( active ) hazbin hotel: alastor

[radioshow]

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[trust_us_with_your]

That much he recalled in his surveillance casual observations. The place was a dump, falling apart, and when he heard the building was bought up, he had to wonder why. Then it was crushed, reborn, and Vox could quietly admit it was real estate he could have picked up, himself. Bit garish on the outside, but what in Hell wasn't?

However-

"...Bullshit." He stopped emptying the bag, and turned with a quirked brow the other demon's way.

"I've known you for the better part of a hundred years. Success isn't what gets your antennae hard. Schadenfreude does. The princess is winning, and has successfully made a kumbaya with Heaven; the most boring fucking outcome anyone can hope for!"

He raised a claw and gestured it at him. "Someone benefits from her success, and it sure as shit isn't you, Al. You've only ever cared about one guy: Alastor."

Then the hand was waved dismissively, and he turned to open a drawer, start putting the clothes he unpacked into it. "...So spare me. Or finish the job and kill me, or whatever."

Not like I have anything left. The way he shoved things into the drawer now looked more like he wanted to strangle the cloth, no longer caring if things were folded neatly. He didn't even care about wrinkles, too incensed to do more than just keep himself busy and try not to lash out again.

[radioshow]

"Who said anything about that? You need to clean the cotton out of your ears, because I've already said it quite clearly: There's no violence in the hotel."

Alastor speaks with that usual tone of his, and he'll go so far as to come directly next to Vox and pull at his screen - right around where the cheek would be - before slipping into the shadows and reappearing on the bed. He sits there, legs crossed.

He only cares about himself. Vox hasn't said anything wrong at all, save that Alastor is so pragmatic as to do what's best for himself without concerning himself with emotions. There's plenty of truth to what he says. There's plenty of things that he could pick on here, too, because he knows Vox better than anyone. There's plenty, but there's also an unspoken agreement between them, and Alastor only ever picks at his insecurities and nothing more.

Even what comes next feels like a lot, but asking is a necessary evil,

"Now, what is it that really caused you to come here?"

[trust_us_with_your]

The princess really had him trained. No violence, and he was abiding by it. Then again, the Morningstars were the only ones short of the Deadly Sins who could forcibly out Alastor if they tried, soft-hearted or not.

But deep down, some ugly, oily little feeling in his belly perhaps... wanted Alastor to finish the job. Better to die at the hands of an 'old friend' than some random maniac in this shithole hotel or something, right? Yet he instead tugged at his cheek, and Vox pulled away from it with a scoff and half-roll of his eyes.

The question had him narrow his eyes, mouth scrunched into a scowl. He shoved the first drawer shut, and all but tore the second off its hinges to continue his unpacking.

"...I'm out," he answered quietly, even if everything in him screamed to remain defiant. He'd already lashed out and even cried that night, looking as pitiful as he ever could be. But was there really any dignity he could gather up any more, after all of that...?

"You've seen the news feeds, haven't you? Val runs the company. Vel's been on board for that for a while. ...So." The heaviest 'so' he'd ever spoken. But he shrugged a shoulder, fought to keep his composure and an air of 'who fucking cares'.

"I'm here." Make it sound like your own decision, right? Because who needed them, anyway? He sure as fuck didn't.

He missed SHOK.wav.

[radioshow]

It would be lovely for Alastor to say that's no surprise, but it actually is. He's a pragmatic man. He understands that the Vees need one another, and there's a good reason that Vox was the only one that he's ever acknowledged. Vox has always been sharp. He was predictable and trustworthy. He had the capacity to be the strongest sinner in Hell.

The other two had no right to discard him out of hand, but well, that would be their problem in the long term. The Radio Demon has already since lost interest in that organization, because the only point of interest was right before him, and he would only regain any interest if Vox entered the scene again.

"Hmm. I did, but I never thought I'd see such a pitiful display of self-loathing from the Media Overlord."

He's resting one arm on the dresser now, leaning on it, eyes half lidded as he stares at the other. Vox isn't a stupid man, nor a weak man. He's one of those few people who can stare down the Radio Demon. But here he is, acting so pitiful, so much like Charlie on that day.

But, unlike Charlie, Vox is an absolute moron, so he'll state it more clearly:

"And, how long will the Vees last without you? You were their publicist."

Mockery and comfort, because everything is about to fall down, but only for his absence.

[trust_us_with_your]

"I was the fucking BRAINS of the outfit!" He growled, and with nothing else to add to the drawer, his hands were left empty. Before he could claw the material of the furniture before him, he opted to bring his arms to cross against his chest.

He began to pace, already restless without his system, all the feeds, all the people clamoring for his attention and authorization on this and on that-

"I give it two months! The first few weeks of the honeymoon phase, people talking about the big change in waves as they speculate, wonder where I've gone, maybe... but the beauty and the curse of news is that they'll soon grow bored of spinning their wheels and move on. Attention wanes, then those two have to somehow come up with a way to be relevant again. I wager they'll borrow a few things I had left over, projects and copy they have authorization to access..." He could see it so vividly now. They had their methods, but they didn't have that spark like HE did. Surely, they'd cannibalize his hard work until there was nothing left, if anything to keep from putting in the effort.

"Then it all comes crashing down when they hit the bottom of the barrel. If they're smart, they look for me and come crawling back on their hands and knees, begging me to come back!"

[radioshow]

Alastor plopped down on the bed as Vox went on. He hung off of it, his back bent at an unnatural angle. The top half was belt at a perfect ninety degree angle, ears brushing against the floor and the very tips bent against it. It was the closest he had ever gotten to a frown, and even then it was only a mockery of one; his grin is upside down, but it was easy, collected and calm. His hands remained folded over his stomach, and they rested on his staff.

There wasn't the same need to antagonize and isolate him now, and in fact at this point that would be detrimental (or maybe it's precisely because it was and would be that he could speak like this,) and so Alastor was just a tad more generous.

"Well, two months is more than long enough for your media empire to be irreparably damaged! New sinners appear on the daily," He drew one knee up, then crossed the opposite leg over it, "And with them they bring new ideas and expertise. Your brand has only survived up until now because you were able to keep an iron grip on it."

To say that he preferred the company of the other two Vees would be an understatement, but Alastor had no illusions about who had what talents. The other two didn't have the same obsessive fixation on image.

How unfortunate.