Chapter Text
It had been a month since the fateful extermination battle against Adam, and Hell had mostly gone back to business as usual.
By “usual,” that meant the constant violence, debauchery, and chaos that made Pentagram City the sleepless cesspool it was. Sinners rampaged, Overlords ruled their turf with iron fists, and the screams of the damned filled the smog-thick air.
But tonight was special.
Breaking news was sweeping across every screen in the city.
“Good evening, Pentagram City!” Tom Trench greeted with his trademark forced enthusiasm.
“This is Katie Killjoy.”
“And I’m Tom Trench.”
“Bringing you the latest in Hell’s hottest headlines.” Katie flashed a manic grin. “Tonight’s top story—what the fuck is going on at the Hazbin Hotel?”
The broadcast cut to shaky amateur footage of the Hotel, overlaid with bold red letters reading: MORNINGSTAR MASSACRE?
“That’s right, Katie!” Tom continued, voice cracking just a little. “It’s been a month since Heaven’s little ‘visit,’ and—well—it turns out Charlie Morningstar and her merry band of freaks kinda… sorta… murdered an entire Exorcist squad.”
He gestured to an obviously hand-drawn graphic of Charlie standing triumphantly atop a pile of angel corpses, ripping off one’s head with cartoonish glee.
“And in the process,” Tom added, scratching his head, “may have accidentally saved all of Hell from extermination.”
Katie kicked him offscreen.
“When you’re done sucking toes, Tom,” she sneered, “I’d like to remind everyone that Heaven still hasn’t made their next move.”
She slammed her fist onto the desk—right onto Tom’s hand as he was trying to climb back up. There was an audible crack. Tom screamed and vanished from view again.
“Are they coming back for revenge, or is this annual nightmare finally over?” Katie continued, completely ignoring his suffering.
“Morningstar has declined to comment,” Tom groaned, now sporting a lopsided bandage on his hand.
“Pussy,” he coughed under his breath.
“But we will keep asking,” Katie declared, leaning forward, “until we break her.”
She grabbed Tom by the collar and yanked him close. “Because the world needs to know, Tom.”
Releasing him, she turned dramatically toward the camera.
“Will she stop at angels?” she demanded. “Or are you next?”
Katie pointed at the lens.
“Is your dog next? Your cat?”
She pulled out a filthy dog and a bug-eyed cat seemingly from nowhere and hurled them at Tom, who promptly disappeared beneath a flurry of fur and teeth.
“Will her bloodlust ever be satisfied?” Katie shouted over the chaos. She dragged her hands down her face, her mascara dripping down from her eyes. “Who’s at the top of Charlie Morningstar’s hit list? Maybe it’s… ME!”
The animals finally scampered off, leaving Tom bleeding and deeply traumatized. Katie smoothed her hair, sat back down, and smiled sweetly.
“This segment is brought to you by…”
“VoxTek!” Tom croaked, half-conscious. “Trust us with your everything!”
The camera cut to static before rolling into commercial.
On the other side of Pentagram City, the newly rebuilt Hazbin Hotel was absolutely packed.
A sea of sinners flooded the lobby, and even more waited outside, elbowing each other for a chance to check in.
High above the chaos, KeeKee zipped through the air, gleefully watching the crowd below. For once, the hotel was full of guests—not because of an impending war, but because people actually wanted to stay there.
“This’ll be great,” one sinner muttered to another. “Can’t wait to get in and fuck up some angels.”
“I love murder!” another voice chimed from somewhere in the mob. “I really want to kill some angels!”
The lobby looked like total pandemonium—until one noticed the invisible fault line dividing the crowd. One half was mostly teens and younger sinners; the other, older, adult and more seasoned. Both sides were glaring daggers at each other, tension thick enough to cut through with a knife.
Up on the stairs, Razzle carried a guest’s luggage while Lucifer shuffled down in a pink bathrobe, duck slippers, and hair curlers, brushing his teeth and looking like a man halfway between royalty and retirement.
At the landing above him stood Alastor.
The twelve-year-old Overlord leaned against the railing, watching the chaos below like a director observing his own deranged play. Aside from a jagged scar down the side of his head and his busted staff, he looked surprisingly fine after the battle with Adam.
The staff had been stitched together with glowing green seams that crackled faintly with static, wrapped in a few hasty white bandages. Alastor gave it a disapproving shake, sighed, and turned his attention back to the crowd.
Down below, the sinners continued to chatter—or snarl—at each other.
One guest was already whining about losing their “fucking room key!” despite not having been given one yet.
Behind the newly upgraded concierge desk, Vaggie worked through the line, efficiently handing out keys and maintaining her customer-service face by sheer willpower.
The front desk was actually legit now—a proper table and registry instead of a makeshift bar. The key rack gleamed with labeled tags, and beside it sat two Furby dolls staring blankly into the abyss, making guests deeply uncomfortable. Courtesy of Alastor, naturally.
“Hello, and welcome to the Hazbin Hotel. My name’s—uh—changing,” Vaggie said, forcing a smile. “For now, just call me Vaggie.”
She handed a key to one guest. “Have a lovely day, thank you so much for staying with us.”
To the next: “Thanks for signing the guest book. This is starting to feel like the army.”
Then her eyes narrowed. “I know you’re here, Alastor. Help. Out.”
In a flicker of shadow, Alastor appeared right beside her, perching on the desk like a smug cat.
“Mm, sounds like a you problem, Vagene,” he teased.
“Really? What happened to the whole ‘host of the hotel’ thing?” she snapped, spinning toward him.
Before he could answer, chaos struck.
A wave of reporters surged forward, shoving microphones and cameras into Alastor’s face. Mixed in were teen sinners holding up their phones, live-streaming everything for clout.
“Alastor! The Radio Demon! Where’s Charlie Morningstar?” one reporter barked.
“Is it true she took you in as her evil minion?” another shouted. “Or that she’s drinking angel blood to improve her gay powers?”
“Yo, Radio Demon!” a teen yelled, phone inches from his nose. “You and Charlie—like, a thing now?”
“Is she out killing angels? The people deserve answers!” cried a cameraman.
“Are you dating anyone? What’s your body count—uh, murder body count?” another pushed in, elbowing for a better shot.
“Is it true this place is recruiting a hellish army? Or children for her evil regime?”
Then, from somewhere in the back: “And should I divorce my wife?”
That was the last straw.
Alastor released a blinding pulse of static—BZZZZZZZT!—that fried every camera, mic, and phone in the lobby. Sparks flew, smoke curled, and the teens screamed as their livestreams died mid-comment section.
Vaggie stepped protectively in front of him as Alastor melted back into the shadows.
“Hey! HEY! Back off, you animals!” she barked. “This is a hotel, not a tabloid circus!”
The reporters ignored her, scrambling to reboot their gear.
“And what is this crap about Alastor being Charlie’s partner?! That’s so wrong and grossly inappropriate!”
Before she could continue, a shadow tendril snaked across the floor, wrapped around Lucifer’s bathrobe belt, and yanked him into the center of the chaos.
Every camera swiveled toward him.
And no, he wasn’t wearing underwear.
Like sharks smelling blood, the crowd pounced. Reporters screamed questions. Teen vloggers zoomed in.
Lucifer just stood there, frozen mid-chew on his toothbrush.
“…Well,” he said faintly. “This is going in the morning papers.”
Over at the newly built bar, Husk was juggling several customers’ orders like a true professional—or at least a very tired one. The seventeen-year-old cat demon moved with practiced irritation, tail flicking as he worked the counter.
“I got three Torments and Tonics, four Virgin Sacrifice Piña Coladas, and something called a Harder Daddy?” he called out, pausing to stare at the last glass in visible disbelief.
Lucifer, who’d just poofed in after narrowly escaping the reporters, looked at the drink with absolute disgust.
Angel Dust reached for it, grinning. “Oh, that one’s mine! The name might be so wrong—” he downed it in one shot, “—but this feels so right!”
Husk rolled his eyes. “Angel, how about you actually help me serve drinks instead of letting your pig eat all my nuts?”
He pointed at Fat Nuggets, who was currently snout-deep in the bowl of bar snacks.
Angel gasped dramatically and scooped up his pet. “Husk! Don’t say it like that—he’s little!”
He set Fat Nuggets on the counter and grabbed a nearby Furby, hugging it to his chest. “Besides, I am working. I’m doing brand promo, baby.”
The thirteen-year-old celebrity struck a flawless kawaii pose, snuggling the Furby and flashing a peace sign in front of his eyes like a professional influencer.
“Who wants to come stay at the Hazbin Hotel with me?” he called out, voice sugary sweet. “Where you can watch me look cute, stay trendy, and post whatever thirst traps your twisted little hearts desire!”
The crowd went wild.
“My Voxtagram’s gonna blow up!” one teen squealed, snapping photos.
“I love your style! Wear something with less fabric!” someone yelled from the back.
“I watched all your movies—sign my mugshot!” another screamed.
“Stick out your tongue! I love tongue!” shouted someone else.
While the fans lost their minds, Husk silently set down his tray and trudged over to Cherri Bomb, who was lounging nearby with a drink and a smirk. The sixteen-year-old sinner kicked her feet up, relaxed as ever.
“Cherri,” Husk started, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “you’re part of the hotel now, right? How about helping instead of drinking on the job?”
Cherri waved him off lazily. “Whoa there, pussycat. I’m ‘hanging’ at the hotel. Not staying at the hotel.” She threw up air quotes, pink eye gleaming. “Big difference. I didn’t book a room or nothing.”
“Sure,” Husk deadpanned, clearly buying none of it. He turned back to Angel. “Anyway, get your pig off my bar.”
Angel scooped up Fat Nuggets protectively, glaring like an offended diva.
Right then, Vaggie flew in, looking frazzled. “Has anyone seen Charlie? The reporters are out there asking some seriously fucked up questions.”
She jabbed a thumb toward the lobby, where the press was still buzzing like vultures. “And some of those definitely shouldn’t be asked around children.”
Her tone made it very clear she meant one radio-themed child specifically.
“I think she’s in the lounge,” Angel said, petting Fat Nuggets lovingly. “She’s keeping Pentious’ little egg company.”
“Thanks.” Vaggie started to head off, but Angel called after her.
“Oh! When you see her, can you ask if we’re still on for the therapy session today?” He smiled down at Fat Nuggets, voice softening. “Kinda getting into this whole ‘talking about my feelings’ thing.”
Vaggie’s expression softened. “You got it,” she said, smiling before heading out.