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Vox, pulling back the curtain that closed off the backstage area, watched the enthusiastic, teeming crowd below; a congregation there for his rally roared in approval. Vox, the screen-faced Overlord, gazed at the spectacle in awe, his static-covered body trembling with pride.
He turned from the window with a triumphant buzz, sidling up to Valentino, who was fussing over a rack of copper colored dancer wigs.
“How do I look, Val?” Vox demanded, the question more a confirmation than a query.
Valentino, a creature of lust and toxic allure, ceased his work. He drifted forward, his movements languid and predatory, bending low to hook a single finger under Vox’s chin. “Not bad,” he purred, a smoky chuckle escaping his lungs. “You clean up nicely for a tv.”
Vox cleared his throat with a sharp electronic sizzle and irritably detached himself from his partner’s grasp. “I know. So, you have the dancers ready?”
Porn Overlord’s response was a seductive hum and a deliberately exaggerated sway of his hips. It was some sort of affirmation that lacked any substance.
Vox’s screen flickered with barely concealed annoyance. “And..?”
Moth sinner finally straightened, understanding the seriousness of the other, and spread his feathered arms wide, his nose held high. “Tens, plus one eight for ‘diversity’,” he announced, turning towards the exit, though not leaving.
“Good man,” the Media Overlord muttered, already forgetting the logistics, his attention caught by a subtle friction.
Behind him, Alastor, the supposedly willingly prisoner of his, gave a gentle heave. The chair he was tied to scraped silently across the polished floor, rolling him right up to Vox’s oblivious back.
“Are you sure you want to present yourself like this to all of hell?” the Radio Demon’s voice was low like a resonant broadcast, laced with the sweet poison of pure contempt. He leaned back, utterly relaxed despite his bonds, banking on the Overlord’s brittle ego.
Show off. All hat and no cattle, the deer demon thought to himself.
Vox hearing the mockery recoiled slightly. “Pardon?”
Alastor ignored the stutter but his crimson eyes were gleaming with satisfaction. “Flocked by your partners,” he continued, a dramatic rotation of the chair allowing him to survey the room with theatrical pleasure. “With their far more impressive contribution to your flashy little clown show.” The chair spun back, stopping his spine inches from Vox. He leaned forward. “What really are you contributing besides... Noise?”
His screen flickered just for a second, then his reaction shifted between mocking, laughing, and stuttering. He clutched his stomach in mock amusement. “I’m the face?” A glitching, garish hologram flared up behind him, in the corner ‘FUCK YOU, AL’ was written in a jagged font. “The face of revolution. Where the fuck have you been?”
Alastor tilted his chair side to side, maintaining his infuriatingly ignorant posture. “Yes, but still, if that’s all...” He left the sentence on the air, a hook deliberately baited to snag the Overlord’s deep seated insecurity. Though he faced away, Alastor could perfectly envision the dissatisfaction curdling on Vox’s screen.
Ah, old friend. Always obsessed with presentation, with the veneer of control. Chasing authority with the energy of a panicked weasel, mistaking volume for power. Such pity.
His fragile ego was precisely why the deer chose this very cage he, himself, had created. His soul contract was an inconvenient chain, yes but to dismantle the Vee’s from the inside out? That was a performance worthy of his talents. To make Vox the top dog for a mere moment, only to make him vulnerable without the other two counterparts of his…
A tool, indeed, to achieve his own liberation.
Vox pointed dramatically at the stage area, oblivious to the deeper machinations and demanded; “You think they could’ve pulled this off without me?”
Alastor turned back, his gaze flat and critical, waiting for the hook to be caught. Vox instantly corrected his posture and got baited. “It’s me who made this happen. I have the vision–”
“I have vision,” Valentino interjected sharply, suddenly reappearing behind Vox, his brow furrowed beneath his pink, heart-shaped goggles. How ugly, the deer curled his lips in disgust though still remained smiling somehow.
Vox glanced at the moth’s glasses with a dismissive air. “Sure, you do,” he drawled sardonically.
Alastor’s smile stretched, taking pleasure in the visible fraying of their alliance.
Valentino sniped back, incensed by the tone, “Mm-hmm.”
Radio Demon met his old friend’s eyes, raised his eyebrows expectantly, then cast a meaningful glance at the normally lustful overlord, as if it were silent, damning confirmation that his previous assessment was correct.
Vox gave a low, frustrated growl. The tension was thick, cutting through the backstage’s stale air.
“I should get the dancers camera-ready,” Valentino announced, turning on his heel. He paused, turning back towards Vox. “See you out there?”
Vox, still fixated on Alastor, waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder. “Absolutely.”
Alastor didn’t say anything, just let his gaze sharpen and gave a mocking arch to his eyebrows. Vox, loathing the implication that the Radio Demon had been right, finally broke eye contact and hurried after the pimp.
“Actually, Val, how about you and Velvette manage backstage? Can’t have any mistakes in the presentation, I can handle the crowd–”
“You don’t want us coming out?” Valentino’s voice rose, laced with sudden, potent jealousy.
Checkmate, Alastor mused. The cracks are showing. A ‘leader’ divided cannot stand, especially a ‘leader’ built on cheap digital projections.
Ahh, if his staff wasn’t fucking broken he’d made a laughter effect just to amuse himself.
Vox, quickly smoothing his crimson fur, adopted a falsely sweet tone. “Just not right away. Don’t worry, you’ll have your time,” he cooed, punctuating the reassurance with a swift slap to Valentino’s posterior. “Thanks, babe.” He spun around without waiting for a reply.
Valentino stared, his expression twisting into a snarl. “Sureeee,” he drawled, his chuckles laced with thick, sarcastic bile. “Babe.” He stalked out, slamming the door.
His old friend immediately marched back to Alastor, placing a proprietary hand on the back of the Radio Demon’s chair. He leaned close. “See? I’m in charge here.” He straightened smoothly then, adjusting his bowtie as he prepared to leave.
Alastor, gazing down at his crossed ankles, a flicker of true thought crossing his face, murmured; “I suppose that’s something. Excuses and lies seem to still be your speciality.”
Vox looked over his shoulder, a small, triumphant smile playing on his screen. “I try.” And with that, he left.
Obnoxious. Pompous. Piece of shit. Television.
Alastor’s serene smile remained, just as it always did. His shadow, previously a docile silhouette, swelled and writhed behind the chair, stretching up towards the ceiling in a silent, monstrous laugh.
The door burst open again. Surprisingly it wasn’t the screen-headed one, huh, Velvette stood there, her fashionable little heighted body was crackling with a furious grimace. The pimp stumbled in right after her, clutching his arm where a diamond-tipped heel had clearly landed.
“You idiot!” Velvette shrieked at Valentino, utterly ignoring the Radio Demon who was sitting on a chair across them. “The whole point was to show unity! That we are the future! Now we’re back here sulking because that overgrown antenna is getting more screen time! Why didn’t you fucking refuse him?! You just let him slap your ass and walk off like you’re his fucking bitch! Ah but the blame is on me because you ARE his bitch!"
Valentino roared back, his usual seductive veneer instantly stripped away to reveal raw, petty anger. “What do you want me to do! He’s a showman and I am a director, I direct these things; it’s the real shit! What use could a small stage play possibly have?” He took a threatening step toward her. “Besides us two, what do you do? You think you’re so smart? You’d be nothing without my models for you to dress! I am the foundation of our wealth!”
“Oh, please! You’re nothing but a glorified pimp!” Velvette spat, waving a dismissive, diamond-tipped hand. “I find the weaknesses, Val! I’m the one who provides the intelligence that let Vox craft his whole little uprising speech! The King of Hell is a toothless wonder!" Her voice dropped slightly, though still laced with venom. “Only if you exploited that info after this fucking fuckshow!”
“Oh fuck you,” Valentino hissed, pointing a trembling finger at her. “That information came from my property, Vel! Angel Dust is my contract! I am the one who squeezes truths out of that little spider after he comes back after that shitty hotel!” He grabbed his silk collar, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. “Don’t you dare act like that vital piece of intel about Lucifer’s limitations within harming sinners belongs to you! It’s mine!”
Lucifer can’t touch a single Sinner.
The words, though distorted by their spite and selfish ownership, hit Alastor with the force of a revelation. The petty bickering of the Vees vanished, replaced by a profound, echoing silence in the deer demon’s mind. His smile, that fixed, theatrical mask, became perfectly, chillingly still, stripped of all its usual, playful mirth.
It was a divine clause; a fundamental, inescapable restriction placed upon the King of Hell, the one who defied Heaven itself of all things. Of course.
Of fucking course.
Alastor had always suspected something lay beneath the surface of Lucifer Morningstar’s erratic behavior. His distant, almost ‘hands-off’ approach to the politics and population of Hell, even his disinterest in other rings acting in his stead as far as the Overlord heard from his cannibal counterpart.
It had always felt too deliberate for mere apathy.
The King rarely interfered directly, he never sought to dismantle the Overlords -if he tried Alastor would be the first in line hah- or crush minor revolts with his angelic power. He was, to all outward appearances, a glorified mascot for his own domain.
But now, the scattered pieces of the puzzle have come together. It was never the likeness of a weakness of a King, instead a rule forced upon him.
A King must govern, not let others destroy his own subjects. That was the unspoken contract with creation, the divine handcuff placed on the one who dared to challenge the cosmos.
Whereas Alastor himself? He had built his entire reign, the terrifying legacy of the Radio Demon, by filling that specific vacuum of authority. He had devoured and destroyed sinners with impunity. He had enforced the brutal, shifting will of the hierarchy without question or restraint.
He was doing that little parade before he learned all of this grand secret and he’ll be doing it after he learned about it as well.
So why not benefit from it?
The sudden realization was catastrophic, it gave him a glorious jolt of energy. The original soul binding contract between him and Rosie, or the little wordplay with Vox, had to end so he could play this game and get back on top again.
Once he figures out how to unclip his wings, he’ll be the one pulling all the strings. Just as it always has been.
He wasn’t merely a powerful Overlord recruited into the fold. He was the contingency.
And in this play, he was necessary.
At the back of his inner monologue, Velvette continued to rage, her voice sharp and metallic; “-And now you gave him the right to act as a single unit, Val! And now the two of us will fucking pay for it!”
Valentino, eyes flashing pink with fury, bent down to her eye level and shoved his face close to hers. “We’ll pay for nothing! He’ll be doing the propaganda just right because it’s his expertise, if Lucifer can’t fight the uprising, boo-fucking-hoo, then the sinners have no King! We will take his crown!”
The crown, huh? Alastor’s smile sharpened, pulling tight against his cheekbones. These fools saw an empty throne. They saw a chance to replace the King who was a fucking angel. But Alastor saw something infinitely more valuable: leverage.
The uprising was not a threat to him but it was the perfect stage.
The King of Hell, Lucifer Morningstar, was now in a position of delicious vulnerability.
He could not defend his authority against his own subjects without breaking a fundamental rule, potentially triggering a catastrophic response from Heaven, or perhaps, he simply couldn’t defend it altogether. He needed a proxy, a deniable asset, an executioner whose power flowed from an entirely separate source.
How wonderfully inconvenient for His Majesty.
Alastor’s shadow pulsed behind him, a hungry, living thing eager to be released. This wasn’t merely about surviving his short sighted confinement or even breaking his soul contract with Rosie. This was about elevating his status. This was about confirming his indispensable role in the delicate, wicked balance of Hell.
The Radio Demon was not just a threat to the Vees. He was the only practical way for the Morningstar to retain control.
Alastor leaned forward slowly in his chair, his eyes fixed on the distant curtain that separated the backstage chaos from the roaring rally. The time for theatrics was long before over for him. The game had just become deadly serious, and he, Alastor, held the crucial winning card. He needed to escape, not to hide but to make a proposition.
A deal. From a deal-maker such as himself.
The pimp was screaming now, grabbing Velvette’s collar. “It’s mine! The contract is mine, the leverage is mine, and I’ll use it to–”
Before he could finish, a soundless tear appeared in the air beside Alastor’s chair. His shadow, acting on instinct and silent command, ripped through the binding ropes like wet paper. Alastor stood up, completely unrestrained and the shadow quickly absorbed the remnants of the chair, leaving no trace.
He did not look at the fighting Overlords. He simply straightened his coat, a faint, almost inaudible static hiss accompanying the movement. The temperature in the room plummeted, the air becoming heavy and cold, thick with ozone and the scent of iron whatsoever.
Alastor melted into the deepest patch of shadow in the room, his crimson form dissolving instantly into the suffocating familiar darkness.
The other two overlords, locked in their petty feud, didn’t even notice the empty space where their partner’s willing prisoner had been. Their yelling continued, filling the room with the noise of their pathetic, self-absorbed rage.
However the studio light dimmed slightly. The static crackle in the air intensified, not from the nearby television equipment, but from an unseen, ancient force. The darkness seemed to breathe for a moment, consuming the space where Alastor had been.
The shadow that swallowed Alastor from Vox’s lair condensed abruptly in the center of a cluttered, quiet space.
Alastor reappeared not with a crash or a flash of brimstone but with the quiet, deliberate snap of a dial turning. The location was his antique shop; a repository of dusty, forgotten horrors and archaic trinkets, a property that technically resided within the boundaries of Vox’s entertainment district.
He straightened his coat once more, surveying the room. It smelled of old wood, brass, and the faint, sweet decay of forgotten souls. He was, by all appearances, a man of his word, honoring the arrangement that kept him nominally within his rival’s jurisdiction.
A deal about to be broken soon enough, Alastor mused, adjusting the microphone attached to his vintage radio console. I allow him the illusion of dominance. I allow him the belief that because my physical holdings are here, my true power is somehow confined.
He ran a clawed finger across the brass face of his microphone. The very concept was laughable. Vox controlled the visuals, the noise, the screen–yes, the loud, ephemeral surface of things. But Alastor controlled the invisible.
The medium is not the message, my dear television.
Radio waves were currents in the air, a fundamental force that predated electric lights and flickering screens. They were modern Hell’s true nervous system, carrying sound and thought across dimensions, across rings even.
Vox used the signal; Alastor was the signal.
Just because he lets Vox use it, doesn’t mean he owns it. The thought was a private, static-laced chuckle that went unbroadcasted. The true power of the Radio Demon extended far beyond a physical location; it existed in the frequencies–radiowaves themselves.
His attention shifted to the purpose of his escape: the King.
Lucifer Morningstar, the embodiment of arrogance, was about to be humiliated not by a rival, but by an inescapable rule of his own making. That had to be a wound only pride could fully feel.
Alastor settled into a worn leather chair, resting his elbow on the console. The wood groaned softly beneath him. He needed the King to leave his isolation, to come to Alastor’s ground.
He is wounded by the revelation that he is ineffective. He fears that Charlie’s little hotel is failing and that his authority is crumbling.
Alastor can understand the most dangerous flaw in the King of Hell.
Pride is the strongest sin, only because he believes it.
He flipped a series of brass switches with surgical precision. Old world tubes began to glow, filling the shop with a low, familiar hum and a distant, whistling hiss of feedback. He bypassed the usual public airwaves, cutting directly into a private, sealed-off frequency that only a King’s communication system would be set to receive: a channel reserved for internal royal edicts.
It was easy, really.
He leaned into the microphone. His voice, once a playful, booming static, was now low, measured, and dangerously serious like an executive decision being made in a war room.
“Testing. Testing. One, two.” A brief, crisp crackle confirmed the line was open.
“Good evening, Your Majesty,” Alastor purred, the title delivered with a challenging deference. He waited three silent seconds, imagining the little King snatching up his private receiver in his lonely palace, irritated yet intrigued.
“I trust your retreat is proving adequately miserable!” He let his gaze drift across the rows of silent, dead antiques, his smile sharp and predatory. “I’m broadcasting directly to your personal frequency, bypassing the usual tedious noise of our dearie Ring. Forgive the intrusion, but time is, as they say, of the essence and quite frankly, you are running out of it!”
Alastor shifted slightly in his chair, the leather groaning beneath his weight. His crimson eyes gleamed, focusing on the unseen recipient. Do not present a problem, present a crisis that only I can manage for you.
“The issue of the uprising, and your restrictions regarding the immediate Sinner populace, has been publicly exploited by a group of loud, uncultured c̸̺͈͑̃̚͝h̶̘̏̈́̈́̕a̶͔͚͖̅̀̓r̶̙͕͑͘͜ḷ̶̗̠̲̒́ǎ̵͇̓͌ẗ̸͙́̏ȁ̴͇͒̀͗n̴̯͚̗̈́͌̆̏s̶̛͓̳,” he stated, allowing his voice to fill with genuine contempt for the Vees. “Your enemies have made your vulnerability, I should say, a central piece of their pathetic little coup.”
He tapped a clawed finger lightly against the microphone, the sound a faint, staccato rhythm against the low broadcast hum. Whilst he paused, letting the word ‘restrictions’ strike deep. He knew nothing would infuriate Sin of Pride more than the suggestion that his formidable power was somehow restricted.
“Allow me to be frank, Sire. They are confusing a limitation with weakness. The distinction, of course, is everything. And it is a distinction that must be violently, publicly, and swiftly re-established before the Sinners forget who truly controls their miserable existence here.”
He leaned closer to the microphone, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, yet still carrying the chilling resonance of a radio broadcast.
“I am currently in my premises in the Entertainment District, Your Majesty. Now, I do believe I’ve cooked up something rather elegant; an effective, comprehensive solution to this little bout of political wobbling. A way to silence the noise, quite publicly at that and restore the glorious perception of your infallible might. Think of it not as cruelty but as surgical precision! A trim here, a touch-up there – ensuring the integrity of the Morningstar name remains pristine while someone else handles the mess.”
He paused, allowing the weight of that statement to settle.
“Come and see me. And I assure you, my solution requires your immediate, undivided attention. Do not delay, Sire, after all Pride is a fragile thing when left undefended.”
Both yourself and the Ring.
Alastor’s smile was wider now, an expression of ultimate confidence. He delayed just one second, then with the silent turn of a brass switch the line went dead.
Now, he just needed to wait.
⛧⛧⛧
He didn’t wait much.
The air in the antique shop shifted, the sharp, metallic ozone scent of Alastor’s magic suddenly clashing with a scent that belonged to a sweeter, more innocent—angelic—sulphur masked by warm apple pie. With a weary sigh that seemed to carry the crushing weight of fallen stars, Lucifer Morningstar materialized at the entrance.
The Devil stepped into the dusty, dim interior of the antique shop. He looked out of place among the rot and rusted metal; as a pristine, white clad figure radiating a faint, depressed glow. He didn’t look like a ruler who had come to crush a rebellion but rather a man who had been dragged out of bed to deal with a noise complaint.
Alastor didn’t rise immediately. He was busy pouring a dark, viscous liquid into two chipped teacups.
“You’re hard to reach, Alastor,” Lucifer muttered, kicking a small, cursed doll out of his path. “And you have terrible taste in real estate. It smells like old people and despair in here.”
“It’s called ‘ambiance’, Your Majesty. A concept sadly lost on the modern generation,” Alastor replied, his voice smooth, the static low and purring. He extended a cup. “Rye? Or perhaps something stronger? I find raw spirits help with the burden of existence.”
Lucifer waved the cup away, leaning against a shelf filled with jars of eyeballs. “Skip the pleasantries, Alastor, you said you had a solution. I thought I’d be done with you but instead that Box guy is outside screaming my daughter’s name and frankly, I have a headache. What is this ‘surgical measure’ you’re boasting about?"
Alastor took a slow sip, savoring the burn. He wouldn’t give it away cheaply. He needed to lead the horse to water and make it think drinking was its own idea.
“The problem, Sire, is not the noise,” Alastor began, standing up and walking around the counter, his cane tapping rhythmically. “The problem is the optics. You cannot strike them down. If you do, you validate their claim that you are a tyrant breaking the laws of your own punishment. If you don’t, which you can’t aha, you are weak! A classic stalemate, if you want my humble opinion.”
“I know the situation for millennias you think this is the first coup staged by–” Lucifer snapped, his wings fluttering slightly beneath his coat. “I can’t touch the sinners. It’s a punishment for me. Call it what you want. I can’t incinerate them, no matter how annoying they get.”
So him falling to Hell wasn’t the only punishment, as he was left unable to harm any of the sinners so he would have to be left with them for all of eternity.
Hilarious. He was starting to like God’s humor, rare that was.
“Precisely,” Alastor agreed. “But I can.”
Lucifer scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You? You’re an Overlord, sure. Powerful for a mortal soul. But against all of Hell? Against an army of uprising sinners including more than three overlords? You’d be overrun in a day. You’re strong, Alastor, but you’re not– that strong. I have the Goetia. I have the Sins. I don’t need a Sinner Overlord telling me how to delegate.”
“Don’t you?” Alastor countered sharply, stopping in his tracks. The shadows in the room seemed to lean in, listening. “The Goetia are busy bickering over their heirs and social standings. And the other Sins? They are kings in their own Rings, unconcerned with the rabble of Pride. And in the epicenter of the chaos, you, here, you are alone.”
The King stiffened. The truth of it hung in the air.
“But, us sinners,” Alastor mused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “A Sinner is fragile. Their souls are messy, stitched together by trauma and vice. To channel the will of a Seraph, to act as the axe of the king surely, a common soul would shatter under the pressure.”
Morningstar narrowed his eyes, more suspicious now. “What are you trying to get at, Bambi?”
Alastor stepped closer, his smile widening –grimace more like–, revealed teeth that look too sharp, too numerous for a deer.
This is the pivot, the Demon thought, the static in his mind buzzing with anticipation. If he alters my fundamental makeup... if he changes the very nature of what I am...
His mind flashed briefly to Rosie. Dear, sweet, dangerous Rosie, who held the chain to his neck. A contract binds a “sinner” that was true but if he were no longer just a sinner? If he became something... else? A contract cannot bind a creature that no longer exists in the form it was signed. A transformation would be a loophole. A glorious, violent liberation in itself.
You cannot hold a wolf with a leash made for a dog. A Sinner’s soul contract cannot bind an entity of higher design.
He circled the King, like a shark circling a confused swimmer. “You are a creator on your own, are you not? You crafted the other Deadly Sins. Asmodeus, Satan, Beelzebub and the rest—they were not born, they were made. Molded from the raw clay of your own power.”
Lucifer frowned, looking at his own gloved hands. “I can’t make you Hellborn, Bambi,” the King snapped, crossing his arms defensively. “You died, found yourself here due to your sins. Your soul is sinner-stock. That’s immutable. I can’t just rewrite the laws of death.”
“Immutable?” Alastor laughed, a sound like a radio skipping a track, distorted and jarring. “Coming from the angel who introduced free will to mankind? How rigid.”
The Radio Demon circled the King, his shadow elongating against the walls, forming a towering, horned silhouette that dwarfed them both.
“Why not an Archdemon, sire?” Alastor proposed, his voice dropping to a whisper. “There are lots of those ‘Archs’ in Heaven, it seems. Why shouldn’t Hell have a counterpart? A being of your own design, elevated from the muck, beholden only to the King.”
Lucifer looked taken aback, a flicker of hesitation in his golden eyes. He looked at his own hands, the hands that had once shaped stars and now only made rubber ducks. “Tha–that would violate the boundaries of my punishment. Plus, it goes against the natural order established by–”
“Ṫ̴̜̫̄h̸̛͇̯̏i̴̦͆s̷̤̩̋͘ ̴̞̀i̷͇͕͗s̶̞͍̒ ̵̼͝y̵͕̐̇ǫ̵̨̈̐u̴̯̎́r̶̟̐͆ ̶̦͂t̸̮͉̏̂e̷̙̗̐͌r̷̹̰̀̌r̴̹͔͋ì̵̞͝t̸͙͆̔ǫ̶̓͘ͅr̷̨͊ͅy̸͈͊̈́͜,̸̬̱̍̃” Wendigo-like deer demon’s voice boomed, suddenly amplified, causing the glass in the cabinets to rattle and the dust to jump. Though he composed himself instantly, smoothing his lapel and tilting his head with an owl-like inquisitiveness. “We are beholden to no God here. You fell so you could make your own rules. Or have you forgotten that?”
Lucifer stared at him, stunned. The defiance in Alastor’s tone sparked a dormant memory of his own ancient rebellion, a mirror image of the pride that had cast him down.
Alastor turned away, pretending to examine a rusted bayonet mounted on the wall. He caught his own reflection in the dull metal as a distorted, monstrous grin staring back.
Even if God had to intervene, he wouldn’t in this case, the demon thought, humming a jazz tune he was familiar with.
Because primarily, God is not bound to punish sin; he is bound to destroy sin. The only vengeance worth having on sin is to make the sinner himself its executioner.
And Lucifer was considering it. Because he wanted to break the rules just as much as the demon did.
Who better to police the damned than the monster who rose to the top of the pile? Who better to wield the King’s sword than the one who enjoys the cut?
“You need a weapon,” the Radio Demon said, his voice almost hypnotic. “A weapon that can walk among them. A weapon that is allowed to kill. I am already a killer, my lord. I am simply asking for a better knife.”
Suddenly, a roar erupted from outside. The walls of the antique shop vibrated.
“HELLO, PENTAGRAM CITY!”
It was Vox’s amplified voice, booming through the streets, followed by the cheering of thousands. The noise was deafening, a chaotic symphony of disrespect. The red lights of the rally bled through the cracks in the boarded-up windows.
Lucifer flinched deliberately. The sound of the rally wasn’t just noise; the purpose of itself was a direct attack on his pride. Because it meant to shame his daughter, therefore shame him. Because blood was blood and its burden was beast. And Sin of Pride could not be shamed. He looked at the window, then back at the demon in front of him. The hesitation in his eyes was melting away, replaced by a cold, desperate –Alastor’s words– need for silence.
The Radio Demon leaned in, his face inches from the King’s. “Pride has been living in your misery alone, in a prison of your own making. Are you ready to come out of your shell?”
The King of Hell stared at him. And shoutings outside grew louder. “RESIST! REVOLT!”
The noise seemed to physically pain Lucifer. He flinched, his wings twitching beneath his suit coat. His pride, already bruised, was now being actively salted by a flat-screen TV and all he could feel was one simple emotion.
Shame.
Alastor seized the moment. He turned back to Lucifer, his expression unreadable, his eyes glowing with eldritch intent. He moved smoothly, closing the distance between them, his cane tapping softly.
His Majesty looked at the door, where the sounds of the uprising were growing louder: a testament to his failure. Then he looked back at the deer demon who stood tall, unafraid and offering a way out.
The King took a shaky breath. The resignation washed over him, followed by a surge of something darker.
“You want me to say it?” Lucifer asked, his voice quiet, defeated, yet laced with a new dangerous resolve.
Alastor leaned in, his ears twitching with anticipation. He savored the pause, letting the tension stretch until it nearly snapped. Oh, this was better than any broadcast.
“Oh, yes,” the demon whispered, his static purr vibrating in the monarch’s chest. “Ohhh, yes. I want to hear you say it.”
The King took a breath, closing his eyes for a second against the noise of the crowd coming from outside. When he opened them, they were burning with royal gold.
“Okay. I can’t believe I’m about to say this,” Lucifer breathed out, his voice gaining strength. “I see now. I need your help.”
Alastor’s smile split his face, a terrifying crescent of triumph that stretched too wide, too sharp. Green energy crackled around his hand, eldritch symbols floating in the air as he extended his palm towards the King.
“Finally, an agreement!” Alastor declared, his voice booming with the ecstatic energy of a showman starting the main event. “Then let’s make a deal!”
The word ‘deal’ hung in the air, radioactive and heavy.
Lucifer’s reaction was not the handshake Alastor had offered. It was an explosion. The King’s form fractured, the pristine white suit seemingly tearing at the seams as his true, eldritch nature clawed its way out. Six magnificent, terrifying wings erupted from his back, knocking over a shelf of antique radios that crashed to the floor in a cacophony of broken glass and wood.
His eyes, once golden and tired, bled into a full, horrifying crimson with slit pupils. A jagged, spiked tail lashed out, pulverizing a wooden cabinet into splinters.
A mouth full of razor-sharp teeth opened, and a voice that sounded like a choir of screaming angels was shaking the very foundations of the Entertainment District.
“Y̷̙̲̪̎̈͝o̴̪̒͂́ù̷̻̭ ̶̺͑́d̴̤͓̪̒ȃ̴̞̚r̵̜͋e̵̩͚͑?” Lucifer’s voice was no longer human; it was a legion, a distorted overlap of angelic choirs screaming in agony. “Do not presume to trade with me! I am the King of this pit! I do not make ‘deals’ with your likes!”
The pressure in the room was immense, a gravity well of pure, unadulterated pride.
Though Alastor did not flinch. He didn’t even blink really.
He merely tilted his head, his smile remaining fixed, though his antlers grew slightly in response to the aggressive pheromones filling the room. He watched the display of power not with fear, but with the critical eye of a theater critic reviewing a particularly fascinating performance.
The Demon just stood his ground, in fact he looked bored. He calmly used a finger to unplug one of his ears, shaking his head as if clearing water from it.
Theatrics, Alastor thought, unimpressed. Always the theatrics with these types. He feels his authority threatened, so he puffs up like a frightened blowfish. Predictable.
“Oh, put those away, you’re knocking over my merchandise,” Alastor drawled, his voice cutting through the divine roar with a layer of unimpressed static. He gestured casually with his cane, as if the Devil himself wasn’t towering over him ready to rip his throat out. “This is not a transaction of leverage but of assurance. It is for your peace of mind, not mine.”
Lucifer huffed, a plume of sulfurous smoke escaping his gritted teeth, but he paused, though his demonic form remained looming over the Radio Demon. “My mind?”
“Precisely,” Alastor smoothed his coat, his smile tight and cynical. “You make me an Archdemon. You remake me into the King’s Scythe technically. In exchange, I pledge my loyalty to the Morningstar bloodline. I will serve as the executioner you cannot be and I will never raise a hand against you or your heir.”
Watch the wording, Alastor thought, his mind sharp as a razor. Loyalty but not obedience. Never again obedience. I promise not to harm them. I promise to support them. But I do not promise to jump every time he says ‘jump’. And really, why would I harm them? The girl is entertaining, and the father is my source of power. It is a logical alliance, not a servitude.
He was giving away nothing but a promise to act in his own best interests.
Lucifer stared at him, the heavy breathing slowing. The monstrous horns began to recede, the terrifying wings folding back into the ether until he was just a small, tired man in a white suit again. He looked at Alastor, searching for the lie, but found only the cold, pragmatic truth of a sociopath.
“You’re asking me something I’ve never done before,” Lucifer tested the words, still suspicious. He looked at Alastor, searching for the lie within his promise of loyalty but found only the terrifying vacuum of the Radio Demon’s confidence. “If I do this–if I try to push a sinner’s soul into a new made archdemon casing—I cannot promise that it won’t kill you. Permanently, at that. Your soul is made of a chaotic mess of sins that you committed mortally. Expanding it to hold that kind of primordial authority? It could tear you apart.”
Alastor’s smile didn’t waver.
I have nothing to lose, he thought, the silence of his mind deafening. I am already a prisoner in a contract I loathe, stuck in a hierarchy I despise.
Death was a release, power was a necessity. There was no third option.
He offered no verbal comfort, no reassurance to the growing anxieties of the King. He simply extended his hand again, his clawed fingers open and waiting.
Lucifer looked at the extended hand. He hesitated, then sighed, a sound of infinite resignation.
“Fine,” the King whispered. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
When their hands met, it wasn’t a spark but rather a collision of worlds.
Alastor’s neon green, eldritch radio waves surged forward, meeting the blinding, molten gold of Lucifer’s creation magic. The antique shop vanished in a flash of light that felt like a scream.
The pain that came was immediate and absolute.
It wasn’t pain like a wound or a burn. It was the pain of being unmade. Alastor felt his very essence, the black, tar-like substance of his Sinner soul, being boiled alive. He threw his head back, his jaw unhinging, a sound escaping him that was not a scream but a broadcast of pure agony sounded like shrieking feedback, dial tones, and the wailing of damned souls.
It burns. It burns like holy water in a fresh wound.
It started in his chest.
The jagged, ugly scar left by Adam’s angelic axe, the wound that had never fully healed that throbbed with a phantom holy ache, suddenly ignited.
The residual angelic energy trapped within Alastor’s flesh didn’t reject Lucifer’s power, it recognized it. It acted as a lightning rod. The scar tore open, not with blood, but with blinding white light, sucking Lucifer’s power into Alastor’s core like a starving animal.
His shadow detached itself from the floor, writhing in ecstasy, growing larger, taller, consuming the light.
Lucifer held on, his eyes glowing white, channeling the raw authority of the Ring of Pride directly into the deer demon’s veins. He felt the divine energy invade his bloodstream, hunting down every remnant of humanity and incinerating it. It was searching for the chains.
Deep within his metaphysical core, there was a heavy, rusted chain: the contract with Rosie. It pulsated, trying to hold onto the soul it owned. It tightened, biting into his essence.
Channeled through the wound, the angelic energy was rewriting the definition of the vessel. The soul was expanding, growing too hot, too large, too divine for a mere Sinner’s contract to hold. The definitions no longer matched, terms no longer applied because the subject of the contract had ceased to exist.
Ꞩꞥⱥꝑꞩ
The sound was audible only to Alastor but it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard. The chain didn’t just break; it evaporated. The link to Rosie, the debt, the servitude was incinerated by the sheer magnitude of his new nature.
Alastor’s bones snapped. They broke and reformed, lengthening, thickening. His spine elongated with a sickening crunch that echoed like a falling tree. His antlers cracked and grew, branching out like a chaotic fractal forest, crowning him in bone and shadow.
He was no longer human.
He was no longer a Sinner.
He was a paradox woven from fallen grace and mortal sin.
The static in his head turned into a symphony. It was no longer just radio waves; it was the hum of the universe, the dark matter between stars, the screaming silence of the void.
It wasn’t just a physical change; it was an instinctual awakening. He felt the phantom memory of wars fought before the Earth cooled. He felt the urge to smite, to judge, to execute.
He grew wings and raged. He learned how to kill all over again.
Great, jagged protrusions ripped through the back of his suit, it wasn’t the feathered grace of an angel but instead the leather and bone of a creature born of the both grace–fallen but still– and multiple sins he committed.
Wrath. Pride. Gluttony.
Shadows coalesced around him, not as servants but as extensions of his own physical body, dripping with a mixture of ink and starlight.
Newly made Archdemon felt the knowledge of the cosmos; distorted, dark but vast it was, trickling into his brain. He understood the geometry of death. He understood the architecture of sin.
Alastor fell to his knees, panting. His breath came out as black smoke. The wound on his chest was gone, replaced by a neon green glowing stitch mark etched directly into his dark flesh.
His eyes rolled back, dissolving into dials of pure, spinning crimson. His grin stretched, physically tearing the corners of his mouth, wider and wider till it was a maw capable of swallowing the world whole.
With a final, thunderous boom that knocked Lucifer backward, the connection broke.
Alastor stood in the center of the ruins. He was taller now, thinner, his silhouette a nightmare of jagged lines and shadowy appendages. Four black wings twitched behind him, his antlers scraping the ceiling.
The King stood against the far wall, shielding his eyes from the fading light, looking at his creation with a mix of horror and awe.
He inhaled and the sound was like a vacuum sucking the air out of the room. He exhaled, and the static that followed was the sound of a thousand radio stations tuning in to the end of the world.
Alastor straightened his spine, hearing the satisfying pop of his new vertebrae. He summoned his microphone staff. It appeared instantly, but it too had changed. The eye at the top was wide, frantic, and glowing with the same neon green color of his stitches.
He looked at his hands—No, claws that shimmered with a new, terrifying sheen. He clenched them, feeling the power of an Archdemon, first of his kind, thrumming beneath his skin begging to be used.
He felt expensive. He felt like a weapon forged for a war that ended eons ago.
Alastor turned to the King, his wicked smile sincere for the first time since his arrival in Hell. “Well,” the Archdemon’s voice boomed, carrying a new, terrifying reverb that would rattle the teeth of everyone in a five-mile radius. “That was... Refreshing!”
He turned his head, his neck cracking with a sound like a pistol shot. His shadow, now a towering, independent entity with glowing green eyes, mimicked the movement, draping itself over the walls like a protective, hungry shroud.
Lucifer leaned against the only wall that was still fully intact, brushing plaster dust from his shoulder. The King looked exhausted, his divine aura dimmed, having poured a significant cup of his own essence into the vessel standing before him.
Yet, there was a spark in his eyes. It was the relief of a man who finally has a guard dog for a house he was too tired to defend.
“You’re taller,” Lucifer muttered, looking up at the Archdemon. “And you’re overflowing.”
Alastor glanced down. Faint wisps of neon-green smoke and golden sparks were escaping from the stitches on his chest. He tapped his cane—which now hummed with a low, menacing thrum— to the earth below and the leaks sealed themselves.
“Merely settling into the new vessel, Sire,” Alastor replied. His voice had changed; the radio filter was still there, but it was deeper now, layered with a subtle harmonic reverb that sounded like a choir screaming in a distant room.
Lucifer pushed himself off the wall, to get close to him, his expression hardening. “Listen to me, Bambi. This power–it’s not a toy. You are connected to Hell now. You are connected to me. If you lose control out there, if you let your sadistic little tendencies override the objective, you could level the entire block. And I really don’t want to do more paperwork.”
Alastor smiled. It was a wide, jagged thing that nearly split his face in two. “Your Majesty, I am insulted. Have I ever been anything less than a consummate professional?”
“You ate several sinners on the day we first met,” Lucifer pointed out dryly.
“They were interrupting,” Alastor dismissed with a wave of his claw.
Outside, the chants reached fever pitch. Vox’s voice boomed, echoing from every screen in the city, demanding the implementation of the Queen’s dreams, mocking the King’s inability to implement them, and declaring the end of the Morningstar reign.
“New order, like what Lilith had envisioned when she threatened them! She knew Hell could be great. And we can make Hell great again!”
The words filtered through the broken windows. Alastor raised his eyebrows slightly when he saw Lucifer clench his jaw. The King of Hell adjusted his collar, his eyes flashing red for a brief second before settling back to gold. The hesitation that existed there before was gone, replaced by the icy, regal demeanor of the Fallen Archangel.
“It’s showtime,” Lucifer whispered, mostly to himself. He turned towards the shattered door.
Alastor stepped aside while bowing low, a gesture of mock servitude that now carried a terrifying weight. He swept his arm towards the exit, the green energy around him parting to make a path for the King.
“Go on,” Alastor purred, his eyes glowing with predatory anticipation. “Tell them. Tell them how it feels to always be one step ahead, o’ grand diable.”
Lucifer stopped, looking back at his Executioner with a smirk that matched the Devil in the legends whispered in the living world.
“Time to silence the noise,” the King said.
He stepped out into the chaotic light of the Entertainment District, leaving the monster in the shadows, waiting for his cue.
⛧⛧⛧
The Entertainment District was in a pulsating, neon lit epileptic fit. Thousands of Sinners filled the streets, their faces illuminated by the blue glow of hovering drones and massive, building sized screens that projected Vox's face like a digital god.
The noise was deafening, a mix of dubstep, chants and the electric hum of pure ecstasy. And Vox stood on a platform floating above the crowd, transfixed, his screen glowing like a hypnotic spiral.
“Meanwhile!” Vox bellowed, his voice amplified to shake the ribs of every demon present. He gestured wildly towards the distant, aglow spire of the Morningstar Palace. “The ‘King’ thinks of all of us as peasants! He thinks we should be satisfied with scraps while he sits on his golden throne! He thinks you should be satisfied with an endless existence of suffering–”
The air pressure in the square suddenly dropped.
It wasn’t a gradual silence; it was as if someone had hit the mute button on the entire district. A wave of pure, golden authority washed over the crowd, forcing heads to turn and knees to buckle instinctively. The dubstep sound cut out, replaced by the terrifying sound of absolute silence.
Lucifer Morningstar stood at the base of the platform. He didn’t look like he had walked there, he looked like he had always been there and the world had just arranged itself around him. He was casual, hands in his pockets, leaning back on his heels with a smirk that could curdle milk.
“Sinnerman,” Lucifer drawled, his voice unamplified yet ringing clearer than any speaker system. He looked up at the floating Overlord, shading his eyes mockingly. “You’re getting way too big for your screen.”
While Vox froze, the crowd gasped a collective intake of breath that sucked the oxygen out of the square.
Lucifer unfurled one hand, pointing a finger at the TV demon. His eyes flashed with a warning that was both playful and lethal.
“Now I’m here to drop your punishment, it’s gonna be mean—Just in case y’all had forgotten who’s the motherfucking King of Hell.”
For a second, just for a single second, Vox’s screen glitched with static fear. But he was a creature of media, a master of spin. Immediately, he saw the hesitation in the crowd—they were terrified of Lucifer, yes, but they were also angry. And he knew something no one did.
Vox threw his arms wide, turning his vulnerability into a stage play. He laughed a distorted electrical sound.
“Here he comes!” the Overlord shouted to the masses, gesturing at the small man in the white suit. “Look at him! The absentee landlord! Came to smite me!”
He leaned over the railing of his platform, daring the Devil. “Go on! Silence me! That’s all you angels know how to do! Burn us, break us!”
Lucifer didn’t move. He didn’t summon fire. Nor did he snap his fingers.
Vox’s grin widened, pixelated and cruel. He lowered his voice, dropping the theatricality for a moment to look Lucifer dead in the eye, his gaze flickering with the knowledge he had bought from his partners.
“But you won’t do it,” Vox sneered, tapping the side of his screen. “Because you can’t act. You are weak.”
The Overlord reminded the crowd of the king’s indifference and at the same time reminding the King of his punishment and challenging him to act upon it and prove his weakness to everyone in the crowd.
Lucifer, however, didn’t look angry. He looked simply bored. He inspected his fingernails, blowing a speck of imaginary dust off his thumb.
“Weak?” Lucifer chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, Voxy. You confuse restraint with inability. It’s adorable, really.”
He looked up, his golden eyes narrowing. “I won’t touch you, that is true. But not because I can’t.”
Lucifer took a step back, sweeping his arm toward the massive wall of screens behind Vox’s stage, the source of the Overlord’s power.
“It’s simply a matter of, let’s say, bureaucracy,” Lucifer lied smoothly, his grin turning sharp. He was the fucking Father of Lies. He knew how to play a fucking game. “There is a queue for trash disposal. And I prefer to let the professional handle the filth.”
Vox blinked, his processing slowing down. “Professional? What are you–”
He couldn’t even finish the sentence.
Behind Vox, the massive bank of screens, hundreds of televisions stacked three stories high, didn’t just glitch. They screamed.
It wasn’t the blue static of Vox’s signal. It was green. A vile, neon green that rotted the pixels and twisted the images. The sound of a radio dial turning violently screeched through the speakers, shattering the glass of the front row monitors.
Ś̸̪͙Ĉ̶̨̡̣͚̏̚R̷̭̘̱̞̓̄̊͊Ȑ̷̮̥͚̟͗Ę̸͕̟̀͌͜E̵̱̦̽E̴͑́̄͜Ë̴̪́͋̎̓E̴̦̥̠͈̋̋̽͝E̵̟͕̚E̴̞̲̦͐̈́̑̉E̶̬͙̿̽͊̒ͅE̶͍̳̺̱͠E̵̛̯̦͛͘Ě̶̙͉̜̟Ẻ̷͈̍̽E̴͔͙̣͑͐Ë̸̥́͠Ȅ̶̡̤̟̔͆̏͜E̸̺͗̓͒—̶̖̜̼͘p̶̡̗̺͐͐̐͘o̵͎̳̱̔͋̂p̵̢̡̿͗͛̍.̴̹̫͑̅
A massive, clawed hand, composed of shadows so dense that they looked like black oil, punched through the center screen.
Glass rained down like confetti, the metal cables that were holding some screens groaned and snapped.
Vox spun around, his fans whirring in sudden panic. “What the–”
From the hole in the digital wall, a figure emerged. But it wasn’t the Alastor Vox knew. It wasn’t the slender Radio Demon in a pinstripe suit.
This thing was a nightmare unfolded.
Alastor pulled himself out of the static, his body elongated and disjointed, his limbs stretching like taffy made of bone. His antlers were massive, scraping against the metal trussing of the stage, covered in dripping black ichor. At his back there were four jagged wings, wrapped in shadow and green lightning, which tore through the remaining screens as he stepped onto the platform.
He towered over Vox like a monolith of archaic terror, his grin physically tearing the corners of his face, wider than should be anatomically possible.
The Radio Demon was unhinged. He was vibrating with a power that no man in Hell ever knew of.
Vox stared up, his screen flashing an error message, unable to comprehend the data in front of him. This wasn’t his usual rival Overlord. This was a catastrophe.
Alastor tilted his head at a horrific, ninety-degree angle, his neck snapping audibly and stared down at his old pal.
The broadcast had been hijacked.
Vox stumbled back, his heels clicking frantically against the metal grating of the stage, his cooling fans screaming in a desperate attempt to lower his rising core temperature.
The heat radiating from Alastor wasn’t just physical; it was metaphysical, a sickeningly heavy aura of ancient, rotting magic that tasted like copper and ozone. To Vox, this didn’t make sense. It couldn’t make sense.
In his processed, binary worldview, Alastor was a prisoner. A powerful one, certainly, but a prisoner nonetheless, bound by the contract they made between the two. He had seen Alastor tied to a chair just minutes ago.
He had gloated over him that he had won.
But the visual in front of him –the towering, eldritch monstrosity dripping with black ichor and green lightning– conflicted so violently with his internal narrative that his screen flickered with a barrage of “CRITICAL ERROR” warnings before he forced a hard reset on his composure.
He gripped the railing, his digital claws digging into the metal, trying to summon the same arrogance that had built his empire.
“What the fuck is going on?!” Vox shrieked, his voice modulating wildly between a smooth broadcast tenor and a terrified, glitching falsetto. He pointed a trembling finger at the monster looming over him, trying to re-establish the dynamic of captor and captive.
“Alastor! We... We have a deal! I let you keep your pathetic little project and you stay out of my way! You are supposed to be in containment! Get back to your chair! Get back to your fucking chair right now before I–” He stopped, the threat dying in his throat as Alastor leaned closer. The movement was nauseatingly fluid, the Archdemon’s spine elongating like a serpent uncoiling to strike.
Alastor’s breath washed over Vox, smelling of old blood and the distinct, terrifying scent of a thunderstorm that had raged since the beginning of time.
How quaint, Alastor thought, his inner voice echoing like a cathedral sermon inside his new, cave like skull.
The television was still trying to change channels, unaware that the station had been destroyed.
He looked at Vox not with hatred, but with the distant, clinical curiosity of a scientist at an insect unaware that it was about to be killed. He could feel the absence of the chains that had once bound him, not just the cables in Vox’s studio but the metaphysical chains of his Sinner status.
Alastor felt the Devil’s golden blood flowing through his veins, singing the song of absolute authority that suppressed Vox's trivial demands.
“A̶̛̲̻͇͆̃̈ͅ ̸̮̜̼̎̚d̶͙͈̘̃̕ė̷͙̬̌̋à̵̫̭̣̹̈́̈ĺ̶̳͓̦̇̈́́?̴͚̗̂̊̕” Alastor’s voice boomed, its sound vibrating through the floorboards and shaking the imperceptible dust off Vox’s screenhead.
He didn’t shout, he didn’t need to. The sheer acoustic weight of his voice was enough to silence the wind.
“My dear, delusional picture-box. You seem to be in the midst of a magnificent misunderstanding. Deals are struck between equals. Contracts are forged by those who fear consequence.” Alastor raised his clawed hand, examining the neon-green energy swirling between his fingers, then snapped them. “I am no longer bound by the petty scribbles of your likes. Everything you thought you possessed vanished the moment you threatened the King. There is no chair, old pal. There is only the altar and you are standing on it.”
As a sacrifice, went unsaid.
Vox’s eyes widened as his pixels flickered. He gazed beyond Alastor’s massive, pointed wing to the King, standing calmly below, smiling and utterly complicit. And the truth he finally grasped struck Vox like a physical blow.
Lucifer Morningstar hadn’t come to fight, he had come to watch.
The immunity Vox boasted of, the divine rule that protected Sinners from the Morningstar's wrath, technically still held.
The Devil couldn’t touch him, yes, but there was nothing stopping Alastor.
A cold, utter panic seized Vox’s circuits. He stumbled backward, tripping over a cable, his voice turning into a desperate, nonsensical babbling. “No. No, this isn’t right! You can’t just… This is– Not possible. I abide by our deal–Stop this! We have a dea-l-l-Error! ERROR!”
Alastor gritted his teeth, sighing with exaggerated frustration, a cloud of black smoke escaping from between them. His vertebrae cracked wetly as he slowly turned his head to look at Lucifer.
The King was watching with an empty look, almost uninterested, waiting for the punchline. Alastor felt a surge of dark amusement.
The Archdemon turned back to Vox, his expression shifting from amusement to a cold, predatory finality. He loomed over the cowering Overlord, casting a shadow that swallowed the stage lights.
“After all this rambling, if that’s the conclusion you’ve reached,” Alastor muttered, the radio interference in his voice sharpening to a deadly frequency. “It would seem your flathead is simply there for decorum. As you clearly have no use for it–”
He paused for a moment to allow the horror to fully settle, then turned his enormous, horned head toward Lucifer. He bowed, both gracefully and grotesquely, his eyes locked on the King.
“Now, would you like me to remove it from his shoulders, Your Highness?”
Lucifer didn’t smile nor did he laugh. He simply looked at the shivering, glitching Overlord on the platform, then back at his new creation. With a casual, almost bored flick of his wrist, the kind of gesture one uses to shoo away a fly, the King gave his permission.
“Proceed,” Lucifer said softly. “But make it loud.”
Alastor turned to Vox. The movement was slow, deliberate, and terrifying. His massive, clawed hooves crushed the glass beneath him as he closed the gap.
Vox scrambled backward until his back hit the metal trussing. The power, influence, and ratings that governed his existence in Hell were melting away in the face of this archaic, crushing brute force.
He grasped for the only thing he had left: moral outrage.
“You-you can’t do this!” Vox screamed, his voice cracking into static. “This is a violation! We have rules! We have an order! This isn’t justice! This is tyranny!”
Alastor stopped. The air around him seemed to freeze. The green static that crackled around his antlers intensified, arcing violently against the metal stage.
Justice? Archdemon thought, the word tasting like ash and iron in his mouth. He dares to speak of justice? A position built on lies, a parasite feeding on the insecurity of the damned, crying out for fairness?
It was laughable. It was insulting.
And it required a correction.
The chief demon’s staff appeared in his hand. Not an old microphone stand but a twisted, rising weapon. The head of the staff elongated, its metal creaking, and transformed into a massive, curved blade, gleaming with the same sacred, cursed gold as Lucifer’s eyes.
A scythe.
Alastor’s voice dropped an octave, resonating with the weight of a divine decree.
“When the injustice is great enough, justice will lend me the strength needed to correct it,” Alastor began, his words echoing across the silent square like a thunderclap. He took a step forward, his shadow rising up to blot out the neon lights of the city. “None may stand against it. It will shatter every barrier, sunder any shield, tear through any enchantment, and lend its servant the power to pass sentence.”
Vox stared at the scythe, his eyes widening on his screen in disbelief. The energy emanating from Alastor felt incredibly heavy, and almost toxic, if that were possible.
Alastor raised his scythe, the tip of the blade humming the song of approaching death. His eyes were fixed on the Vox screen.
“Know this. There is nothing in all of Hell that can stay the hand of justice when it is brought against them. It may unmake armies. It may sunder the territories of Overlords. Know that for all who betray Hell’s justice, I am their fate. And fate carries an executioner’s scythe.”
The silence that followed was absolute. The crowd, kneeling in the square, too afraid to even lift their heads, couldn't bring themselves to breathe. Even the drones had stopped hovering in the air and fallen to the ground as if forced to bend down.
Vox was now shaking violently, sparks flying from the joints of its wires. His logic processors were trapped in a loop, trying to calculate a way out, to find a non-existent moral superiority.
“But–” Vox stammered, his voice barely a whisper, desperately clinging to something. “This–This isn’t right! You can’t just execute me like that! This is wrong! This–”
Alastor leaned forward, his face a few inches from Vox’s screen. The heat emanating from him was strong enough to melt the glass casing of the tv demon’s head. His grin was a black abyss, devoid of empathy, unwavering.
Right? Wrong? Alastor mused, feeling the delicious irony. He still thinks we are playing by the rules of the living. He still thinks there is a referee who will blow the whistle.
Alastor’s eyes narrowed, his radio dials spinning frantically crimson in his sockets.
“We’re in Hell, old pal, where the lines between right and wrong don’t exist,” Alastor whispered, the sound sliding into Vox’s audio receptors like a knife. “I’m the Executioner, I’m the weapon that hands out the sentence. I’m the last thing you’ll ever see.”
Vox opened his mouth to scream, to beg, or perhaps to make one last plea, but his signal was cut off.
Archdemon raised the scythe above his head. A green lightning bolt struck the tip of the blade, illuminating the horror on Vox’s face with a blinding light.
The sentence was passed.
So the scythe came down and struck.
Dust from shattered screens swirled like snow over the wreckage of Vox’s empire. But before the Sinners could fully grasp the shift in the balance of power, the air in the square tore open again.
This time, it wasn’t a shadow. It was a blinding, vertical slit of pure white light, likely a portal to Heaven.
The contrast was striking. From the gleaming doorway emerged a delegation that seemed utterly out of place amidst the blood and neon lights of the Entertainment District.
Princess Charlie, shining with a hopeful weariness, led the way. Behind her was the cheerful Seraphim Emily, holding a basket full of ‘apology candies.’ Then came the domineering and rigid looking Head Seraphim Sera and Abel who was carrying many boxes of sweets.
They had come to apologize. Was a genocide something you apologize for with sweets? Perhaps they had come to show Ser Pentious his redemption. They certainly expected a meeting.
Though what they found was a slaughterhouse and a monster standing guard over it.
Charlie gasped, her smile faltering as she took in the destruction. “Dad? Alastor? We’re back! We brought–”
ȻŁȺꞤ₲
Alastor didn’t speak. He simply struck the ground with the handle of his enormous, gleaming scythe and the pavement cracked. The shockwave halted the Heavenly delegation just a few meters from the portal’s threshold.
Archdemon stood between the portal and the rest of Hell.
He was a towering silhouette of jagged bone and green fire, his four wings spread wide to create a physical wall.
“Halt,” Alastor commanded. His voice didn’t sound like a radio anymore; it sounded like a warning siren.
Sera stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. “Step aside, Sinner. We are here under a flag of truce to speak with Lucifer Morningstar. We’re here to confirm that the Princess’s mission was successful and that Ser Pentious is redeeme–”
“There are no truces for invaders,” Alastor replied, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. “And I am no Sinner.”
Well, not anymore.
“Alastor!” Charlie pleaded, stepping forward. “Please! It worked! Ser Pentious is in heaven! We have proof! We can save the Sinners! We must get them in and help us organize–”
“No.”
The voice came from behind Alastor. Lucifer emerged from the shadows of the Executioner’s wings. He looked neither at the gift baskets nor at the seraphims. With a heartbroken but unwavering gaze, he looked at his daughter.
“Dad?” Charlie whispered. “B-but we were right.”
“You redeemed one, Charlotte,” said Lucifer, his voice hardened, devoid of its usual cheerfulness. This time, he sounded like a King. “One soul. In ten thousand years. That is not a system; that is a statistical anomaly. It is a miracle.”
He gestured to the portal, to the blinding light of Heaven that threatened to scour the shadows of his realm.
“Now that the covenant between the two realms is broken, I will not open the gates of my kingdom to the beings who have slaughtered my people throughout the ages, simply because a miracle occurred once in ten thousand years,” Lucifer declared, his golden eyes burning. “I will not risk the safety of Hell because of the complaints of Heaven. I will not turn Hell into a tourist attraction for the Seraphim, who see it as insects to be studied.”
“But we can change things!” Emily cried out.
“Things have already changed,” Alastor interrupted, leaning down, his face level with the High Seraphim. The golden seal of the stitches on his chest pulsed violently. “There is no longer a treaty holding Hell captive, and from now on our borders are closed.”
Sera bristled, her wings flaring. “You cannot deny us entry, Lucifer. This is divine miracle–”
“I deny you e̶̦̊̐̿́̕v̴̡̛͎̭͕̀͌̇̈́e̶̙̰̰̘̊͒̐ṟ̴͚̎̅̊̒y̴̡͎͙̞̳͑̓̔͑̊t̴̛̫͛h̶̢͚̠̞̽̌͜i̴̪͇̩̝̎͊̓͜͝n̷͍̎̎g̷̡͕̹̥̜̓!” Lucifer roared, his demonic voice surfacing for a brief, terrifying moment. “This is my land. My pit. And if you do not abide by Hell’s law,” Lucifer pointed to Alastor. “He’ll be the one you’ll face.”
Radio demon arched an eyebrow at that.
The Archdemon would have wanted to object, but the time wasn’t right. Their agreement was that Alastor would be a wall against sinners, while Lucifer, whose authority knew no bounds against the upper (no pun intended) threats, would watch over the heavenly threats.
So he twirled his scythe, the blade humming with lethal intent. He looked at Abel, then at Sera.
“You heard the King,” Alastor purred, the sound scraping against their very souls. “Turn around. Take your candies. And do not return unless you wish to test our King’s mercy.”
The implied threat was undeniable. A High Demon, nourished by the King's very essence, stood in his lands. The Fallen Angel was behind his creation in agreement. Even Sera knew that a fight here, in Hell of all places, would be a massacre.
With tears welling up in his eyes, Charlie wavered between his father and Alastor. Given all the effort she put into all of this, perhaps she should have reconsidered some things. Was she being too naive?
Alastor tilted his head to the right with a mocking grin, as if he had read her mind.
“Go, Charlie,” Lucifer said softly, turning his back. “Go back to your hotel. But the portal to Heaven closes. Now.”
Realizing they were unwanted, the delegation slowly retreated. The portal’s white light began to diminish, shrinking to the size of a pinhead, and then vanished.
The silence returned to the Entertainment District. The king, as if nothing had happened, put his hands in his pockets, bowed his head as if to salute his Chief Demon, before leaving his executioner behind and beginning to walk toward his palace.
In the end, although the Executioner stood alone and the sinners of Hell seemed numberless around the square, none from Heaven could set foot upon the hell soil across the portal.
No songs were sung in Hell, no heroes celebrated; for that gloomy realm was silent and joyless, yet the tale of Hell and the demon that defended it began to be whispered in both realms.
The tales described were nightmare given form. It was said cold hearted, merciless and brutal, the Executioner was not afraid of killing in broad daylight. His scythe was his murder weapon, the blood traces on his clothes were the only remains of his victims.
And when a new sinner asked about the one to whom even Lucifer bows his head in respect, the answer was always the same, Head Chief of the Devil, the Executioner, the first and only Archdemon Alastor the Radio Demon.