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Husk hates Cannibal Town.
It's not the cannibal thing– or at least, not just the cannibal thing. Decades spent under Alastor have all but inured him to the concept of killing and eating people for fun. No, his issue with Cannibal Town has everything to do with its inhabitants. Those grinning, dead-eyed freaks never fail to give him the heebie-jeebies no matter how many times he comes 'round these parts.
But what Alastor wants, Alastor gets, and what Alastor wants today is Husk here, playing reluctant errand boy at fuck o'clock in the morning while he has a tea party.
Goddamn Overlords. What Husk wants is a drink.
He checks his list, a small scrap of paper written in Alastor's tidy, old-timey cursive. He's already been to the bank (depositing a stack of bills and a heavy, foul-smelling package to a leering teller), the post office (fifty years down here and he still doesn't understand why Hell has postcards, never mind a centralized mail system), and the library (to pick up 'One Hundred and One Uses for Pliers: Fun For the Whole Family!', 'Crime & Punishment Part Two', and a very pointed 'Alcoholism For Dummies' that had made Husk roll his eyes).
Next up is… ugh.
"Saved the best for last, huh?" Husk mutters as he stomps down the street.
Sawney's is one of the more well-established institutions this side of the Pentagram. Family-owned and operated, they pride themselves on serving only the highest quality cuts of exotic meats.
It's a favorite of Alastor's, for obvious reasons.
The bell above the door tinkles merrily as he steps inside. It looks like a normal deli on first glance, but the deboned fillets of hellhound meat (on sale today!) and boxes of cartilage toffee (made in house!) shatter the illusion pretty quickly. Not wanting to spend any more time here than absolutely necessary, Husk bullies his way up to the front of the line where a bored-looking sinner in an apron and plaid tam is manning the register.
"Here for a pickup.”
"Take a number, asshole," they say in a thick brogue, barely casting a glance at him as they wave the next person up. "Line’s there for a reason."
No way is Husk waiting in line next to rows of refrigerated heads and pickled toes for the next hour. He doesn't hate himself that much.
"Fuck your line, man," he says. "Pickup's for the Radio Demon."
That, predictably, gets him the clerk's full attention. Alastor's reputation remains as annoyingly salient as ever.
"Oh! Of course, sir. My apologies, please proceed to the next counter."
Husk rolls his eyes and does as bid, ignoring the chorus of outrage behind him as he makes his way up. Not even ten minutes later, he’s greeted by a harried looking clerk struggling under the weight of a paper and twine-wrapped... something.
Nope, none of his business. All he cares about is that it’s half the size of him and about as heavy, which means it's gonna be a pain to lug around. Luckily he still has a few tricks up his sleeve.
One of the more useful bits of magic he'd managed to retain upon forking over his soul is the ability to create small pocket dimensions. These days, he mostly uses 'em to dip out in a pinch or store a decent vintage, but back in his prime they'd been an excellent way to manage a sprawling network of inventory and supply lines.
Extending a claw, Husk focuses and draws a wobbly looking circle in thin air along the edge of the counter. Golden light surrounds a pitch black hole, and he shoves Al's weird mystery meat package inside with little to no aplomb.
Great. That's the last item on the list. Snapping his fingers to disappear the portal, he heads back out.
In another version of events, Husk consigns himself to wait in line. By the time all’s said and done, he’s wasted an hour and a half of his life and gets caught in the rain on the way back. In this version of events, Alastor grants him a rare day off that Husk spends at home, drinking Cuba Libres, watching pirated reruns of ‘Hoarder Wars: Oops! All Knives’, and thinking about how he’s definitely going to clean his apartment this week, but like, tomorrow or something.
That Husk gets to live out the rest of his afterlife in blissful ignorance.
This Husk isn’t so lucky.
Alastor’s exact instructions had been to “finish each item on this list and meet me here when you’re done– and don’t you dilly-dally, my friend!” so that’s exactly what Husk does. With minimal dallying, even. The Emporium has a back entrance, one that leads to a set of immaculately maintained gardens and, beyond that, Rosie’s private parlor. Husk’s been here enough that the guy at the gate lets him straight through.
When he steps inside, though, it looks like Alastor’s still otherwise engaged. Fucking aces, but also not really a surprise. An annoying amount of Husk’s time as a lackey is spent waiting around for the man. He parks his ass down on a quilted settee near the cracked door and settles in for a long wait.
"–the Morningstars. I'm certain Lilith intends to make a play soon, and I won't be caught off guard."
"Frankly, I can't imagine what she hopes to accomplish." Alastor's voice, characteristically airy. There’s a faint clink as someone sets down a cup.
Husk tunes them out. Slouching against the couch, he plucks a poker chip out of thin air and idly walks it off the backs of his claws. Damn. Half a century in this stupid body and he still really misses having actual hands.
“– obsessed with me, you have no idea.”
“Oh dear, still?” Rosie tuts. “Surely you can use that to your advantage.”
Alastor says something sotto voce that makes Rosie laugh. Husk makes a face. Rosie's as nice a broad as they come down here, but something about her has always been distinctly unsettling, cannibal shit notwithstanding. Husk had made a point of keeping his distance even as an Overlord.
"– radio."
"You can't be serious." Alastor says flatly, filter gone.
Uh oh. Husk sits up, his ears instinctively pinning back. Nothing good happens when Alastor sounds like that.
But Rosie just scoffs.
"As the plague. Don't forget our deal, Alastor," she says– no, scolds. "You're mine until the terms of our arrangement are filled. Complain all you like, but what I say, you do– end of story."
Wait, what?
Too late, way too late, Husk realizes that maybe this isn't a conversation anyone is meant to overhear.
He scrambles to his feet and hustles out of the parlor and into the garden as quietly as he can manage, nearly knocking over a vase in his haste. While he can't blow the joint like he'd very much like to, he can absolutely step outside for a smoke.
Husk doesn’t smoke much. Ain’t even close to his vice of choice, plus his nose can be annoyingly sensitive to certain smells, but if any situation calls for a cigarette, it’s this one. He lights up with a shaking hand, mind reeling.
Alastor. A deal. A capital ‘D’ Deal, from the sound of it. How the fuck does the Radio Demon get himself mixed up in something like that? Then again, it’s not like Overlords are infallible– Husk is unliving proof of that. Maybe he’d done it right after getting down here? That happens to some people, even if Alastor really doesn’t seem like the type.
“–you take care now!”
Husk hurriedly stubs his smoke out just as the door opens. Alastor looks… the same as ever. Of course he does, Husk doesn’t know why he expected anything different. Staff in hand, smug grin, stupidly impeccable posture.
“Oh, hello Husker! You’re early– why, I had no idea you could be so industrious.”
“Hey, boss,” he says, ignoring the jab with practiced ease. “Ready to go?”
Together, they step out onto the streets of Cannibal Town. Alastor keeps up a steady stream of chatter as they walk, a mix of idle musings and condescending potshots at Husk's general character, neither of which require much input from Husk himself. He can tell it's forced. There's an edge to his words that wasn't there earlier today.
Alastor’s place is uptown, about a twenty minute walk from the Emporium. It's a three story Victorian affair, complete with a wraparound porch and an intricately carved façade. Were it not for the fuckoff huge radio tower sticking out the back, it wouldn’t look out of place in one of the nicer neighborhoods of New Orleans. It makes Husk’s Doomsday District studio look like an asbestos ridden deathtrap in comparison.
Which it is, but whatever.
Alastor disappears as soon as they're inside, leaving Husk to shelve the books and sort the mail and put the mystery meat away. When he gets back upstairs, Alastor is still nowhere to be found. That doesn’t actually mean much– just because Husk can’t see him doesn’t mean he’s not lurking around somewhere.
“Uh, Al?” He calls. “Headed out now.”
He’s so close to the door. Just a few more steps and he’ll be out and off to the nearest bar. After the morning he’s had, getting fucked up is a medical necessity.
“Wait just a minute, Husker.”
Alastor has this trick he does. Like with most things to do with Alastor, it's creepy to watch and uniquely uncomfortable to experience firsthand. In the time it takes for him to turn around, Husk is arrested by a wave of cold. Fine pinpricks of static creep up his legs, slowly at first, then all at once, chasing up the rest of his body in a dizzying rush. His lungs seize as his body momentarily forgets the finer mechanics of breathing; his pulse roars in his ears, rapid and unsteady.
Behind him, Alastor's shadow snakes outward from his feet, growing and contorting until it completely overtakes Husk's own in a perfect silhouette. The whole thing takes less than thirty seconds. By the end, Husk is left wide-eyed and completely immobile, muscles straining and frozen in half-step.
"That's better. Can't have you running off before we've had time to properly chat."
Alastor turns, and with him, helpless, so does Husk.
It turns out to be more tea. Sure. Why the hell not. Husk doesn’t really like tea, but he also doesn’t really like when his body gets taken for spooky joyrides, so what's one more thing? Alastor puppets him into the kitchen and has him sit at the table while he boils water and sets out little cups, humming tunelessly. Husk sits around, bored. His nose itches something fierce.
Just when he's wondering how long it’s gonna take for Alastor to get bored of this particular game, the paralysis leaves his throat. Husk coughs, taking a shuddering breath in.
"Fuckin'... hate it when you do that, Jesus Christ," he rasps. The rest of his body is still frozen solid, ass in chair and hands planted firmly in front of him on the table.
"Oh, don't be so dramatic!" Alastor says as he sits. "Now, tell me, how was your morning? Did you accomplish everything on my list?"
Before Husk has a chance to reply, Alastor unfurls his hand to reveal a scrap of paper. A scrap of paper that was definitely in Husk's pocket an hour ago.
"Huh. Must've dropped that," he says carefully.
Alastor hums. "Haha, you did! In Rosie's parlor, in fact. Right outside the door."
Well, fuck. There goes his afternoon.
"Weird,” he says, “wonder how it got there. Finished everything on it, though."
That's good. Normal. Everything's fine and he's being so fucking normal right now.
Alastor's grin sharpens.
"Do you think I'm an idiot, Husker?" Husk thinks Alastor's a lot of things. Stupid ain't one of 'em. "You were in the parlor. The door was ajar. What did you hear?"
"Nothing! I came in for a second and then left when I realized you were still busy, that’s all.”
The excuse sounds weak even to his own ears.
“I wish you’d stop this habit of lying to me,” Alastor sighs. “It’s bad for your health.”
Husk glares. “I didn’t hear anything.”
Alastor waves a hand and a knife materializes on the table between them. Polished bone handle, ten inches long, wickedly sharp. Husk instantly recognizes it as one of Niffty's favorites. She’s very good at maintaining her tools.
“Last chance,” he says, dragging out the end of the word in a teasing lilt.
“I’m telling the truth,” Husk lies. Whatever Alastor’s planning with the knife pales in comparison to what he’ll do if he finds out what Husk knows.
Alastor shrugs. “Have it your way."
And Husk can only watch in silent horror as his own hand moves towards the knife. He feels his fingers close around the handle, cool ivory pressing into the soft pad of his palm. He watches his elbow bend, bracing against the table to point the blade inward.
"I do believe I've been rather patient up until this point."
"Al, wait–"
Alastor doesn't so much as twitch as Husk's body is jerked forward to lean over the table, leaving the tip of the knife mere inches from his right eye.
The words die in his throat.
"What. Did. You. Hear?" Each word is clipped and lined with static. Husk's ears ring with it. "Don't make me ask again."
"I..." The knife creeps closer, and Husk can't blink, can't move. His body is a prison of Alastor's design and there's no way out unscathed. He’d made damn sure of that himself.
Fuck it. The odds of him making it out of this in one piece are dwindling by the second, but he'd rather not have to regrow an entire eye on top of that.
"Fine, you goddamn psychopath! I heard you and Rosie talking. Not the whole thing, mind you, just the... the part about a deal." He swallows, spit tacky in this mouth. "Your deal."
There's absolute silence. People write books on this kind of silence. If this silence was any less pregnant, it’d be two weeks past due with fucking quintuplets. Alastor doesn't move a muscle, doesn't do so much as breathe, eyes unreadable and mouth locked in a painful looking rictus.
Husk doesn't get a warning. Of course he doesn't. In one smooth motion, the hand holding the knife jerks back and plunges into his other wrist, piercing through bone and muscle to pin his arm to the table. He makes a sound halfway between a scream and a yowl, pain startling him into an embarrassingly feline reflex. He can't move, can't pull away, even as Alastor's implacable gaze burns into him.
"Son of a bitch!"
Look, Husk's no stranger to getting stabbed, but it's a special kind of hurt to look down and see your own hand holding the knife.
"I see. I suppose it is true what they say," Alastor says, all rueful as he rises from his chair. "Curiosity really does kill the cat."
"Oh, fuck you," Husk seethes, suddenly incensed. His wrist throbs. "Ain't my fault you got yourself mixed up in a contract with that bitch. How bad could it be, anyways? Guy like you, no way you fell for some one-and-done handshake deal."
And Alastor might be able to bluff with the best of them, but Husk's in a class of his own. He can read people and, more importantly, he can read Alastor.
When he replies, it's a fraction of a beat too late.
"I would stop talking now if I were you, old friend."
Rich, given that Alastor's top three hobbies are murder, hot jazz, and never shutting the fuck up. Husk would point that out, but he's a little busy grappling with the fact that, yes, his boss did in fact sell his entire goddamn soul to the Cannibal Queen in a flimsy one-and-done handshake deal.
…And now Husk is the only other person in Hell who knows it.
It dawns on him then, just how much danger he’s in, how badly he's miscalculated. Sure, Alastor’s gotten pissed at him before, has taken his pound of flesh (literally, on some occasions) and sent Husk limping out the door, but this is different. Husk’s a liability now.
It doesn't matter that Alastor could order him to never speak again, doesn't even matter that Husk has no real interest in telling anyone about this. The fact that he knows is enough to seal his fate.
The only way he’s leaving here is in pieces, and that’s if he leaves at all.
Alastor’s circled behind him, exactly where you never want a predator to be, and Husk dimly registers that the paralysis has dropped. It's only a mounting sense of terror and a knife keeping him in place now.
“It really is a shame that it’s come to this,” he says. “We had a good run, you and I.”
Husk finds his voice once more. “Don’t see why it has to end. I ain’t gonna’ say shit.”
Even as the words come out of his mouth, he knows it's pointless. A terminal control freak like Alastor could never leave something this big up to chance.
"I'm afraid I just can't risk it. You understand, don't you?"
And in a fucked up way, Husk kind of does. This is Hell, and its people are here for a goddamn reason. An obvious weakness like this is just begging to be exploited. There are very few people who wouldn't jump at the chance to get the Radio Demon on a leash.
Begging it is. Not like it matters. Husk is a washed up drunk who swallowed what was left of his pride years ago.
“Boss, please,” he grits out, keeping his voice this side of piteous. Alastor’s always liked it when he gets desperate. “This stays between us. I’ll never mention it again. Please.”
“I am sorry,” he says, “but you’ve simply outlived your use. When all's said and done, a troublesome pet is one that must be put down.”
A hand comes down on top of his head and Husk’s flight or fight instincts choose that moment to come back online. He shoves backwards, wings snapping to their full length as he rockets to his feet. Wrenching the knife in his arm out with a hiss, he darts past Alastor and into the hallway.
Dice aren’t an option; explosions in close quarters are never a good idea, and he can’t hurt Alastor besides. But the front door’s in the next room, maybe fifty feet away. Husk can easily cover that distance in a handful of seconds, he just needs to–
“Stop.”
The command alone isn’t enough to freeze him in place– it’s too vague to hold much power. The tendrils of shadow that wrap around his ankles and send him careening to the floor, however, are as good a substitute as any.
Husk lands hard, twisting his face out of the way at the last second to narrowly avoid a broken nose. Two more tendrils spring to life, wrapping around his arms and pinning him to the ground before he can even think about getting back up.
“Don’t do this,” he growls, fruitlessly struggling against his binds. “Alastor–”
“Oh, Husker. You never did know when to fold,” he tsks, and there’s a thread of genuine anger beneath the shriek of microphone feedback.
Jesus, what the fuck had Husk been thinking?
“And to think I was going to be nice about this. Oh well! Why don’t we start with these pesky things? You’ve never liked them, but I think they’ll look quite fetching hung on the mantle.”
And before Husk can even begin to formulate a response to that, Alastor plants a foot on his back, grabs both of his wings, and pulls.
He lets out a shout as both wings are wrenched from their sockets, immediately dislocating with a sickening pop. Alastor’s grip is punishing as he forces the joints upwards and past their natural angle of extension, and Husk imagines that he can hear fine bones beginning to crack under the strain.
The pain is nauseating. His back is on fire, he’s being ripped apart. Muscle and tissue tear, wet blood stains his fur, and Husk thrashes and swears, threatens and screams, but there’s no escaping this. No one knows how to hurt him better than Alastor.
He wants to black out. He wants to be a million miles away from here.
For a brief and incredibly pathetic second, he wants his ma.
It’s that thought that snaps some of his higher functioning neurons back into gear. No. He’s not going down like this, he won’t. Alastor was always going to be the double-death of him, no doubt about that, but this? This is just fucking stupid.
Through the blinding pain, Husk chokes out the four words he swore he’d never say again.
"Let's make a deal."
It takes a moment, but miraculously, blessedly, Alastor pauses his assault, static shorting out as Husk takes him by surprise for the second time in one day. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. A deal.”
Canned laughter reverberates in his ears. "I already own you, my good man. What more could you possibly offer me?"
Husk swallows, tasting blood on the back of his throat. He kind of wants to throw up. This is a shit hand to go all in on, but it’s vastly preferable to the alternative. Alastor isn't one to leave loose ends untied.
"We renegotiate the terms. You get my silence and I get, I don't know, paid overtime or something–" Alastor sniffs pointedly. "–Or something! Look, there has to be a way this doesn't end with me getting torn apart and put back together for the next thousand years."
The "or something" is important. Soul contracts are reciprocal, at least on paper. There's no such thing as free lunch, and that's doubly true in Hell: what's sold must be paid for, end of story. Standard contracts usually offer protection or material goods in exchange for servitude, but other things can be negotiated in as well: housing, special privileges, even favors.
Husk's contract is not standard. It's well over a hundred pages and had taken the better part of a day to finalize, as a matter of fact.
See, binding an Overlord, even one as small time as Husk, is tricky business, in no small part because you're making a deal with someone who actually knows what the fuck they're talking about. His contract is as damningly thorough as he could make it, and for good reason. Less loopholes had meant more restrictions, but also gave him a better shot at keeping what he could.
Despite its length, the crux of their deal itself isn’t all that complicated. It’s more of a Ponzi scheme than anything else, honestly: Husk’s soul is Alastor’s, but Husk’s souls still technically belong to him. Husk’s power is Alastor’s, but Husk isn’t completely cut off.
The rest had come down to bargaining. Alastor got the remainder of his buildings and assets, Husk got a small mountain of debt cleared and a couple of his nastier enemies dealt with. Alastor got his obedience, Husk got the ability to come and go as he pleased. There are a handful of other terms and contingencies, most of them weighted in Alastor’s favor, but overall Husk had walked away with as good of a deal as he was going to get.
He might be a shade of his former self, might be at Alastor's beck and call for the rest of his stupid afterlife, but at least he's freer than most would be in his situation.
He wonders vaguely about the terms of Alastor's own deal. What does it take to bind someone like the Radio Demon? There's an expiration clause in there for sure, but the rest is a mystery that Husk has absolutely no interest in solving.
On a more positive note, Alastor has stopped rending Husk's poor wings from his body. His hands stay curled around the mid-joints, fingers digging sharply into secondary feathers, but he isn't pulling.
Husk will take what he can get at this point, honestly.
"Hm. A new contract would require the voiding of our current one. There would be nothing stopping you from fleeing as soon as you’re free."
Husk can't help it, he barks out a laugh. "Except for common fucking sense?"
Even at the height of his power– which Husk very much was not when he lost that fateful game– the odds of actually beating Alastor in a fight were astronomically low. Now, even unbound, Husk could probably only manage a few good hits before the motherfucker swallowed him whole.
"I know when I'm beat, Al. Got no chips left to cash in."
The admission is met with silence. Husk chances a glance behind him to see Alastor– well. On anyone else, it would be a thoughtful frown, so on him it's more of a squinty closed mouth grin. The expression vanishes as he catches Husk's eye, replaced by a sunny smile. All teeth, of course.
And then Alastor does the unthinkable. He drops his hold on Husk’s wings and steps off of his back. A handful of feathers flutter to the floor.
"Very well, old chap! I accept. Let's get you back on your feet."
"Hold on–"
Alastor does not hold on. Instead he gets one skinny arm around Husk's waist and another around his shoulders and hoists him up like a bag of flour. Husk can't help the reflexive hiss as his wings sag to the floor.
"None of that, now," Alastor chides, carrying Husk across the room like he weighs nothing. Fucking bridal style, too. Husk wants to die.
"Put me down, what the hell is wrong with you?"
"Haha, if you insist!"
Husk spares a second to regret his choice of words before Alastor drops him onto the couch and every nerve in his back lights up in agony. Sharp pain explodes from his wings, searing down his back, and he can't help the strangled scream that leaves his lips.
Alastor, of course, seems delighted.
"I fuckin’ hate you, oh my god," Husk swears as he scrambles up. Even the slightest movement sends shocky twinges along the length of his spine. It's a miracle he's not paralyzed or something.
"Not enough to die." Alastor says cheerfully, taking a seat in a high backed chair that definitely wasn't there a second ago. "Really, pal. The only person you've truly hated, all throughout your sad life and sadder death, is yourself. An afterlife of bondage and a spot of light torture couldn't hold a candle to that kind of self loathing."
Husk groans. Great. Armchair therapy, an Alastor special.
"Christ, spare me the psychoanalysis. You got anything to drink around here?"
Whiskey, drain cleaner, whatever. Shit, right now Husk would suck milk out of Lucifer's left tit if he thought it'd give him a buzz.
Alastor waves a hand and an amber bottle of rye appears, complete with two glasses. Wincing, Husk leans forward to pour a couple fingers in each, pushing one glass over to Alastor before downing his own and diving back in for another.
Three drinks later and he finally feels steady enough to talk.
“Okay. Let’s do this.”
Husk’s contract is summoned with a click of Alastor’s fingers. A strange mix of longing and revulsion washes over him at the sight. There it is, every facet of his existence itemized down to the letter, laid out in front of him in twelve point serif font. The last time Husk had seen it, he’d been sitting in his office for the last time, initialling each page with a growing sense of finality.
It hadn’t felt real at the time. Some days, it still doesn’t.
“Reminiscing, are we?” Alastor says, snapping Husk out of his little reverie.
“Fuck off,” Husk grunts. “Draw it up. Same terms as before, no bullshit. I’m reading the entire thing twice, so don’t even think about screwing me.”
“Ha! I would never.”
In the end, Husk reads it three times over. He doesn’t get paid overtime, but he does get to keep all of his limbs attached to his body and one week a year when Alastor can’t call on him for anything outside of an emergency, although it does take twelve pages to define ‘emergency’ to their mutual satisfaction.
In exchange, Alastor gets his silence. Husk will be physically incapable of speaking or otherwise communicating Alastor’s secrets– prompting another twenty pages on what counts as a secret– to anyone or anything, living or dead– “Living, Al? Really?”– for as long as the contract is valid.
It’s a generous deal. Suspiciously generous. After all, it’s not like Al would lose any of his power by trapping Husk in an endless cycle of double deaths– nothing short of an angelic blade could do that. It’s the way contracts work: a sinner dies for good, their contracts are freed. Double deaths just transfer them to whoever kills you, and Alastor already has stewardship over Husk's souls. The only thing he stands to gain from this whole song and dance is Husk himself, and it’s not like he isn’t replaceable. Why fucking bother?
Whatever. Trying to understand Alastor’s machinations has never done anything other than give him a headache.
“You weren’t this nitpicky last time,” Alastor complains. He’s lounging sideways on his chair, legs kicked up and head tilted back at a gross-looking angle.
“And look where it got me,” Husk grouses, squinting down at page fifty three. Was that comma there before?
“I must say, it has been a delight watching you throw away your soul again. Tell me, does it feel worse the second time around?”
Of course it fucking does. Husk is trying really hard to not think about it. When this is over, he’s going to lock himself in his apartment and black out for three days straight.
“Let's get this over with," he says instead. "I'm sick of lookin' at your dumb face."
"Fine, you spoilsport," Alastor pouts, sitting up. "Remember, old friend: no funny business. I’ve been fair to you so far, but I won't be held responsible if you decide to do something stupid."
Husk hears the threat loud and clear.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Alastor gives him one last searching look before snapping his fingers. Together they watch as the old contract catches fire, flame spreading quickly across the paper.
Husk knows the instant the deal voids. Alastor’s eyes flash green, the chain snaps, and a weight, that weight, the goddamn albatross that's been wrapped around his neck for twenty-something years, finally lifts.
Even on his most maudlin nights, Husk never could've imagined it would be like this. It's the first drink after a long day and the high of a winning streak. It’s the quiet rush of pride from a trick done just right. It’s the feeling of coming home.
Tears spring to his eyes as unfettered power– his power– rushes through him, molten and electric and excruciatingly familiar. This is his soul, it's him, whole and unbound and his alone. How could he ever have forgotten what that felt like?
He can feel the gossamer strands of every soul still bound to him, stretching out in different directions. Can they feel it too? The Card Shark himself, Overlord of Gambling, back in the driver's seat for the first time in decades.
For a split second, he does consider running. He’s got the power now to make it. Something must show on his face because Alastor gives him a piercing look.
Right. Where would he even go? There's no place in all of Hell that Alastor wouldn't burn down to find him, no solace or sanctuary he could turn to in his hour of need. Despite his newfound freedom, he’s just as trapped as he was a minute ago.
Gold sparks dance under his claws as he straightens, chest heaving.
"Power always did look good on you, old friend," Alastor says. "A shame you can't keep it."
Actually, speaking of Alastor, Husk's surprised to see that he looks a little... worn? Out of breath, maybe, like he does after a tough fight or a particularly gory broadcast. The smile's still there, but it's gone pinched at the edges.
Husk can put the pieces together easy enough. Breaking their contract means that Alastor loses access to Husk's power, and losing that power has to come at a cost. It is weird, though– there's no way Husk is even close to the most powerful Overlord on Alastor's chain. So why does he seem winded?
It’s probably stupid to bring it up, but Husk is flying high right now, more alive and awake than he’s been in decades.
"Looking a little tired there, Al. I'm flattered– didn't know I was that big of a fish," he teases. "Other Overlords not give you as much juice?"
Alastor cocks an eyebrow, which usually means he's more confused than pissed. "Whatever do you mean?"
Now it's Husk's turn to be confused.
"Y'know, your other contracts? The dozens of Overlords you've taken down in the past century?"
"I'm not in the habit of keeping my victims alive, Husker,” he drawls. “That would be terrible for my image."
“Well, yeah, but… wait, hold on.” Husk frowns as realization sets in. “Does that mean–"
"–that you're the only one I haven't killed? Yes, I suppose it does. Although not for much longer if you keep this up."
That can’t be right. No way that’s right.
“What about Niffty?”
“Niffty?” Alastor sounds genuinely baffled. “We’ve done a handful of favors for one another over the years, but she remains in my employ entirely of her own volition. Darling girl.”
Husk can’t think about that right now. If he does, his brain might start leaking out of his ears.
"But why?" Husk demands. "What, was I the only bastard dumb enough to shake your hand?"
That has to be the case here; there’s absolutely no other explanation, but the smile Alastor gives him is impossible to interpret.
"Hm. Something like that," he says. "Shall we?"
Husk wants to say no. Husk would rather do anything else in the world than say yes. The idea of willingly falling back under Alastor’s thumb makes him sick to his stomach.
He does have a choice here. He could back out, could take the endless suffering that's sure to follow. Some part of him thinks that might even be preferable, but Husk has always been a fucking coward, too scared to live and too scared to die. When it comes down to it, the choice he has isn't much of a choice at all.
Story of his goddamn life.
So he grabs the bottle, pours himself a healthy glass, and picks up a pen.
It takes a while to get through. There are almost a hundred and sixty pages now, and his dread grows with every single one. Husk swears he can feel the collar already, tightening like a noose.
Too soon he's at the end. He passes the contract over to Alastor, who gives everything a quick once over before signing the final page in a scrawl more autograph than signature. Showy bastard.
Then it’s just Husk, staring blankly at the last line.
"Forgotten your name already? Why, it's only been fifty years, W–"
"Shut up," Husk snaps, not in the mood. "Just..."
Let me have this for one more moment, he wants to say.
"Come now, Husker," Alastor says. "It can't be as bad as all that."
The frustrating thing is that he's not wrong. It definitely could be worse.
He’s seen some of the stuff other Overlords do to the people beneath them. Shit, Husk remembers how he treated his contracts. Alastor might be a conniving, sadistic bastard, but at least Husk knows where he stands most of the time. Point is, they’ve been together one way or another for over thirty years. Husk knows Alastor's game, knows exactly how he operates, and Alastor knows him right back. To his frequent detriment, sure, but there’s a fucked up kind of security in that. A twisted kind of comfort.
More damning is this: at the end of the day, Husk isn’t sure he knows who he’d be without Alastor, for better or worse. They’re bound too tight, two assholes tied to one another in a toxic web of blood and betrayal and incredibly convoluted legalese.
Husk hates him. Husk might just need him, and he hates that too.
From the moment they met, this was never going to end any other way.
He grits his teeth and signs his name.
The lights flicker. Alastor's eyes flash a hellish green once more, wicked smile cutting a slash of yellow across his face. Occult runes, a hallmark of that special brand of voodoo bullshit, swirl in the space between them, and Husk pitches forward, clutching at his chest. He sucks in reedy, keening breaths, squeezing his eyes shut as the pressure mounts. A great golden something is being wrenched from him, pried away like a loose tooth.
The worst part is that it doesn't hurt. Losing something like this should hurt.
Instead, all Husk feels is cold.
He's not sure how long it takes: seconds, hours, it doesn't matter. When it's finally over, Husk is left bent over and shivering, utterly wrung out.
Alastor claps his hands, breaking the silence.
"Well! That was certainly a show,” he says brightly. “Now, let's check that all is as it should be. Stand up."
Husk growls. There are very few things he hates more in this world than being treated like a pet. Al loves nothing more than treating him like one, although he usually only pulls the sit-stay-roll over routine when he's feeling particularly petty. Husk could fight it– the order didn't have a whole lot of force behind it and Alastor didn't say when he had to stand up, but he knows from experience that the telltale itch around his throat is only gonna get worse.
He gets to his feet with a grimace and, yeah, no, winching in his wings isn't an option right now. They droop sadly to the floor, looking as battered and lifeless as he feels.
“Happy?” Husk asks. He isn’t, that’s for fucking sure. He's exhausted, in pain, and probably about five seconds away from a complete mental breakdown.
"Elated! Now, be a good boy and come here. We'll need you backwards on this chair.”
Husk’s already taken a few steps forward before his brain decides to get with the program. His eyes widen and he scrambles back, forcefully ignoring the mild burn the disobedience gets him.
“No fucking way,” he snarls. “If you think I’m gonna’ let you at my back after what you just did, you– ghk.”
And there’s the goddamn chain. Bright green and just as ugly as ever. Wahoo. Husk digs his heels in as he’s yanked forward like an errant stray, but Alastor still has him manhandled into the chair in less than a minute flat.
“Really, Husker. I’m doing you a favor. Why do you insist on misbehaving?”
“Why do you insist on being an ass?” Husk shoots back moodily. “Christ, just get it over with.”
Instead, Alastor smooths a hand down his back. Husk shivers at the touch. The area between his wings is red-hot and sensitive, tacky with dried blood, but it doesn't feel like an open wound any more. His brief stint at full power must've sped up the healing process.
He tenses when one of Alastor's hands comes up to scratch at the nape of his neck, right where the collar would sit.
"Poor old cat," Alastor murmurs. "You always come back to me, don't you?"
"Shut up," Husk says, but there's no heat to it. Alastor cards a hand through his fur and scratches at the base of his ear, which twitches at the touch.
Despite today, despite everything those hands have put him through, Husk can’t help but relax into the sensation. It's always worse when Alastor is gentle. Fighting, he knows. He's been fighting for as long as he can remember. He’s never had a defense for whatever this is.
He's so caught up in his thoughts that he only registers a hand closing around the base of his wing when it's too late. In a quick movement, Alastor shoves up and in, popping the joint back into place.
"Ow, fuck!" Husk yelps, squirming. A hand planted on the back of his neck keeps him from jumping up. "Dammit, Al! A little warning next time."
"Where’s the fun in that? Try to relax, now."
"I'll relax you," Husk mutters.
Despite bracing for it, it still hurts like a bitch when the other wing is reset. Husk hates the fucking things on a good day, and today is categorically not a good day. Still, Alastor did him a favor, resetting them, even if he was just cleaning up his own handiwork.
“There! All better. Say thank you.”
The collar prickles. Patronizing dickhead.
“...Thank you.”
Husk wobbles a little when he stands, flexing his wings experimentally. They still hurt– he wouldn't be surprised if a couple of the smaller bones are broken– but he can manage for a few days, especially with the amount of booze he’s planning on putting in his body.
"Right," he says. "Fuck this, I’m out. I'm using my one week starting now.”
He marches into the foyer like a man possessed, praying that Alastor will let him leave without a parting shot.
“Husker.”
No such luck.
Husk stalls, one hand on the doorknob. “What is it now?”
“I’ll be taking a leave of absence soon, at the behest of an old friend. You understand.”
Husk can read between the lines. After all, he’s done a lot of things at the behest of one particular old friend.
“From your show?”
“From all of it, my good man. A much needed sabbatical, if I do say so myself.”
Yeah, right. Husk notices there's no mention of a timeline. Could be that Alastor's keeping it to himself (definitely possible, the man schemes like he kills– often and with gusto) or that he doesn't know either. He’s not sure which option sounds less appealing.
“Okay,” Husk says slowly. “Do you… need anything?”
It’s not like he cares one way or the other, but still. This feels big. If he’s getting marching orders, he’d prefer to receive them upfront.
“Most of my day to day operations should run themselves, but you’re to come by the house at least once a week to manage my correspondence and ensure everything is in working order. I trust that your keen business acumen will keep things running smoothly.” Alastor says with a neat little twirl of his staff. "Niffty will take care of household maintenance."
“More importantly, tell no one of this conversation.”
The last part is laden with static, and Husk cringes as the collar sears the order into his neck, newest clause in his contract making itself known. Great, got it.
“Understood,” he says. His mouth tastes like ozone.
“Wonderful! Run along and enjoy your bender, my little barfly. I shall see you when I see you.”
Well, that’s as clear of a dismissal as he’s going to get. Husk opens the door. And pauses. He really shouldn’t bother, but there’s a goddamn laundry list of things he shouldn’t have done today. Hopefully this is just a footnote.
“Hey, uh. Al. For what it’s worth, I really wouldn't have said anything. Just so you know.”
He means it.
Husk has seen Alastor in a lot of moods over the years: angry, excited, bored, angry again but this time specifically at Husk, hungry. He’s seen him happy, annoyed, tired, and everything in between. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Alastor sad. Alastor turns, and the smile on his face is the same inscrutable one as before.
“I know, Husker. I know.”