Chapter Text
This wasn't right.
This wasn't fair.
How the hell could this be fair?
Alastor had had everything prepared. The symbols and sigils, the altar, the conduits, the deal he'd offer to get himself a leg up on the competition even in Hell. Everything had been ready to go. Everything had been prepared to make sure he was set in the afterlife he was bound for. To strike a deal with the damned and make sure Hell would be comfortable. Everything was in order.
And then he'd gotten distracted.
What was the harm in waiting just one more night? He was healthy. In the prime of his life. He wasn't planning on dying anytime soon, not when there was so much more work to do on earth. He wouldn't die yet. Not for decades more. Not until earth got boring or his fragile human body started giving out with age, and he decided to replace it with demonic might. He would only go to Hell once he was ready for a change of scenery, and he wasn't ready yet. So there was no rush. The ritual could wait just one more day, when a stranger on the tram started yelling slurs at him and Alastor decided he had something better to do with his night.
He wasn't in any rush.
He could wait.
He had.
And now, years of preparation were ruined.
He was cowering in an alleyway, hyperactive deer instincts making him twitch and hyperventilate in response to every scream and shout of the damned. Because of course he'd become a fucking deer. A timid and scrawny looking prey animal. Because this was Hell, and he was here to suffer, because he'd been stupid.
This had to be some kind of a sick joke. He'd gotten sidetracked for one day! It couldn't be over already.
But it was.
He'd put the ritual off just one more day, and that very same night, he'd been shot dead in the woods. Pathetic, ironic, and anticlimactic. It wasn't even retribution for his crimes, it wasn't even punishment. It wasn't even intentional. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, got mistaken for a deer by some idiot hunter who couldn't be bothered to check his kill, and now he was dead.
Now, he was in Hell with no plan and no insurance.
Alastor couldn't stay huddled in some piss-reeking alley forever. He stayed longer than he was proud to admit, but eventually a group of bigger demons stumbled in and he crept away with his heart in his throat.
He wasn't supposed to be down here hiding and scurrying like a rat. He was supposed to be on top of it all.
But he wasn't, and now, he'd have to scrape by like everyone else.
His legs shook and his hooves were unsteady. His balance was all wrong, and his heart was still pounding against his ribcage like a frenetic music beat. His eyes flitted every which way, down every alley and corner of the infernal street he walked along. His ears swivelled to every noise. Now and again, a car passed. Looking strangely how they had on Earth. How did Hell get cars? Why did Hell have shops and restaurants lining the streets?
It gave an illusion or normalcy. But every now and again, he stumbled over corpses, and that shouldn't be disturbing him, except he hadn't put them there.
Alastor had been untouchable on Earth, but that was only because on Earth, most people weren't willing to go to the lengths he was. But in Hell? In Hell, he was a dime a dozen. In Hell, others were almost definitely just as willing to kill him as he was to kill them. Except he was new, and they weren't.
How did newcomers get by?
There were no instructions. No Devil to meet him. Not even any pitchfork-wielding imps to drag him off and torture him for all eternity. He was simply…
Lost.
Perhaps instinctively, Alastor was drawn to the familiar.
He found a little street that looked almost like home. Or at least, a nightmare parody of it. It had what looked like willow trees, except if Earth's willows were weeping, these were bleeding. There were insects that looked like fireflies, but they sizzled the skin where they touched. And the street was lined with once quaint townhouses that looked as though they'd been through the Great War, and then converted into bordellos and gambling houses without even bothering to patch the holes in the facades.
Exhausted and starving, desperation finally overpowered the fear enough for Alastor to pick one of the slightly less atrocious-looking establishments and stumble inside. It was a bar. With sticky floors and darkened corners. Instincts flared, but he shoved them down and forced a smile, stumbling up to the bar. Trying to pretend he wasn't fighting the urge to run with every step as his ears pinned back to every noise from behind.
“Ah, excuse me-” Alastor stopped himself, hand going to his throat in disquiet surprise. He sounded like he was speaking through the radio. Even when the words were straight off his tongue.
Was this the first time he'd talked since he crashed down into Hell?
How many days had even gone?
He didn't know. He didn't know if time still existed. All he knew was that hunger was gnawing at his insides as though his empty stomach was chewing itself.
The bartender—a strange looking demon that seemed half insect and half plant—turned to look at Alastor with a raised brow.
He'd not seen any ‘Whites only’ signs at the door.
Did people still care in Hell?
“Yeah?” The bartender said, disinterested, continuing to polish glasses. Alastor steeled his nerves, trying to project confidence.
“I…” God, that radio reverb was unsettling. “I was wondering if perhaps you'd need some help around this establishment? I am quite the skilled cook.”
It was humiliating. Beneath him to even offer. But he needed some way to get by, or at least get a meal in him. He wasn't going to be a beggar—who would give charity in Hell even if he tried? He'd seen enough destitutes in his short time down here already to know that was a fruitless effort—but he could work.
The bartender only eyed him up and down, before returning his attention to the cleaning.
“Brothel next-door is always hiring. Hookers get discount drinks.”
Alastor balked, disgust churning in his stomach.
“I'm a man.”
“They're not picky.”
Alastor felt his face heat with an indignant blush. No, he wasn't entertaining the thought. He'd rather go back into the alleys and eat live rats than sink to that level.
He stood and turned to leave, when his eyes fell on something that made him pause with a last-ditch idea. There was a piano in the corner. Old and banged-up, but still intact. Hesitating for a moment, unsure if he was allowed but figuring he had little to lose, Alastor approached it and sat down. He felt a dozen skeptical eyes on his back, judgemental and hungry. And as he raised his clawed fingers to the ivory, they shook in time with his thumping heart. But finding the first note was instinct. It was a little off-key, a little out of tune. But as he started to play, the music seemed to drown out his newfound animal anxiety filling him with a strange nostalgic confidence that only grew as he played and his posture straightened, his hands steadying and his deer ears relaxing back up.
He refused to beg. But maybe he could at least earn a few tips.
Alastor sang, and somehow, the little radio on the bartop crackled to life and started echoing his voice. The sound was thin and tinny, but together with his live performance in that staticky voice, it sounded full.
One by one, the other demons stopped glaring and resumed their previous business. A few even started idly tapping along, and as the music spilled out onto the desolate street, more demons started spilling in. By the end of the night, he had a small stack of coins resting on the top of the piano.
A stack that someone in passing tried to snatch.
Alastor's rage flared, and without even thinking—without stopping to remind himself that he was no longer on Earth where he alone was a predator—he lunged at the demon.
Immediately, the bar erupted into cheers and laughter as the fight began, the demons crowding around to cheer and whoop. Alastor punched and clawed, seeing nothing but red. The coins were thrown somewhere out of sight, out into the crowd of spectators, and he grabbed in the air for them only to be cut off by hooves as sharp as broken glass stabbing into his stomach and throwing him back against the piano with a discordant clang. Before he could recover, the hooves were followed by sharp antlers smashing into his chest, shattering into glass-splinter in his arms and torso.
Alastor grabbed onto the glass stump, even as the other demon’s antlers were already regrowing to bash him again, cutting his palms open. He tried to wrench the demon's head away, only to be thrown viciously onto the filthy floor by his hold as the other stag panted and growled.
And then, abruptly, it all stopped as Alastor pushed himself off the ground to see his opponent.
Somehow, by some kind of filial instinct, he recognised him.
Except, the last time Alastor had seen his father's face, it had an axe buried in it.
The man paused, seemingly equally stunned and caught off-guard as he stared down at Alastor. Then, surprising him almost more than anything, he growled and turned to leave.
“I should have fucking known. Still a little bitch who can't fight for shit.”
Alastor was left lying on the ground, panting and bleeding. The money was gone, and the onlookers dispersed in disappointment. None of them bothered to help him up, but why would they?
His hands slipped against the floor, caked in blood as he pushed himself back up. Still dazed, still angry and lost, mingled with the near permanent prey-panic that was never far behind. But something he didn't understand made his hooves move towards the door, stumbling and faltering like a newborn fawn. Following the man he hated, but who was still the only familiar thing Alastor had found yet in this Hell.
He wasn't sure if he stumbled after because he wanted to keep fighting, or just because he didn't know what else to do. Like a five year old only clinging harder to the hands that tried to shove him off.
Either way. It was pathetic.