Chapter Text
Alastor knows his life won’t be a very long one, not with the choices made. Not with his ambition growing teeth, with his hunger growing claws. He’s certain his end will come sooner than later and that it will be gruesome, there’s no other way.
He knows, but he always imagined the appalling end would concern his body while in the middle of a murder or because he looked at someone in power a little funny or at his own hands, if the time came, but–
The matter is, and listen carefully dear audience, Alastor’s pretty sure he’s losing the plot.
There’s a hum of static that seems to follow Alastor. A hum of static and the starting notes of a song he can’t ever place. Pop in and out before he can discern, exactly, why it feels familiar.
It is not the first time this happens, he will just have to continue to suffer from this particular kind of brain worm until he remembers the song and if he heard it on the radio or from a live band in the bars he frequents with Mimzy.
Static, a whistling tune; phantom sounds Alastor’s used to since his early twenties. Started on his left ear, traveled to his right and never left either, heard mostly in the night, when external sound is limited. He learned early on to leave the radio singing to mask the sound if he wanted to catch some sleep.
That’s why he thinks nothing of it when they start to follow him into the day, too. Humming along, used to the fact that he won’t ever experience silence the way he did when he was a kid– or a teenager. A subtle ring he can only really notice if he pays attention.
Nothing out of the ordinary, except–
Alastor’s on air when the following happens:
He's talking about their usual sponsor, endorsing cigarettes of dubious quality -Alastor won’t be caught dead smoking those- when the sounds start.
Slowly at first, something indifferentiable from the tune he carries with him, from the ones that are the natural result from the radio: static, almost physical in the way it raises the hair on his arms, on the back of his neck, producing involuntary shivers and then, behind the static, a note being carried for too long, out of tune, something crashing and breaking.
Alastor keeps talking, no one has signaled for him to stop, so he doesn’t. It isn’t important, then. The signal fails from time to time, it is the result of adjacent networks operating on overlapping frequencies.
The volume builds up, up, up, getting harder to ignore, to hear his own voice. It rings, it hums, it breaks and decomposes notes of a song he usually plays until it becomes something unrecognizable. The needle going the wrong way on the record-player, nails on chalkboard. The cry of a cornered animal.
Animals wailing, the—
Alastor falls silent.
–The sound of a misplaced pig being mauled to death; the sound of the victims he manages to lure in the old abandoned warehouse and doesn’t have to worry about the screams.
And then nothing, not even the white noise of the end of a frequency interference. Silence, the whistling tune that has followed him all these years is gone, he swallows. A rubber band of sounds that leaves him disoriented. The “On air” sign is off.
Alastor’s alone in the cabin, the program beside him filled with songs they don’t have permission to play, songs he doesn’t recognize. The shadows at the corner of his eyes elongate, as if reflected by a candle, darkening the room. The ringing on his ears returns and he feels something wet falling from them.
He blinks, breathes again when he notices he stopped at some point, unwraps his fingers from the desk and looks at the door. The “On air” sign is lit up again, so he leans over the microphone and smiles. A strange interference is not enough to get him off the game.
And he’s always up for some improvisation, so he jokes with his audience, states some slight problem with the signal and keeps on with the programme. The stage is prepared, the show must go on and all that.
He still raises a hand to touch his ear and doesn’t know how to feel when it comes out empty.
Alastor spends the musical segments thinking about the reason for the interference, and keeps doing so after he says his goodbyes and gets off air.
The work of a radicalized group, stealing major radio signals, a demonstration of discontent, political unrest. A performance. It is not unreasonable to think about, with the recent manifestations and financial crisis. The rest– the wandering of a mind who doesn’t sleep nearly as much as it should. The insomnia has been ruthless as of lately.
Alastor gets out of the cabin and goes to hunt the man that employs him without seeming like he’s doing so, the man is desperate to fill in his dad’s shoes and a slob, a tragic combination Alastor wants nothing to do except for receiving his paycheck.
But he always has something to say when their signal gets funny, so he goes to his usual smoking spot and arranges his face to show surprise when he finds him there. The man laughs, charmed as always and beckons him close with a hand motion. Alastor walks there and stops next to the man, accepting the offered cigarette. The fact they’re always of a nicer quality than his own ought to grant in him, but strangely enough it doesn’t. A minor dent on all his failings, Alastor guesses.
He lits the cigarette, drags a breath and waits for the man to say something, in case of well–
The last thing Alastor needs is to come as unstable. His whole situation is already precarious as it is. In any case, he doesn’t wait for long or at all, the man is always happy to talk.
“Alastair, man! Good job playing off the interference!“ Is what he says, slapping his shoulder. Alastor bears it with grace.
“I tried, it was a bit stronger than last time.“
“We couldn’t hear anything for a bit there, but it turned out alright.” He hums, shrugging. “I think it was because of the electrical work the government has been doing around here lately.”
Hmm.
He thinks for a second that– but, no. The man is too transparent for that, too eager to blurt every thought in his mind.
“I was thinking that maybe we–”
Case on point.
“--Well! I better get going, it looks like rain is on the horizon, don’t you think?” Alastor says and takes his own bit of joy on the sight of the man’s face falling. He needs it after this shift. “Make sure to grab an umbrella, chum! See you on monday!”
Alastor’s life has been easier since the man’s despicable dad died and left the station in his inexperienced hands, sure. That doesn’t mean he wants to socialize with him, not today, at the very least.
“The End is near! Pray for your souls, pray for your sins!”
Alastor snorts, thoroughly entertained by the angry mob gathered at the end of the street, surrounding a building that until this morning was burning. Falling in debris, blackened walls and broken mirrors; he can still smell the smoke.
Mimzy’s lovely face scrunches, like she tasted something sour. “Ain’t that nice, we got false prophets too.”
“We can’t know that.” Alastor says, chirpy. She stops glaring at them to bestow him with her deadly stare. She’s been getting better at those.
It is not uncommon to see this kind of display, especially not in this part of the city, where the delinquency rate is higher, the theft expected and unpunished. Not that it’s much safer in other places, with the recent and not-so recent murders, why, everyone is oh-so-worried they are going to be next. It is a good thing Alastor’s station got themselves a deal with the police and are the first ones to broadcast the juicy details of the latest execution!
His fridge is getting empty, as of lately.
In any case, he still wouldn’t bring a lady here and he actually didn't, Mimzy was the one who lured him out of his department with the promise of a nice dance and good alcohol. She just failed to mention that his function until they get to the alleged best spot in the city is that of a bodyguard.
Mimzy’s hand tightens on his arm, uncomfortable, as they walk past the screaming mob. Rough.
As he’s about to turn and make a jab at her contacts for their poor taste, he notices from the corner of his eye a hand coming to grab him. Alastor catches the offending arm before the man can touch him and gets Mimzy behind him, who goes with a squeak. He smiles down at the man, staring at one of the palest skins he’s ever had the displeasure of seeing covered in a feverish blush, red eyes from crying, the smoke or something else. And where any sane person would apologize he doubles down, grabbing the lapels of Alastor’s coat with his free hand and lowering him with so much force, he has no choice but to go with it. Lest his clothes get any damage.
“The Dead are coming back!” He screams on his face, with a focused intensity that makes Alastor falter for a second.
He’s close enough to notice the smell of the man, for it to grant on him. Vinegar. Something that was sweet, rotten.
“Don’t you understand?! These are the hunting grounds and we're the prey!” He continues. “Hell wants all of us back and Heaven is empty!”
The man keeps glaring for a few moments, Alastor’s smile widens, waiting for the next nonsense, but he gasps and shudders, shrinking into himself and looks at the distance, vacant for a few seconds before returning to stare at the hand he has on Alastor’s lapels, confused.
“Release me.” Alastor says, placidly. There’s no need for more histrionics.
“--yeah, so-sorry.” He says, disentangling himself and looking at the floor. Alastor lets him go. “I don’t-”
“Think nothing of it, my good man! Maybe some rest will do you some good.”
The poor thing continues to look confused and as he doesn’t seem likely to take ahold of Alastor again, he grabs his friend gently by her shoulders and guides them away, leaving the man standing there.
“What’s his deal?” Mimzy hisses, looking back and taking ownership of his arm once again.
Alastor hums, “Maybe a war folk, soldiers never return the same after that. ”
They keep walking, this time without interruptions. The smell of vinegar is still clinging to his nose, for some reason, and he turns so his nose is pressed against his collar, smelling the fabric, instead.
It does nothing to dissipate it.
“--well, as I was saying, that place with the nice live band is making another contest.” She says, putting the incident behind them at a wonderful speed. “What do you think, Al?”
Mimzy looks up at him, free hand under her chin and bright honey eyes blinking slowly, trying to make her face as charming as possible. He blinks; the image falters, changes and he’s left staring black pools, voids with a bright focal point. Magenta pupils on black sclera. He misses a step, looks at his feet to orient himself and when he looks up, her lovely ember eyes glance back at him.
"What's tha’ problem, sweetheart?" She says when Alastor fails to provide an answer soon enough. "Afraid you can't keep up with me?"
He forces a laugh and says: "I'm the only one who can."
"Damn right! I signed for us already; it’s in three weeks, so go practicing those moves!"
"Right back at you, dear."
Alastor has a bad nail and he’s not entirely sure what happened to it. Maybe he hit something and didn’t realize, maybe he cut himself with a knife when cooking, but the matter at hand -heh- is that his nail is raised at the base, half broken and coloring purple the skin underneath, like a bruise or dried blood.
He’s used to labor, his hands are calloused and scarred, this is not the first time something like this has happened. It’s still terribly inconvenient, he wants to work on the radio he acquired recently, but the parts that he needs to repair for it to sing again are delicate ones, small and he requires steady hands, good pulse.
He takes off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose and feels a spam on his hand, a sharp sting that makes him drop the things. He hisses, bends down to pick them up and gets annoyed when he notices the blood on his fingers. Such a little thing to bleed over.
He puts on the glasses, keeps his hand away from his clothes and goes to the bathroom. Alastor will have to break the nail and wait for it to grow again, easy, he should have done this before.
The irritation lasts longer than the focused spike of pain. He finishes washing away the blood and looks up to–
To–
Alastor looks in the mirror and blood-red eyes stare back at him. He blinks; they’re still there. Red pupils on red sclera on his reflected face. He moves his face from one side to the other, but it seems they are the only change, his skin still is his, his lips are still his, his nose is still his.
Those eyes are not.
“What the fuck?” He sings-songs, in case it breaks the spell or the hallucination, but it does neither and he’s left staring at the mirror with the most deranged smile in his arsenal. It’s really one thing after the other, isn’t it?
Alastor forces his face to relax, he has better control than that, and tries to recall if he did drugs in the last hours, he’s had worse journeys than a pair of eyes in the wrong color. But no, he came home directly from work and didn't have anything to eat except for a single cup of coffee offered by his over-excited boss.
He closes his eyes, hard, against the building headache Thinks he can’t go to work with red pupils on red sclera and then gets annoyed at himself for thinking about work in his free hours. Then he decides to open his eyes, slowly, in case they decide to change back. He peeks into the mirror and–
Look at that! They did decide it was enough.
Brown pupils on white-ish eyes settled back into his face. He moves his face from side to side once again, to see if something else decided to change, but no, his face is his again. Good.
That cup of coffee may have, after all, been spiced or maybe it’s the fact that he hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday morning. He sighs, washes his hands one more time and goes to the kitchen, averting his eyes from mirrors and reflective surfaces, he doesn’t want a repeat performance.
Alastor opens the fridge, stares at the contents inside and sighs again. He's really bad at keeping track of his meals if it isn't his own kind between his teeth.
The matter, Alastor thinks as he waits behind a tree, rifle carefully held between his gloved hands, is that one time is an incident, two a coincidence and three a pattern.
More than that, well–
He’s giving his altered state of mind serious consideration, he has always known he’s a little to the left in that regard, his mind doesn’t work the same way as the rest of the population. He also has never had a problem with this, other people do when they find themselves at the end of his knife, but that’s besides the point. It has never been a problem for him, the distance and the callousness, the anger and the want for control. Alastor knows himself.
The matter is that it never went as far as hallucinations, visual, audible, or a combination of the two. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was developing this kind of ailment, he remembers his nana succumbing to seeing shadows and demons in her last months and he knows these things carry on the family.
So, he wouldn’t be surprised and would accept it, if it wasn’t for the other aspects of it. He’s never heard of hallucinations that cause physical pain.
Alastor shifts and winces when that puts weight on that part of his feet, but he’s careful to not make any sound, and keeps guarding the pond. It’s been an overly hot year, the buck should come soon for some water. He’s on a nice stand, placed carefully against the wind currents so his scent doesn’t carry toward the body of water, wearing a nice jacket that camouflages him, perfect for a good hunt.
Perfect to clear his mind.
So, things he knows.
The incident with the red pupils on red sclera wasn’t a one-time thing and events escalated quickly after that.
The next time was red on red on black, flickering one over the other. Red eyes, black eyes, his brown ones, like it couldn’t decide on which one it wanted to settle. Then red on gray, rotting skin, red falling from a hole in its forehead and landing on a lip-closed smile. Then red pupils on black sclera, a shape like radio dials inside them. It happened again and again, showing new exciting details until– well.
The mirror doesn’t show his image anymore.
Instead there’s that distorted version of himself, red on red on red on black ends and dark radio dials moving clockwise instead of pupils when the pit on his stomach is too much . Red on black gradient of a gray skin, pelling, almost rotten. A smile cuts over his own, breaking the limits of his lips, of the space on his cheeks, ending below his eyes and held together by stitches. Inside there’s a row of knives, daggers, red dropping from the rotting yellow and he doesn’t know if the blood is his or not, but he can guess from the metallic aftertaste on the back of his mouth.
He also knows that to others he remains the same, as they don’t run away screaming at the sight of him.
There’s a face that is not his reflected back at him and what irks him the most is that it doesn’t feel unfamiliar , per se, only distant, like a melody he forgot the notes of. Alastor looks into the mirror, blinks, stretches his smile to the limits of his face and thinks Yes.
Yes, before snapping back into himself and remembering that hallucinations are not signs of a sound mind. Not that he had one to begin with, but the loss of his grasp on reality certainly doesn’t help.
He gets pulled out of his musings by a rustle of leaves, branches snapping under hooves and the deer appears, calmly walking towards the pond. Alastor breathes and waits for it to still. He’s close enough for a good shot, the ones he almost never makes; he raises the rifle.
And shoots the deer on its head. It drops on the spot.
Alastor has always had what is required to be a good hunter, something that can be trained, but it’s better if you have it from the start: the detachment necessary to kill and skin, to skin and tear, so why, in the name of all that it’s holy and unholy, does he feel nauseous?
It starts on his stomach, bile raising, and it settles at the back of his throat. Alastor closes his eyes for a couple of seconds to get the world to stop spinning and holds himself upright with a hand on the tree he was hiding.
He drags a few breaths, deems himself under control and starts to walk towards the carcass, hissing all the way and he’s successful for the incredible amount of five steeps, before his body gives up and he’s forced to throw up, barely having the time to twist to not get any of that on his clothes or shoes. He heaves a couple of times, hands on his knees.
Alright.
That’s something that happens now.
And because a little sickness won’t deter him from his objective, he cleans himself as best as he can with the handkerchief he carries everywhere, drowns the rest of the water he brought and sets to get his fucking deer.
Important rule! You don’t carry the prize you won on your shoulders, another hunter could mistake it for something alive and shoot at it– or at you, if their aim is not that good. You drag it, after wrapping it correctly, to keep dirt and flies out of your future meal.
Alastor settles to do that and takes off his gloves, slowly if not particularly careful and tries not to wince as the dried blood makes the removal harder than necessary. The things at the end of his fingers got sharper again in this short trip, if only to inconvenience him.
He sighs, makes a little detour to clean his hands on the pond, letting the blood be washed away if not the red and puts on another set of gloves.
So, another thing he knows and the center of this whole ordeal:
His nails are falling, slowly, painfully as the things underneath push against them, breaking their way out. Something he can only define as claws grow, red, of course, hiding the blood of their becoming and turning a gradient of black at the end, where they connect with his knuckles. He’s not entirely certain if other people can see this, but he can feel it, his skin tearing like paper.
As Alastor doesn't want to test if other people can see them, not yet, in any case, he never leaves his department without gloves; something similar is happening with his feet, but worse, somehow. Nails falling apart, something pushing to come out, pushing and pushing and tearing but he has the unsettling feeling that there’s not enough space.
He tries not to dwell on it, the bandages he has to put on a daily basis are already more than enough.
So–
Another hunting tip! An easy way to drag a buck is by its antlers. Some hunters tie the front feet behind the head of the carcass to keep them from catching on brush, Alastor thinks that’s for people that don’t trust themselves.
He drags the deer to the zone he uses to field dress it, a job made a tad more difficult than previous iterations due to his current predicament, but nothing he can’t handle with a bit of gritting of the teeth and a few stops for his feet and hands to stop smarting so much.
When he arrives Alastor props the deer on its back, head uphill –what remains of it at least–, and places two logs under the shoulders and two under the hips.
He can deal with the mirror, with his hands breaking and tearing like paper, with the shadows, but he really loathes whatever is happening to his feet. On the bright side, his pain tolerance is higher now. With walking being an exercise of will and all that.
Alastor rolls his eyes at himself –brown, hopefully–, takes out a knife from his bag and makes one long, straight incision up the belly. The skin and hair pull away, giving him unobstructed access to the muscle tissues. He cuts the muscle and as the tissue separates, he uses his fingers to enlarge the abdominal opening until there’s enough space to fit his hands into the cavity and uses his knife to separate the rib cage, to make it easier to remove the heart and lungs!
It doesn’t matter the species, he really does enjoy hearts, the shape of them, the flavor under his tongue, the beat under his hands until it can’t, anymore. Mimzy has always said he’s a heartbreaker and there’s indeed some truth in that!
There´s something relaxing in the way he severs the windpipe and then carefully cuts the connective tissue holding the interior organs to the diaphragm. He feels himself relaxing for the first time in days, even if the pain spasms in his hands keep reminding him of his situation.
So, other things he knows: the incident at the radio station wasn’t a one time thing, either. His ring is the same as it always has been, coming and going, but there’s also something else, like static, not only on his ears, but on his skin, raising the hairs of his arms, inside him and vibrating against his bones, like they’re the strings of a violin.
His radio works now, too, even though he never got around fixing it, with the newest addition to his hands. It means nothing to it, as it sings every time Alastor is in the room.
He also can’t sleep, but what else is new! He’s never had good sleeping habits since he left childhood. It’s getting quite ridiculous, though, and he can’t do his work if he’s falling asleep at the microphone! So, he’s taken to drinking a glass before trying to sleep. It makes his ring worse, yes, but it also allows him to relax and hope that that night he will sleep for more than two hours. And if he doesn’t, well, at least he doesn’t get any urge to break something.
It also helps with the pain.
Alastor lays the bulk of the organs outside the carcass and then finishes cleaning out the deer, removing any excess, just as he learned when he was a teenager.
And done! Your deer is field dressed and ready to go. This has to do for now, in absence of his other hunting.
He’s been starving, recently, and while he’s not unfamiliar with the feeling, nothing he has eaten has done anything to get rid of the sensation.
Hmm.
So!
Things he knows:
This is not inside his head.
When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable , must be the truth and all that jazz. It makes things more complicated. Maybe it’s the punishment for his sins.
Thrust upon him before death, for some reason.
Things spiral faster, after that. Unraveling thread to thread to reveal something beneath Alastor’s not sure he wants to witness.
Alastor wakes up screaming.
Which is quite a shame, considering this is the first time in three days he manages to pass out and pass out he did, on his couch, before he fell to the floor as a result of said screaming and the flying of limbs that resulted.
He’s still screaming or making some sort of noise that reminds him of a frightened animal, so he puts a hand over his mouth to muffle the sounds and the other grasps the fabric of his pants, trying to get close to the source of the absolute agony, but not managing to do so. It burns, it’s on his leg or something leg-adjacent, he doesn’t– he doesn’t know.
It’s not– he hasn’t– there’s no light, there’s no flames, but he feels like his whole lower half is engulfed in it, consuming itself to the bone.
He hears the crack before the pain registers, and it’s– it’s definitely on his leg, something in there broke and he bites his hand to muffle the screaming, his walls are like paper, he can’t risk anyone coming in here, he can’t– he hits his head against the floor, again and again, to focus on anything else that is not his broken and re-broken and re-broken leg and try and regain some semblance of sanity.
The radio he keeps on his work table, the one that should still be broken, howls with static, like the sounds they get on the radio station when there’s storms, the bad ones. And the sound should hurt him, make his ears ring all the way to his head, a throbbing headache, but none happens and he feels warm, in a way, like someone is playing him a lullaby.
His rabbit heart calms, somewhat, and the static gets louder as his leg finishes rearranging itself, engulfing him in its distortion, like a blanket thrown over a corpse. He barks a laugh at that and decides he’s had enough of lying on the floor.
He sits, using his arms and annoyed at the way they tremble. Alastor sighs, tries to move his leg and regrets it when the burning sensation returns, he waits out; eyes closed and bitten lips, once is over he crawls back until he hits the wall and tries to remember how to breathe. Something is wrong, something is wrong, something is wrong.
His heart is beating, his heart is making its best efforts to run out of his chest and his throat and chest hurl from the aggressive breaths he’s trying to get in. And it’s– it’s ridiculous, he doesn’t need either of them, hasn’t needed them for a long time.
The shadows close on him, and he doesn’t know how that is possible when everything around him is already dark. But— of course he knows, those are his , they belong to him, like an extension, an appendage, like a part of his soul. They are his, they are his, they are his.
Something curls in his hands, black and cold, going from his arms to the tip of the claws that have hatched completely and don’t give him any trouble anymore, except for the fact that he keeps tearing holes into his clothes and leaving scratches in his nice furniture.
He smiles at them and they smile back and his leg bends again. Alastor giggles, this is– God-Lucifer-and-the-rest, this is ridiculous.
So, something is wrong besides the obvious.
He already knew that, of course. But something is wrong in the opposite way, he realizes. Alastor was never meant to be here, not– not again? His mind is in pieces, trying to gather itself. Except–
He belongs here, of course he does. This is his home, this is his body being invaded by an infection, a stranger. He’s Alastor, and he’s a Radio Host from Louisiana who occasionally kills and eats people. Or he’s a Cannibalistic Serial Killer who occasionally is a Radio Host.
He remembers, with sudden clarity, the words that were screamed into his face, a few weeks ago.
The dead are coming back.
Ha!
He grabs the radio and throws it against the wall, breaking it and the blanket of static stops. Silence swallowing him, instead. The horror hits him a second later and he crawls towards it, bending over the shards.
Alastor can fix it, he–
His shadow frowns in the corner it's perched at. Hidden. Alastor snarls at it, baring his teeth like an animal, but he can’t help himself, that’s not the correct expression, their lips are never downturned. That’s the limit on the top of vulnerabilities he can’t allow.
It smiles. Good.
Hell wants all of us back and heaven is empty.
God-Lucifer-and-the-rest, he’s about to paint Heaven in a nice golden to black gradient if this is because of them. He knows nothing, but he’s sure he could swallow one of its angels. Alastor blinks, looks at the broken radio, at the shadow on his arms and still doesn’t know where that came from.
Enough is enough.
He forces himself to his feet –with help of his shadow, who kindly grasps his arm as he is about to fall- and limps towards the bathroom. He can walk on it, so not quite broken, but still bent in an impossible way. Improbable, nothing is quite impossible anymore, is it?
He slams open the bathroom’s door and sets himself in front of the mirror. Smile firmly in place.
“Who are you?” Alastor demands.
The shadows at the corner of his eye dance, elongating along the soft glow of the candle in the sink. Left and right. In and out. Alastor knows they’re laughing at him, the echoes ring somewhere inside his mind, somewhere inside his skin, somewhere inside his ears, right next to the static, popping in and out.
“Who are you? ” He snarls, the face on the mirror moves along his own, but the fangs are far too large and cut into his lower lip, drawing more blood. As if he needs more wounds.
The fangs are too large and the stitches at the corner of his lips are breaking, snapping. His own face hurts, like someone took a knife to it. The fractures on the sink get deeper, losing part of itself, breaking under his claws.
And it still doesn’t make any sense. Why does he have them, the thing on his leg, when his face remains the same.
He spits the blood dwelling on his mouth and gives up the pretense. He damn well knows who the thing in the mirror is.
“ What are you?”
He still doesn’t receive an answer, of course. The self in the mirror changes the color of its eyes once again. Black on red on black dials. Clockwise. Antlers grow and rise until he can’t see them anymore. The “X” on its forehead pulsates a soft green, getting more glaring, harder to ignore, the way it drills against Alastor’s own head. Throbbing like a migraine.
Alastor licks the dried blood from his lips, shifts on his burning feet and raises a hand to touch the mirror. The radio dials move to track the path of his hand, the smile against sense gets wider, breaking another stitch. He feels the blood fall on his cheek. Fool thing.
“So, here’s the thing.” He says, voice gentle, a touch condescending, the one he uses when Mimzy is crying. “I think you are trapped. Inside the mirror or inside my body or inside my mind, it really doesn’t matter.”
The shadows laugh harder, shaking against each other, sharing a secret and Alastor so dearly wishes he could choke them, make them writhe in pain instead of entertainment. The urge passes as quickly as it comes, feeling the ghost of their amusement on his bones. The candle goes out and they close on him, the only light coming from the mirror. Red on green on black.
Alastor says:
“What matters is that you are and I’m not, not in the ways that are important, so I need you to stop being a blubbering fool and, if not help me, then at least stop hurting yourself! You’re not being useful.”
It pops another stitch in response, because of fucking course it does. He spits again the blood and doesn’t bother wiping away the one on his cheek, falling on his chin and then on the sink. Dripping and dripping. At this rate its dumb face won’t be able to hold itself together and Alastor doesn’t know what will happen to him, then.
He says:
“You and I know this can’t go on, it isn’t sustainable. Why do you act like–
It tilts its head, like a curious dog, something above its head moving with it. Antlers growing thorns, thorns growing dead leaves. The dials move again, clockwise. Circling and circling and circling until Alastor can’t see them without being dizzy.
He breathes deeply and says:
“You and I are the same.”
The dials stop spinning for a second before continuing with renowned force, Alastor feels the pull on his own eyes and blinks away the urge, stomping on his left foot and willing for the pain to keep him focussed. Another stitch snaps, smile getting out of its face, smile covering the whole of its lower face, trying to break into the first, held together just by a negligible trail of thread, now. And it is right, it is him, but, but, but–
It moves again, the mark on its forehead pulsing, and crashes its head against the mirror, again and again. Force rattling the whole room and making Alastor jump back, crushing the sink between his claws. He tries to remember how to breathe, something as silly as fear has no place in this business, so he drags air into his lungs. That doesn’t stop his heart beating in tandem with the hits. Clash, thump, clash, thump.
He says:
“You and I are one.”
His voice comes out distorted, like he has a radio trapped on his throat and Alastor doesn’t pay any mind to it, he can’t. The shadows grow silent, the static higher and higher until it’s the only thing he can hear, the sound as he’s changing the broadcast. Blood falls from his ears and the thing in the mirror keeps trying to break it, thump, thump and it cracks with a deafening sound; a cry, a roar, nails on chalkboard.
Alastor makes an unintelligible sound born at the back of his throat, the center of his chest. Animal whine; animal instinct.
Freezed against the wall, deer-like and watching with wide eyes as the mirror fractures, as the self in the mirror grows desperate and uses its claws along its head, breaking bit by bit. His own claws break the skin of his palms. Red on red on black on green, dropping on his shadows starving mouths.
One of its antlers gets caught on one of the cracks, its last stitches snap as its smile grows and grows and breaks, rotting yellow on black voids and it twists, prepares to stab the glass again and–
The mirror breaks, too.
Mimzy raises an eyebrow when she takes in his appearance. "Ain't that too much red?"
Alastor laughs and opens his arms, showing off the clothing he spent a long time looking for. Accuracy is most important, after all! And with the most recent events, he can’t go out in his usual brown to yellow gradient, now, can he?
"It's never too much red, dear!" Alastor says, sugar-sweet. Bright smile in place. “And we match perfectly this way.”
Mimzy is wearing her most expensive dress, the pink one that is so strong it almost dips into red, the one one of her suitors gifted her before having a terrible accident for his lack of self-preservation. He really shouldn’t have been so insistent, Mimzy has limited patience after all, a swift hand with a knife and some very good tips about cleaning and digging. Alastor himself is wearing a suit, of a red so strong it almost dips into black, a blood-red shirt reminiscent enough of his attire downstairs that it calmed his rabbit(deer)-heart somewhat, and a classic black bowtie! You can’t go wrong with that one.
"Well," she says, still leaning in her door frame, an amused curl of her red lips. "It does hide blood better, sweetheart."
Oho! Someone is mad, he wonders if the new gal at the bar is still trying to squirm her way into Mimzy’s solo shows.
He laughs and dips his hand in an ´Oh, you.’ gesture.“It certainly does!”
She raises her eyebrows at the hand and doesn’t comment on it, but it’s enough for Alastor to remember, right. More demure gestures, he’s a gentleman in the thirties, after all! He can’t go out in all the charm he picked up on Hell, except that– oh, he can absolutely do that, who cares. His claws are sharp enough for anyone that does.
“Someone is cheerful today!” It’s what she ends up saying, finally getting out of her apartment and closing the door. “Did something happen?”
“I solved a quarrel with a friend.” He generously shares, swaying the umbrella one his hand and offering Mimzy his other arm. “We reached a nice agreement!”
Memories go a long way! And they are necessary to stop acting like a bumbling fool, even if it wasn’t all of them. Why, he wouldn’t have panicked as he did when the claws first started to come out if he had known -or screamed nearly as much about his leg, the beginnings of the damned hooves–
“Since when do you have friends.” Mimzy says, taking his arm and it’s not really even a question, which, rude. He really did miss her.
“There’s so many things you don’t know, Mimzy, dear.” He answers, starting to walk towards the exit and the nice breeze.
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Like which direction the bar is.” Alastor says once they are outside the building, pointing around them with his umbrella.
The poor dear was born with a broken compass, it improved in hell, but just marginally. She makes up for it with a delightful talent for improvisation and a penchant for finding people who go the same way and integrating herself in.
“Ha! You’re so funny.” She says and goes to the left with absolute confidence. Alastor is tempted to go along, just to see how long it takes for her to realize her mistake, but alas, they need to be in time.
In her defense, they have only gone there once and the initial point of that particular expedition was from her work, not her department. She’s so very lucky to have him as a friend! His compass is just fine.
Not the moral one, mind you, but the important one! He always arrives at places just fine, so he tugs her gently to the opposite direction and she goes with that same confidence, like that was always her plan. He graciously refrains from snorting.
“Ready to get movin’ on the dancefloor?” She says, voice almost a purr, rolling her “r’s” in that way of hers.
“I’ve been ready for ages. ”
He spent a long time choosing a pair of wide-leg pants to hide the fact that one of his legs is bending in a way it really shouldn’t, and even a longer time perfecting his walk, so he didn’t look like a newborn fawn and even more important, so he could dance.
They walk there, among Mimzy’s chattering and Alastor occasional fuel to the flames when it comes to her complaints, she looks lovely spitting vitriol and curses hiding in creative comments. He did miss this– her and he doesn’t know why, not yet.
Alastor looks up at the sky and he feels as his smile sharpens, his restraint snapping like a branch and he throws his head back, barking a laugh. The human in him is absolutely scandalized, drawing that much attention in the street.
Let them come at him, he’s ravenous.
“ Alright.” Mimzy drawls, smile widening, turning it up to match his energy. “What did this friend do ?”
“Nothing, Mimzy, nothing. I’m just appreciating the sunset, it looks quite lovely today, doesn’t it?”
She looks up, too, squinting at it. “I guess.”
As much as he likes red it gets dull after a while, especially if it's the only thing coloring the sky. The purples and yellows and blues certainly add a dimension to it, add life to it. And he’s surrounded by it, Mimzy at his side with her beating heart, the people across the street chattering about their inane lifes, the protests from weeks ago. Absolutely wonderful.
He can’t wait to end one of them. Or two, or three or–
Killing certainly lacks a certain charm when you know the victim will just come back and not even the things he did with the Old Overlords were fulfilling the same way as his career on earth-side. Alastor feels like he could break into a sprint, bouncing steps, but that’s too much, even for him and he contents himself with twirling his umbrella at the lack of his nice cane.
It is really a lovely day.
Mimzy keeps throwing him suspicious glances all the way there, probably wondering if he started the party earlier, but he wouldn’t dare do that to her. No, he’s just appreciating the way his heart beats into his chest, rapid-fire, excited instead of frightened, the way his feet sting with each step like he’s walking on glass and pain feels different up here, too. Titillating.
They arrive soon enough to an inconspicuous facade, the kind that whispers the sweetest promises to turn the already nice night into a delightful one. The kind that hosts nice and normal dancing competitions with even nicer winning prizes in the form of liquor bottles. They do enter competitions where the prize is cash, but these ones are more entertaining. And alcohol is not called liquid gold for nothing!
And Alastor can say they are certainly eye-catching, pretending not to notice the amount of stares directed at them when they step in, but he cannot resist the small laugh when he notices Mimzy and himself preening at the exact same time.
“We are going to devour these fools.” She says and Alastor has to agree, even if the choice of words leave him longing.
Mimzy guides them towards the bar and while she engages in conversation with the bartender, he rests his face on his hand and turns to observe the rest of the patrons. Mingling, talking about their oh-so-important lives. His shadow is perched at a table, looming over a lovey-dovey pair and making some amusing faces without losing its smile; he wonders if someone will notice he doesn’t have one and what would they think, then.
So, things he knows:
He was dead and now he is not. Like the Second Coming and that bullies a snort out of him, if the Killing and the Cannibalism weren’t enough to ensure him a place in Hell the first time, the blasphemy definitely will do the trick.
So, he was dead. Shot in the head like an animal, like the deer he last ate, and the sudden sickness now makes sense, doesn’it? Shot in the head in the middle of hunting season, like a fool. Hmm. How embarrassing.
He grabs the glass Mimzy sets in front of him and drinks, relishing in the burn on his throat.
“We go first.” She says, smiling around her glass. “Didn’t listen to me when I told them they should save us for last.”
“An oversight they won’t commit again, I’m sure.”
So, things he doesn’t know:
Everything in the middle. Between the now and then. Spawning down in Hell with a new body and new talents , making a raucous in Hell’s hierarchy, bringing a new nightmare and then what?
Alastor doesn’t have the slightest idea! Isn’t that swell and bound to end well? He feels his teeth grinding together and relaxes his face, today isn’t the day to reflect on that. He will, there’s quite a long blank space in the now and then that he needs to figure out, but if it is anything like his body, his memories will come back to him bit by bit, piece by excruciating piece.
But anyway! He’s here to have fun.
And it looks like it’s already showtime. He drowns his glass, Mimzy doing the same at his side. The scenario is theirs.
He walks, the disquietness of his leg and pain on his bandaged feet ignored. He’s quite thankful the hooves haven't finished coming out yet, he wouldn’t be able to dance with only one of them. Or walk, really.
So, dance they do.
And it really is something else, dancing, when the shadows move along you –only you– and the radio waves float around, changing nearby tunes at your will. He smiles at his shadow and it smiles back, rows of knives inside his mouth. The pain in his feet is just an added sensation, intensifying the rest. He jumps and lands on glass, the lights flicker; he twists, Mimzy’s hand on his shoulder, on his hand, a touch and gone, she’s behind him, he turns again, looking for her, their bodies never stop moving in perfect synchrony. Alastor dances towards her, Mimzy dances back.
This is a game they’re playing, a story they’re telling. Alastor chases after her, she says no; a hand extended, a hand retired, the turn of her face away from him and they get out of synch for a few seconds until the regret hits and Mimzy chases after him, he says no, a hand on his shoulder, a hand rejected, each dancing their own steps, but the same rhythm; there’s hope.
Performing the perils of an indecisive Love! They’re entertainers! Storytellers!
The music misses a beat and they reach out at the same time; hand on hand, heart on heart. Hand on shoulder; hand on waist; Mimzy swaying her skirt quite nicely. Bodies perfectly aligned. Disagreement over until next time, the changing nature of humans, of a mercurial love he could never quite understand, but excels at performing.
Alastor laughs when the song finishes, their time over, still holding Mimzy down, who wrestles herself back into place and then wrestles him into bowing with her for their cheering audience.
The Dead are Coming Back, indeed!
“Ya´ haven’t had that much to drink, I’m sure.” Mimzy says as they return to the bar, a frown disgracing her face.
“I’m drunk in life, sweetheart!” He answers, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “Who knows how much of that we have left?”
“Charming.”
Alastor laughs, looks back at the scenario and wills one of his shadows to trip up the cute dancing pair, fools in love and making it everyone else's problem. A little cheating never hurt anyone. Not that they need it, Mimzy wasn’t wrong when she said they are unparalleled, but well– he’s rather enthusiastic to use his new-found friends. Old friends.
Mimzy snorts beside him, unladylike manner complimenting his ungentlemanly ways, and Alastor laughs harder, drawing glaces and glances and glances. And it’s unwise, so unwise, he’s not the right complexion, the right background, he’s not the right anything, in this particular place and time, anywhere.
Let them come. Let them come. Let them come. Let them–
“You do look especially beautiful tonight, dear.” Alastor says, as he regains control of himself.
Mimzy really does look wonderful with the flush of life, with those sweet-honey eyes of hers instead of the black on magenta ones. Not that he’s particularly against them, it’s just– different.
She covers her mouth, playing coy. “Oh, Alastor. You do know the way to a gal’s heart.”
That he does! Quite literally, too. He laughs and throws back the glass, looking back at the stage. He turns to Mimzy after a dreadful few seconds, to make fun of the new pair, that dance like their shoes are on fire and don’t even manage to do it gracefully, but she flinches, making a squawking sound, before pretending it didn’t happen and squinting up at him.
“Your eyes–”
Alastor tilts his head. “Hmm?”
“Nothing, Al. The lights scared me for a sec´ there.” She says, before propping her chin on her folded hands and smirking. “--But, you know, red eyes would look quite charming on you.”
Oh- oh .
“Is that so?”
She lowers her lids, a more genuine expression crossing her face and that’s his cue to call off their little game. As amusing as it is, he actually doesn’t want to partake in anything more. Before he can act on that thought, Mimzy’s eyes drift over his shoulder and groans, moving slightly, so that Alastor’s frame hides her. He smirks.
“What delightful little problems have followed you this time?”
“Not ones that I looked for, this time. ” She says, mimicking him for those last words. “It’s just a fuckin’ creep that doesn’t let me or the girls alone. He stays until we finish our turns and tries to go with one of us. One of the girls took him up for it, Ana, you know her and didn’t return. Let me tell ya’, if someone doesn’t do anything ‘bout it another girl is going to go missing.”
Alastor hums, turning to look at the man without bothering with subtleness, but making sure Mimzy stays out of range of vision. He’s painfully average, totally unimportant, eyes pass him as he’s just another piece of furniture. A perfect, unassuming face for stalking.
“Tell the police, then.” He says, with a perfectly straight face that Mimzy copies. “I’m sure they will do everything in their power to help you.”
She nods, stoically. “That I will do, thank you for your wisdom.”
They keep staring at each other for a few seconds before they burst out laughing, leaning on each other and managing to sound like fucking cackling hens. Once they get themselves under control, Mimzy beams at him, patting him on the shoulder once before retreating her hand.
He’s still going to corroborate the information Mimzy gave him, watch him for a couple days if he manages to resist the allure of flesh and blood. He’s not her attack dog, thank you very much, but he doesn’t mind her pointers now and then.
Alastor marks his prey and goes back to his goal of the night: not being able to walk in a straight line for a reason other than the unfortunate situation on his feet and legs.
So! Good news. The hooves are finally done hatching, coming out, whatever. They have replaced his feet completely and the bandages aren’t necessary anymore.
And you know what else isn’t necessary?
His nice shoes with the deer hooves nailed at the bottom, the ones he uses to keep the police off his track. Alastor now can use his very own hooves for that! There’s always a bright side to things, his mom used to say, and he agrees!
But– back to the matter at hand. He’s waiting for his dinner to wake up, there’s no fun in killing if Alastor can’t see the fear in their eyes, first, or the delicious recognition . The grumbling on his stomach can wait, maybe.
Alastor sits on the chair he placed in front of the man, hooves in full display, and sets his elbows on his knees, chin resting on his folded hands. It turned out that Mimzy was right– the man is a creep, standing outside Mimzy’s bar, doing nothing but stare and even worse is what he uncovered when he broke into his house: hear this out, the man possesses a total of zero Radios! Alastor checked his place inside and out, up and down and there’s N-O-N-E. What kind of man lives like that? A joyless life, a soulless life, what a bastard.
And there’s also the matter of poor Ana's head inside his fridge.
The man starts to stir, the last remains of his forced slumber falling away as he tries to stretch and finds that he can’t, arms tied behind him. Alastor’s always had a talent with rope and knots.
“Wha–”
“Hello there!” He greets, smile widening.
His dinner tries to move his arms again, with the same result and he tries his luck with his legs next, but alas! Those are tied, too and then his wandering eyes finally settle on Alastor. This one is a slow one, it seems.
“What?” He says again, before recognition colors his expression and he spits out: “ You.”
That’s the adequate reaction to finding themselves in his claws!
“You’re that fucker that’s always with the gorgeous blonde.” He continues, venom dripping from every word. Wonderful, and then he goes to ruin it by snarling: “Allan.”
Come on, now. If the man didn’t deserve to be killed before, he definitely does now.
“Alastor.” He tuts, moving a finger in front of his face and the man has the gall to look confused.
“What.” His dinner says, for the third time. It’s starting to get boring. But what else he expected from a radio-less man.
He refrains from rolling his eyes, barely. “Alastor, my friend! Seven letters, I’m sure you can manage it.”
The man smiles, something strained trying to pretend it’s not, and leans back on his chair, getting himself as comfortable as he can in his restraints.
“Whatever, it’s the same.”
Alastor’s grin deepens in response, to show him the expression well performed. He pulls out his hunting knife from the inside pocket of his coat – a dark green to blend with the scenery–, and starts to clean it with his handkerchief, careful to not break the fabric of his gloves with his claws.
The man flinches when he sees the knife, before he controls himself and remembers to scoff. A man trying very hard to pretend he isn’t afraid.
“Alastor! Alright, Alastor.” He rolls his eyes. “Jesus.”
Alastor stays silent, still cleaning the already shiny knife. His food starts to sweat, and his shadow tells him he’s trying to undo the knots in his wrists. Twisting and twisting, rope clawing painfully at his skin.
“So, care to tell me why am I here?”
A man thinking he still can get out of this alive.
The first notes of a song that won’t even exist for another ten years float around them, the man flinches, looking around for the source before remembering that it is not wise to take your eyes away from the predator in the room.
“You look like a, hmm– functional human, somewhat! I’m pretty sure you can figure out why you’re here.”
It’s a game of sorts, this silence and lack of information of his, it’s– interesting, sometimes what people will tell you, what they think they did to deserve this. None of them say the truth, of course, but lies are compelling, in their own right.
And the man starts to look very nervous indeed, paling and the trembling becoming more noticeable.
“Is this for the money? I–I already told you guys that I need more time, just– just a bit.”
Boring.
“Wrong, my friend! Try again.”
He’s never been good at resisting playing with his food, because, well– he doesn’t want to. Fear is truly an addictive look, increasing with each incorrect answer, each one more amusing than the last. Eyes pinned on the way Alastor’s playing with the knife, spinning it, pressing the tip against his thumb, softly, without tearing his glove.
“I don’t–
A sad trumpet sound effect cuts the music for a few seconds before resuming with more force. The man’s wrists are colored in an angry-red tone, scratched raw. Alastor decides to help move this along a bit, his hunger fighting against prime entertainment. It’s been such a long time since something really died at his hands.
“There is truly a disturbing lack of radios in your department.”
Ceased to be.
“...What?” His dinner’s voice is just a thread, pulled taut.
Alastor waits for the man to get the implications, wishing adrenaline would hit right already. People do wonderful things to survive, fighting for that silver lining that never comes.
“You were in my department.” He murmurs, talking to himself, which. Rude. And then his eyes widen. Realization! “You- you saw–
“The woman in your fridge! Yes.” Alastor says, gesturing with his hands and tilting his head in a show that is less fun now that he doesn’t have malleable bones.
Well- not ones he can control, in any case.
The man turns an interesting shade of red, white pallor overcomed by the new color and he struggles against his bounds again, done with the discretion he was trying.
“All of this is for that whore ?” He spits out. “Was she yours or what? Are you cheating on the blonde?”
Angry-red! Not red-embarrassed. Alastor’s intimately familiar with the lack of regret, but this is just pathetic.
“It is not very polite to attack defenseless ladies and have their body parts on your fridge, don’t you think?”
He scoffs. “ Defenseless. That bitch had it coming.”
Alastor’s hand slips and his nice knife finds its way into the man’s thigh. He yells, letting out an unoriginal string of curses, looking so surprised. Whoops.
“So– so, she was your whore! I get it.” He pants, sweat falling in rivets from his forehead and trying for a smile but falling short again. “There’s just something about her kind, am I right? I can get you another, Alastor.”
Dull. Alastor retrieves his knife, making a wet sound and the man whimpers. This has been fun, but now that he’s watching the blood, smelling it, his self-restraint suffers a blow and his Hunger wins.
“Wrong again!” Alastor says, cheerfully.
His Hunger wins, gnawing at the incessant pit in his stomach, but it allows for some concessions. He needs something more entertaining, watching the man struggling in his bounds is not as amusing as it was, just a few months ago. Alastor thinks about his options, licking clean the knife, metallic taste filling his senses like a long-lost friend. His prey watches, expression turning more perturbed than scared each second that passes. He licks the knife one last time, then– Aha!
“You have two options, chum!” He starts, reclining in his seat and crossing his legs. “Use that knife on you, slice your throat, stab yourself through the heart for the drama! Get creative! I’m not particular about that–”
The man keeps staring, fear returning in his expression, the struggling becoming more desperate, his breathing more erratic. Alastor places the knife on his lap and starts to remove his gloves. Slowly, carefully. He would loathe to tear the fabric.
“– or try your chances at getting back to civilization! And to make this fair I will even give you a ten whole seconds start! That’s more than poor Ana had.”
The man never looks down– or pays attention to Alastor’s freed hands. Pity, it would have given him an indication that he’s never going to win.
“You’re a fucking lunatic.”
Alastor laughs, something short and sharp. “Of course I am! Just like you.”
The man keeps his unsteady breathing, close to hyperventilate and Alastor’s waiting so patiently for his survival instincts to kick in. For his dinner to finally get interesting.
“So, what do you choose?” Tic, tic, tic. The dials are turning and turning, the sand is falling and time is running out.
Tap, tap, tap, the click of his hooves against the concrete floor as he raises from the chair, knife in hand and walks around the man, claws tracing a path on his tense shoulder. Red on black on red.
“The easy way out?”
He stops behind the man, one hand grasping his shoulder –and he still doesn’t look down and to the side, the red, red, red – his other hand raises and places the knife against his food’s throat, not pressing, Alastor’s not sure his restraint will hold if there’s more blood, not so close. The man stops breathing and holds still.
“Or try your luck.”
He lowers the knife; his dinner sags in a relief that doesn’t last when Alastor tugs on the ropes holding his arms together. Grinding against his self-made injuries. Black on red on black.
“My luck! My luck.” The man chooses and then says it again for good measure. A hitch on his voice, thick with panic.
“Feeling adventurous, are we?” Alastor says, amusement laced in his words and before his prey can think that it was tricked, he follows up with a: “Very well.”
He places a tiny key into the man’s clammy palms, who closes them into fists immediately. The music changes into something more animated, the perfect track for a dance! The perfect track for a hunt.
Alastor cuts the rope with a claw.
And gets out of the way when the man jumps from the chair, turning to him and trying to land a rather mediocre hit.
“That’s the spirit! But we haven’t started yet.” Alastor admonishes, waving the knife and the sight of it gives his prey a pause. “You will know when we do.”
The man breathes heavily, looking wildly around to find something to defend himself or for the exit. Alastor smiles, tilts his head and after a few seconds of consideration, offers him the knife by the handle. It 's only fair!
He stares at it, bewildered, breaking out of his fear for a split-second before quickly grabbing it. Alastor’s exhilarated, like he hasn’t been in a long time; alive or dead, even if this feels a bit like kicking an injured dog. He should have brought a gun.
But– well. He’s still human, more or less, he can still hunt them.
A moment and. “ One.”
His dinner startles out of his shock and limps towards the door. Alastor’s eyes fade to red, he can feel it, a sheen over his vision, drowning his brown pupils forever and ever. Such a shame, he liked those.
Two.
Canned laughs surround them when the man fumbles with the lock, curses falling from his lips like prayers.
Three.
He slams the door on his way out. The night pours into the room, crickets and fireflies. He so dearly missed the stars.
Four.
Alastor balances himself on the tip of his hooves, shy of bouncing, excitement building on every limb, on every muscle and blood vessel.
Five.
The man’s footsteps fade until he can’t hear them anymore. Human ears aren’t as good as deer ones.
Six.
Alastor is rooted in the center of the room by a gentleman’s deal. He spins on his place, giddy, and then does it again.
Seven.
It doesn’t matter how much time Alastor gave to the man, he can smell him. That’s one of the things he always liked about that prey body of his.
Eight
He spins.
Nine
He spins.
Ten.
He starts the hunt.
It doesn’t last long, he wasn’t expecting it to. It’s unremarkable, completely predictable, his prey not particularly smart and, by all means, should be boring, except-
Alastor looks up, at the moon peeking from behind the clouds, fresh air caressing a skin that can’t decide if it’s decayed or not, his hoofs stepping on grass, leaves and branches instead of dirty and bloodied sidewalks; everything is so alive. He wants to preserve this moment into a bottle and never let go, he wants it to loop.
He eventually comes to a stop, close to the place his prey decided to hide when he heard Alastor coming. He walks past it and deliberately looks to the other side, wondering if the man will run away or try to attack him.
Soon enough and to nobody’s surprise, his victim runs to him, putting all his weight and momentum to tackle Alastor to the ground and stab him in the shoulder, vicious, in a place that would have rendered that arm useless and twists the knife for a maximum of damage. What a stupid place to stab, his face and chest were right there! But alas, it seems like this make-believe predator also enjoys playing with his food.
“Did ya’ really think you could kill me ? Ha!” He removes the knife with a splatter and raises it to stab again, inches away from Alastor’s face.
It looks like he’s, after all, in the possession of a few brains! Wonderful. The fight for survival always drags the most interesting parts out of people.
And this is fun.
In the way his prey’s eyes widen when his eyes finally find Alastor’s face, the red on red on red, the call of death in there, of Hell. Eyes skittering, glancing at the shadows cowling on his shoulder, lazily stitching him together, before he returns to his face, the grotesque show in there that appears in flashes.
“What the fuck are you?!” And Alastor laughs and laughs and laughs. Sound distorted and filtered. Broken in the middle.
Alastor can’t see himself but knows that there’s dials instead of pupils, fangs instead of teeth, he feels them pulling at his lips, cutting them. Human skulls weren’t made to contain them and he can’t break his bones like he used to. He keeps smiling and blood keeps falling from his mouth.
“Just a Radio Host, my good man.” And he feels as his smile finally breaks his face, held together only by stitches. Black drowns the red of his eyes. “Just that.”
The man doesn’t make a sound. His mouth is stuck open, in a soundless scream, horror so deep it can’t escape it’s vessel. Locked in place and devouring it. Which doesn’t make for good meat, so tense, adrenaline and hormones going wild. Alastor wouldn’t have it any other way.
Alastor tears his throat, mauls on his sinful skin and the man finally finds his voice, howling in the distinct manner of wild animals. He screams until he can’t anymore, choking instead, drowning in his own blood.
“Good luck in Hell!”
A last laugh escapes him before he turns to lie down on the grass, next to the corpse and the blood oozing from it, looking up at the dark sky, at the full moon and the stars surrounding it. Y las noches que haya luna llena, he thinks, será por qué el niño esté de buenas. And then he hears the song clear on a nearby frequency, even if the folds of time shouldn’t allow it.
He chews absently the piece of raw meat on his mouth, swallows, thinks this is it and then promptly throws up. Which just won’t do, he’s starving.
Fucking human body– half-human?
He cleans his mouth with his sleeve as best as he can, turns to the body and tries again, recently acquired fangs tearing on flesh like a knife through butter. It is not better, the taste is hideous, the texture even more so, the blood dries his mouth and makes the weight on his stomach worse. Something’s still missing.
But it doesn’t matter, because his control bends and breaks, he can’t quite reign himself anymore. Even when a part of him is coiled in disgust, what is he doing? He has better manners than eating raw meat in the forest in the middle of the night.
It’s disgusting , like it never was, but–
He’s starving, he’s starving, he’s starving. Like those first days in Hell, when he still didn’t know.
He eats.
He eats.
The radio turns on as he steps into his house. Soft jazz floating around, familiar distortion around it.
The tap, tap, tap of hooves against the marble floor intertwine with the notes, the blood dries on his skin in an uncomfortable manner that nonetheless brings comfort, his shoulder stopped healing a while ago and he hasn’t bothered to put a stop to the red. He’s usually neater, he has to, but there’s a distinct lack of red on his clothes that he can't stand anymore, so the improvised dye has to do. He has enough presence of mind to not get any blood on the couch, though, and contains the mess in the kitchen.
Red on the counter, bright-red on the sink, dried-red on the floor, next to the open bag that contains the remaining parts he deemed worthy of consumption, and the blue eyes that looked so enticing when he was carving them out and even though he’s never had them before– he has– not in this form and he feels the phantom taste on his tongue, at the back of his throat.
A vivid image of a box filled with eyes instead of chocolates pops into his mind and his smile softens. What a wonderful gift, now if only his mind got itself together and he could remember who he gave it to.
No matter! There’s only two anyway, he and his shadow are more than enough to get a bite.
But–he needs to cook, he needs to eat. His rampage in the forest isn’t enough, not anymore. His stomach is a hollow, bottomless pit he thought absent for a while, but has been growing and growing.
He grabs the part of the torso he put to bleed out on the sink and sets to skin it.
"Why am I not surprised you managed to turn this in your favor?"
Alastor doesn't need to turn around to recognize the voice. He keeps slicing the skin in practiced motions and says:
"Lucifer."