the radio in the corner. You took a cautious step forward, the soft click of your hooves sounding unnervingly loud in the quiet space. Your heart hammered in your chest, ears swiveling at every small creak of the floorboards.
Instinctively, you hugged yourself — well, not exactly yourself anymore — your slender, fur-covered shoulders pressing against one another. You looked at the couch that was under one of the plaques with antlers. You were exhausted mentally, a little nap might do you good.
You eased toward the couch like it might bite you if you moved too fast. The cushions dipped under your weight, softer than you expected in a place like this.
The moment you let your muscles relax, the exhaustion hit you like a wave.
Your throat pulsed with a dull ache. Your ears slowly sank back, no longer perked in alarm. The ambient hum of the radio softened into background noise.
You closed your eyes.
Just for a second.
The second stretched.
Your breathing steadied.
Before you knew it you were fast asleep.
——————————
Alastor didn’t know what was wrong with him. He has never let anyone into his home, let alone a freshly contracted soul. He was going to let you do whatever you wanted and call on you whenever he wanted some entertainment or use out of you. Just like he did to every soul he owned.
But now?
Now he found himself standing at the top of the stairs, cane tapping idly against the wooden floor as he stared down at the main room of his personal domain. He could see you from here — curled awkwardly on his couch, limbs tucked close, the faint rise and fall of your breaths almost… peaceful.
Peace. In his home.
How nauseatingly quaint.
He wasn’t even sure why he’d stopped mid-step on the landing. He had a show to prepare. He had a city to torment. He had no business lingering, observing, studying you like some strange specimen that had wandered into his territory.
And yet here he was, observing your sleeping form.
He shouldn’t be watching you.
Alastor knew that. He knew it the way he knew the rhythm of every scream in Hell, the way he knew exactly how long his broadcasts would run for. He knew it like instinct — predators didn’t linger over sleeping prey. They struck or they walked away.
But he didn’t move.
Static murmured faintly under his skin, rippling in displeasure at his hesitation. His fingers drummed once against his cane, a sharp metronome tick that echoed down the stairwell.
“This is absurd,” he muttered to himself with a grin that flashed too many teeth.
You shifted in your sleep at the sound — a tiny, involuntary motion — your ear twitching, your shoulders curling in as though bracing for something. Even unconscious, you were wound tight with the echo of fear.
Alastor immediately shut up, not making a noise. Confused at why. He didn’t want to wake you. Why was he being so… gentle?
Alastor’s grin twitched — not faltered, not softened, just… twitched. A small, tight glitch in the radio signal of his expression.
Gentle.
The very thought made something dark and amused and irritated coil in his chest.
Ridiculous.
He was not gentle. He was not capable of being gentle. Every kindness he had ever shown in his life, breathing or dead, had always been calculated, sharpened, coated in layers of cruel intention. He offered safety only to create dependency. He offered warmth only to make the cold bite deeper when he withdrew it. That was who he was. That was what made him powerful.
And yet… here he was, lowering the volume of his own presence so as not to startle a terrified newly fallen sinner who couldn’t even manage to walk steadily on hooves.
Your breathing eased back into its steady pattern. You didn’t wake.
Alastor sighed. He was going to have to think about this later. He had a broadcast to do.
He adjusted his bowtie — more out of habit than necessity — and finally tore his gaze away from the sight of you sleeping on his couch. His domain. His territory. His space.
He turned fully toward the upper level, cane tapping once more as he ascended. Each step seemed to steady him, pulling him back into the familiar rhythm of who he was. The Radio Demon. The embodiment of chaos wrapped in charm. The monster who did not hesitate and certainly did not second-guess.