bayoudeathradio

[bayoudeathradio]

xxx. h̴̟͝e̴͖͂å̴̜d̴͚͝c̶̖̽a̷̡̎n̸̫͠ǫ̶̀n̶̢͂s̸̟̏ ̵̥̎ (set three)

When he doesn't respect something, and particularly something modern and/or obscure, he will intentionally pretend not to remember what it's called, mispronounce it, or otherwise completely butcher the name of it as a subtle sign of disrespect for it.

His mother was not originally from the New Orleans area, but from further north. She came from an Algonquin-speaking tribe in the areas where you freeze to death in winter. Literally. Honestly I don't know why she left home and split off from her tribe but this happened. Perhaps because she met a very handsome man who would later turn out to suck. Anyway, she wasn't that hot herself. Not ugly. No. She had a certain understated beauty to her but in fact no one could say it was her looks that made her very charming. However she did have an undeniable charm. The charm of song and storytelling and I mean, she was just captivating. Now that I think about it Alastor was 100% unplanned. His happier memories are also falling asleep cozy in bed to the sound of his mother singing a song gently to him. By an open window btw with the warm southern breeze drifting in because this makes EVERYTHING better. She would especially do this at night after tough nights when they were both terrorised and got beat up/by That Man and they couldn't talk about it. It was just normal a silent acceptance of how the world worked but those moments of cozy comfort (almost) made up for the horrors (not really)

He physically takes after his father more. Definitely in looks and partially in personality. Don't imply the latter btw. He makes a big point of being very different like respecting (respecting!) women but in some ways he definitely inherited some of those traits. This is because you can love your mother and strongly side with her while simultaneously subconsciously believing that you must embody these 'strong' / aggressive masculine behaviours that identify you with not being the victim. You may sympathise more with the female victims, but you can't cross the line into identifying with them. You can cover it up with friendly charm and an unassumingly innocent facade however it's there underneath.

I already confirmed this before but I need to record the fact for history that 1000% he would cover his own murders and get way too into it by the end. Like RIGHT by the end a few observant people started thinking 'um wtf is this guy normal??' because he just started gushing over the murder method just a little too much and also that guy who died WAS said to totally be hated by everyone (reworded slightly more politely) oh what do you means it's already time for the next time block which is covering where to get the best deals under 15 cents during the Great Depression? UGH that's so boring compared to discussing HIM and what HE DID but FIIIIIIINE

[bayoudeathradio]

As ever, he wore a smile as he approached, unfazed by any ignorant commentary that only proved its speaker sorely lacking in taste. Pearls before swine, and all that. Exactly what Vox said was not nearly as important as how he said it— and so was it just him, or did Vox sound almost a bit nervous? Perhaps his message had been heard loud and clear after all.

"Oh yes, brands are very important!" He agreed, brightly and cheerfully as if meeting up with an old friend. One addendum: one he actually respected. Perhaps that's where the tinge of condensation was coming through from in his voice.

"But you didn't come out here to broadcast the news today, did you? I hardly see a camera in sight!" They'd get to that later. "Not out on business today, I take it? Don't tell me you came out all this way just to see little old me!"

Ah yes, yes, boredom. It was tethered him to this place, after all. And surely even Vox could see it? Really now, after all this time, if Vox believed that, he'd have even less respect for him that he already did now! No, they both knew better.

"It is so awfully boring these days... what with the terrible standards for entertainment anymore, I needed to find something more original to entertain myself with. I'm sure you understand."

But what had he really come out this way for? He was letting it slide for the moment, letting him grow a bit more comfortable, but he was certainly not here to say hello. Obviously, he was here because everything else he tried first, failed. But what was his aim? Whatever it was, he didn't doubt that he'd be able to handle it. Or could he? The snag of doubt bit like a tiny, annoying fly swarming around and then bouncing away just as quickly. Vincent himself was not a very impressive man. He wasn't going to lose to him now, anymore than he ever would have when they only first met. But last time, due to mere circumstances—

Well, much more so than that, it was his present situation that only mildly irritated him at the thought of having to actually deal with Vox. Were it not for these chains, he'd have more options open and less complicating factors to consider. Vox didn't know that. If that changed— he wasn't about to let it change. There wasn't a chance in Hell that he'd let it change willingly.

His smile grew slightly.

"You've seen the advertisements now, surely? She's an ambitious girl, certainly! A charming premise, working out just about as spectacularly as you'd imagine! Never a dull moment, I can assure you of that! Oh, if it were like old times—" His laugh trailed off stiffly for some reason. He changed the subject while he was still thinking about it. He moved up a bit closer, leaning in, which was to say, now completely disregarding any concept of 'personal space.' His eyes took on a more serious look despite his never-ending smile.

"But please, no more spying on private property."

Vox had been so caught up in letting the little critter cameras scurry off so they could fly across the hotel's property that he didn't even notice he was being watched. Only when he picked up on the slightest bit of radio static did his body feel tense. He'd been focusing on the cameras of the spycams, connecting to them wirelessly, when an all too familiar voice oh so casually addressed him. But Vox's response was not nearly as casual. Electricity sparked and arced around his monitor and antennae from the mere sound of his voice. A static-filled sound left his speakers, something akin to a silent yelp; one could say it was filtered before it was potentially too loud and obvious.

His vision clicked back to the reality in front of him as he made a hopefully perfectly balanced heel turn to meet legitimately face-to-face with the very person he'd been hoping to avoid! What the hell?? Did he know he was here from the start? Surely not... Right? Alastor wasn't like Vox, with eyes everywhere and practically knowing the dirtiest secrets of his viewers. Every electric VoxTek product connected back to his database, which made him feel like a fucking god among sinners. But Alastor, who used none of that, was almost impossible to sense coming except for the slightest radio waves Vox could pick up on.

And now here he was, readjusting himself after his rapid movements and placing a hand subconsciously on his suit's pocket that hid away a couple other items... One deadlier than the other. But he tried to play that movement off as a simple gesture showing how unbothered he was as he forced a grin of his own on his screen.

"Ah, Alastor! And you look the same as you ever have, ratty attire and all! You haven't changed a bit!" Vox was perhaps talking at a higher pitch than he would have liked, but he wasn't as prepared as he would have liked to see him again. He only saw him over cameras, and those were always distorted. But here was the perfect image right in front of him, exactly as he remembered him. Couldn't he at least try to dress a bit more with the times? How old was that thing he wore?

Honestly, wanted to attack, which would be much easier than trying to talk to him. But Vox wasn't prepared for a battle, and the last time they fought, the help of Val and Vel was the only reason it turned out as well as it did. And with Alastor having... whatever they were, not friends surely, clearly Alastor never actually had those for real, nearby, he didn't want to risk Alastor having backup.

"But hey, I suppose that's to be expected. We've all got a brand to follow, and what would the Radio Demon be if not for your obstinate image." Vox fell right back into the kind of talk he'd done over the live television announcement of Alastor's return. Except this time, he would not allow himself to be caught off guard.

Did the prick really have to use the past against him in their back and forth? Asshole.

Trying not to let the emotions that always bubbled up in him when he thought about Alastor, let alone see him again in person, influence him too much, Vox spoke on first, with a glance to the hotel off in the distance. Had Alastor seen his cameras, or could he continue to act 'relaxed' while his cameras did their jobs? "So, working in a shithole like this? After a seven-year vacay? That bored, eh?"

Though Vox knew there was no way Alastor was working with the literal princess of hell for a mere bit of entertainment. No, the benefit was right there, and who the fuck wouldn't take advantage of it? Especially with a girl so naive she thinks the scum of Earth the Hell wanted to change or even could.

[bayoudeathradio]

At the door of the hotel is a delivery man with two things. A heart-shaped box with 'Rosie's Emporium' on the front. And what seemed to be a bouquet of carnivorous plants native to Hell that were attempting to snap at the delivery demon. The moment he handed them off, he ran. Inside the heart-shaped box was a Valentine's special from Rosie's with little squares of flesh presented nicely. There was a note attached: 'I hope you die. Happy Valentine's Day.' No name was attached. It was for Alastor.

There had been no expected deliveries, not that he was made aware of, at least, and the vague sense of confusion and curiosity that filled the air of the hotel's lobby made it clear that he wasn't the only one taken by surprise that afternoon. After all, it was doubly unusual. Not only that they should receive an unexpected delivery, but that said delivery should arrive in the form of a heart-shaped box and a very lovely plant.

An admirer? Yes, there was a holiday vaguely centered around the whole idea of something like that, he could recall. But let's not forget where they were, now! Perhaps it was a sort of creepy stalker sort of 'gift' for Angel Dust, from the likes of a sort of obsessive 'fan' who believed themself to be in love— but this was Hell, after all. The very idea of any sort of actual 'love' blossoming in the literal pits of Hell was simply inconceiva—

Oh, well nevermind then. It turned out it was addressed to him. It was quite a surprise to say the least, although suddenly the carnivorous plants attempting to eat the poor delivery man did click in a tiny bit more sense. Well, the point he was making before still stood.

By that point, each and every has-been of this miserable hotel had already gathered to come around and gawk, spewing their unsolicited thoughts and theories. Save for Charlie's little girlfriend, at least, Chief Killjoy of the Hotel who insisted that the plant would 'have to go, NOW,' though he hardly took orders from her. So then, what could this possibly be all about?

——'I hope you die. Happy Valentine's Day.'

How curious! It had to count as the most romantic gesture he'd ever received, in life or in death. Handwritten, no less, and in a style that he hadn't yet forgotten. They did say that the opposite of love wasn't hatred but rather indifference, and he knew what was felt was not indifference. Still, speak of mixed signals. Was it a sort of glitch? Just what sort of thoughts ran through that man's wires? He couldn't honestly claim to understand his taste, although his manner of expression was somehow more understandable, even if strange by any measure. Now, as for the Valentine's special from Rosie's... it seemed even he could understand good taste when it came down to it, even if only just to make a point. He couldn't help but give a little laugh.

Where's he been? Who gives a shit?! Oh, you liar.

[bayoudeathradio]

what pride flag is this (wrong answers only)

[bayoudeathradio]

What a day! What! A! Day!

Alastor. The Radio Demon. Toppler of overlords, broadcaster of screams, owner of souls.

Alastor. Helpless plushie laying sideways on a bed.

Ḥ̶̙̃̈́ḛ̶̭͒͝ ̴̦͖͐̈́w̴̤͗͗ä̸͇̣́s̵̈͗͜ ̷̰̺̀ǵ̸̤ô̸̦̯̏i̴̖͝n̶͖̎ģ̷͂̏ ̶̻͂̈́t̷̘͗̄ọ̸̄ ̴͙̈́̓f̶͔̥̈́̍ų̶̫̓̔c̵̡̘͂k̶͎̊ͅi̴̩̾̾n̶̛͈̭̊g̸͓͖̐͆ ̸͙͗̈́s̴̹̦̄c̵̙̕ṙ̸͇̬e̵̜̎̅a̴̲̩͆͐m̵̜̍.̸̺͖̑

How it even happened, he couldn't say. He'd only gone to bed that night, and the next thing he knew upon waking, he was not in his bed or in his form. He woke up staring up at an unfamiliar, tall ceiling. Indeed, it looked very far away... and he felt very small. He also could have sworn he felt a chill, either because this room seemed to be freezing, or perhaps it was just the thought that passed through his mind.

Did she notice? Was this a sort of retribution, or her merely knocking him out of the way after getting an idea of his aim? He'd been careful to stick firmly within the deal, seizing any loopholes both quietly and attentively while looking over his shoulder. Was it not enough? Did she figure him out? And worst of all, in response to the terrible crime of being just a little bit friendly to her daughter—

She sought to humiliate him. Completely, and utter humiliate him. He could feel his plushie mouth (how?) etched permanently into a grin, which was at least suitable. Because if she thought that this would be enough to get rid of him—

Well, he wasn't completely sure of that, anyway. It was possible that it had absolutely nothing to do with her, but in that case, what or who? He was about to look around and investigate the situation (were there not a lot of these logos around in this room?), when he heard the opening of a creaky door. Well, that certainly didn't fit with the rest of the room from what he could—

Oh. You had to be kidding him.

He lay on his side stiff as a board, an inanimate object, a little plush toy thing that Charlie would probably find adorable as an embodiment of a harmless reformed sinner. And squeeze. Entirely too tightly. Still, he'd rather be dealing with that right now, and suddenly mourned her absence for the first time in his life.

He couldn't have had to do with this somehow, could he...? No, he seemed as confused as he was... as he waited in suspension and terror as his sharp blue fingers reached towards his head... would he die in this form, helpless and smiling, but not even of his own full accord to do so?

... But instead, this. The intrusive yet non-threatening scratching around his ears, something that certainly had never happened in their past together (despite Alastor's own past proclivity for getting rather touchy around his screen, at least once playing around with the various buttons and dials to see what would happen...) Well. That was a long time ago, now.

Well-made? The nerve of this junk box... but no matter his urge to speak, he shoved it down, knowing full well that no matter how he resented this present situation, it could and would get significantly worse...

So he just sat there. Smiling little wendigo plush, now having TV hour with his old friend. Just like old times, if you ignored that he was a stuffed toy now, and so many other things. What was it going to be this time, another bit of that drivel what was it, 'Yeah, I Fucked Your Sister, So What?' No? Some game show he hadn't heard of, that peculiar fad he didn't understand then or now? Well, he was about to find out more now, whether he liked it or not. They lapsed into a strange silence, as started getting distracted by the silly show which overrode his thoughts and theories as to exactly why Vox hadn't at least thrown him out the window by now.

Ugh, what a fucking day.

First, the marketing team messed up one of the new advertisements, and Vox had to come in and fix it, along with a few electric shocks for all the offenders. Then Valentino came running into the studio at the same time with his phone out, something something 'Angel Dust read this at 5:31 and he hasn't answered!!' and it was only 5:33. Which derailed Vox's fixing of problems, and then he had to spend the next couple of hours cooling Valentino down before he went and killed any of HIS employees who were trying to fix their dumbass mistakes. He would've let Valentino kill them if not for the fact they were on a time crunch.

And now, finally, with the day over, he could head up the elevator to his room. Fucking hell, it was late. He could feel the battery in his screen warning him with notifications in his HUD that he needed to rest soon. No shit? He didn't notice! Fuck he was in the mood to break something!

He opened his own door with enough force that the hinges creaked. They were new, just replaced a couple weeks ago after Valentino had broken in during a hissy fit. Probably not a good sign they were already creaking, but Vox didn't care. He slammed the door shut, glad to be away in his room where everything was perfectly in order. Neat and tidy, sleek lines and VoxTek branded items everywhere you looked... From his massive flat-screen TV on the wall to his desk, black and gray with a sleek blue line down the edge... That's how most items here looked. The room was cold, but Vox preferred it for keeping his temperature down, his systems required that. He had a few things here or there that didn't fit, such as the old books he hadn't thrown away yet on his desk, but otherwise, it was a beautifully modern space with everything in order...

All except for one tiny detail that stood out of place. Vox almost hadn't noticed; he was too distracted, kicking off his shoes in irritation as he walked further in. Then he froze in place, processing what he saw sitting on the nightstand next to his bed that was only illuminated by the light coming off his screen. He walked closer, reached out, and grasped the foreign object, his claws grazing over the fabric without breaking it as his fingers tightened so as to not drop it.

"Where in the fuck did you come from?" Vox muttered to the thing in his hand.

What he was holding here... It looked exactly like, eugh, Alastor. Shit, even thinking about his name was bad enough, but here was this uncannily detailed plush doll thing of the Radio Demon. There weren't a lot of people who could get into his room... Only Valentino and Velvette, typically. The workers that cleaned every morning after he got up, those too, but they wouldn't dare leave him something as daring as this. A plush of his greatest rival... Haha, what a joke. Maybe it was Velvette's idea. Yeah, that's the only explanation he could think of. He'd ask her about that tomorrow. But for now, well... he had been wanting something to destroy, right?

His other hand came closer, considering for a moment with a grin on his screen that he could tear the ear... hair tufts or whatever off first. Or the whole head. But as his fingers got closer, and the longer he stared at it... Well, he found himself instead stroking the ears. The clawed tip of his finger scratched around it harmlessly as his grin slowly turned into something less sinister.

For someone as totally ugly as Alastor, this plush was actually kind of cute... Vox quickly glanced around as if he was concerned someone would see him in his own room petting a silly plush of all things. But all cameras in his room were his own, under his control. It was just him and this inanimate object.

"Well, at least you look pretty well made." Vox sighed. Yeah, ripping up something this well-made would be a waste. That's the excuse. It's not as though he would pay to have a perfectly made plush replica of his o̸l̸d̷ ̷f̸r̶i̸e̸n̵d̸, never. He'd take it for now.

He set the plush down on his bed, shrugged off his suit jacket, and sat back against the pillows on the bed. The plush was just sitting there, smiling away and just as creepy as the real thing. Yet Vox still found himself picking it up and setting it on his lap with his fingers resting over its front as he used his other hand to turn on the television in his room with a flick of his wrist. It immediately lit up the dim room with more blue light as a gameshow he had recently greenlit popped onto the screen. Just a bit of late-night TV as he normally did right before sleeping...

He simply had a new 'friend' to watch it with him.

[bayoudeathradio]

xxx. h̴̟͝e̴͖͂å̴̜d̴͚͝c̶̖̽a̷̡̎n̸̫͠ǫ̶̀n̶̢͂s̸̟̏ ̵̥̎(̴̼͛s̵̫͝ē̵̩t̶͜͝ ̶̼̚t̵̡̖̍w̷͚̜̄o̷̟͛.̸͉̀

Even within his own life, radio had changed quite a bit, never staying the same. In the beginning of the 20s, it was mostly block programming performed by amateurs and volunteers-- people with more passion than plans and eager to play around with the newest technology. By the late 20s, national networks had already moved in on it. For Alastor, he got his start through a bit of noncommittal volunteering. A friend of a friend who knew a friend, who was a single entrepreneur rather short of cash to pay professional talent. He got more than he bargained for, to say the least.

Block programming is the superior format, beyond doubt. He doesn't like sticking to one topic, one demographic, or anything like that. The fun is expression is, importantly now, the variety— by the time of his death, things had already changed enough for him to hold his own opinions about the direction things were going in. The more consistent, unified, and uninspiring form of these major networks were, in his eyes, were lifeless attempts to grab and 'fix' that which wasn't broken.

He did not kill his father. Not for a lack of desire, though. His father just disappeared, or died or something like, that before he had the chance to; at least a few years before he even seriously got the idea to go through with anything. And seriously, I do mean he just disappeared. Drink himself to death in some alleyway? Ran off fleeing from some gambling debts? Well, who even knows? He was already grown up by the time this happened, and he didn't even realise he was really missing until some weeks or months had already passed. So, no, killing his father was not where this all began.

I was on the fence about how he picked his targets up until this point. I'd agree that he doesn't like to kill women, but I wasn't sure if it was more about sport or a bit more targeted or not. Upon looking up his name meaning, "... described him as the avenger of evil deeds, specifically familial bloodshed" and "the name is also used, especially by the tragic writers, to designate any deity or demon who avenges wrongs committed by men." Were the author to have made no comment, I would perhaps go with some of the later and more vague associations with a sort of demonic entity or witchcraft. However, given that the author has (it seems?) explicitly expressed this idea of him having a sort of motivation with it, combined with this being supported in the comic, I'm leading more to this idea, although I'm not yet sure of any details (and I still think it isn't so either/or at that, no matter what, I believe bloodlust plays at minimum an equal role in it).

[bayoudeathradio]

xxx. h̴̟͝e̴͖͂å̴̜d̴͚͝c̶̖̽a̷̡̎n̸̫͠ǫ̶̀n̶̢͂s̸̟̏ ̵̥̎(̴̼͛s̵̫͝ē̵̩t̶͜͝ ̶̼̚ŏ̶͙n̴̫̚e̵̱̕)̶̲̈.̸͉̀

He's excellent at mimicking voices and accents by will. After all, the very accent he speaks in to this day, is an accent native to no one. After all, 'its earliest advocates bragged that its chief quality was that no Americans actually spoke it unless educated to do so.' It was taught in American predatory schools, especially by members of the Northeastern upper class, as well as in schools for film, radio, and stage acting, but so then where did he learn it? He had hardly left New Orleans in his life, and although he and his mother had done better over time, he was not in the position to dedicate such time and expense to such frivolous pursuits (regardless of whether or not the desire may have been there). His command over it, acquired purely through his own means, is a point of pride and entertainment both as it kept others guessing about his background in life. Although he never had reason to comment on the process of acquiring this particular skill, it did actually take quite a bit of time and effort.

In life as well, the majority of his friendships were formed with the female gender. This worked in two ways. First is the more cynical variant. Even more so in his time, women would be more, even if only on the surface, submissive. This worked well for him, naturally enjoying the dynamic of his taking the lead being automatic. They often thought he was pursuing them, and he enjoyed the game of that at times without any actual desire to ever follow through. At times it worked in reverse, albeit in a different way— as Husk would allude, someone such as Mimzy would be in the perfect position to simultaneously fly under the radar with him while possessing the ability to control him somewhat via his ego. On the less purely cynical level, he also just genuinely prefers the company of female nature. Certainly, it helps that there's generally far less clashing of egos, but there's also just something more palatable about their essence and manners.

But on that note, it was unclear to many people if he was straight or gay in life. Points towards being straight: tons of female friends, and being charming bordering right up on being very flirtatious with them. Points towards being gay: a little too feminine himself, suspiciously so— spending time in establishments known for a certain kind of clientele, not always of the respectable sort, and had anyone actually ever seen him with a woman, in a proper courting manner? It was unclear if he was perhaps just too much of an uncommitted charmer, or a good man waiting very seriously for the right one all along, or a secretive gay buried deep in the closet— for his part, he felt no rush in clarifying, both enjoying a slight controversy and being uncertain what the truth was himself. If something is unknown, there isn't any harm in leaving it open-ended even to yourself, no?

Although he played up the entertainment angle as to maintain a deliberately chaotic and unpredictable air, the Great Depression really was fun. At least, for the most part and for what little he lived of it. His own situation was secure, and it was like how he felt about World War I when he was a teen, just a little different on the details— it's always more fun when something dramatic is going on (as long as it doesn't negatively affect him!) His mother found it a little less fun, worrying more about some of the various connections she had in her life that were less fortunate. He approached this as he would with anything else, at home, at his job— times are hard. Folks are suffering. It's terrible (truly terrible!), but that's exactly why they need a little bit of light-heartedness now more than ever, to give them a little bit of relief to take their minds off of things as much as they can. In Hell, he doesn't have to pretend with any of that that, which is nice. Not that he hated having to pretend before, but suddenly not having to at all, and even benefitting from being more openly yourself in a more hostile environment, felt more natural in a way he couldn't have even made the comparison to before.

[bayoudeathradio]

It was another lovely day in Hell, with the red-hot pentagram sun burning and in the air the ever-present feeling of lost souls pointlessly yearning— all up until just about ten minutes ago.

Well, wel, would you look at who it was? It would seem that the TV demon had gotten lost, winding up suspiciously close to approaching their hotel little hotel of healing and rehabilitation. Had he come to repent? Repent for his sins, or for his terrible taste?

He came to do neither, of course! Just how bad was his management that he had to come all the way out here to finally do their work for them all by himself? For someone who clearly even preferred working with others, he seemed concerningly lacking in his ability to inspire satisfactory, or even passable, results out of his inferiors. Obviously, otherwise he needn't be out here today, curious little (spy) contraptions in hand. And all this way out, such a detour accommodated out of his busy business schedule? He should be quite flattered!

And what fine luck that he should just happen to be heading out at this time— he would certainly not play it as the sheer coincidence that it was in reality. No, much better rather was giving the idea that the Radio Demon, without even the need of these new-fangled little inventions to do it for him, was always watching. Bordering on omnipotent, if you will. Yes, that was an impression that would do quite nicely.

"Lovely day out today, isn't it, old pal?" He spoke casually, freely, and as though on pure whim— like he hadn't been spending the past ten minutes simply observing him before acting.

And had he lost a little bit of weight since they last met? Indeed, it was harder to tell on a two-dimensional screen, but in person it was much more apparent that his head, seven years ago quite a bit bulkier, had slimmed down considerably. Just how did he undergo these 'upgrades,' anyway? His smile only grew at the thought, his fingers curling around his cane in a sort of anticipation.

"Those heads of yours just keep on getting smaller and smaller every time! How long until you turn your head one day and simply disappear?"

Apparently, good help really is hard to find these days.

How hard was it to sneak in for even a singular day to plant one camera? Apparently, it was much for a pathetically incompetent snake. Then let's not forget the last few attempts at sending other demons in more indirect ways to plant cameras, even so much as on the outside of the building. Guess how that turned out? Blurred screens and bloody screams. And here Vox thought at least some of the people he had under contract could do the simplest of tasks. Why, he could do it himself! ... So why hasn't he?

Especially after the delightfully polite invitation his employee unwittingly helped deliver via a camera crying out in its last vestiges of power coursing through it before it all went black. He was being 'welcomed' with open arms to visit an old friend. But the very thought of it made him rip the cords out from the back of his head as he disconnected from the stream of information across Hell with a loud curse and a pointless kick to the panel as he stared at the screens showing almost all of Pentagram City... Except for one place.

That ridiculous, tactlessly named Hazbin Hotel. Everything was from a distance, worthless for what he needed it for. It didn't matter if Alastor barely showed up on camera; that alone told Vox who was there. But he couldn't get to that part comfortably all because his employees didn't understand a simple instruction of 'RUN' when Vox tried to warn them of impending doom. Vox knew they likely weren't getting out of there safely anyway. But could they have at least left a camera behind before they became bloody mush?

He stood up, letting the screens shut down as he returned to his room where he'd been keeping a particular project of his. He ran clawed fingertips over the newest model of spycam he'd been working on. Far smaller than any other on the market. It was intended for 'peeping from angles never seen before' as the advertisement would go once it was officially released. Discreet, hard to notice, but yet retaining enough quality to see all the filthy details the voyeurs desired. Vox would know. He'd tested it for himself. But maybe even Alastor would miss these tiny critters... That rundown shithole probably had insects crawling all over every wall. Scratch that, their walls were an insect paradise, he bet. That's what happens when you don't update the old. He brushed that thought off before he fell into a tangent, backlogging that thought for later instead.

"You're actually doing this, Vox?" He asked himself, out loud, to an empty echoing room. Going out and getting his own hands dirty had never been his style. But with such delicate technology that would easily bend to his will better if he was right there in front of it... No more fucking around. And besides, if Alastor saw him, which he wouldn't, then Vox could handle it.

He had a few things to say to that smiling freak of a deer for himself anyway. But he didn't want to see him! It's only been what, seven years? That's nothing compared to the amount of time he's been dead! Of course, Alastor would come back; why wouldn't he? The sillier thought would be thinking he was dead and wondering about such a pointless detail for years. Who would ever do that for someone as forgettable as the Radio Demon? No one! As irrelevant as the very radio, he based his whole self around, forgotten amidst all the technology that Vox truly brought to Hell at last. And he would brag to his face and let him know just who was-!

-A small gleam out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. An insignificant glare from the light peeking through the windows from a worthless item that belonged in the trash. And yet... He found himself trailing his fingers over it just as gently as he had his own creation. He'd had it out next to a particular picture on his desk resting against a few books, the only actual physical books he still owned collecting dust.

"Heh... this is going straight into the trash," Vox grinned, only for himself. Yeah, that'll prove a point, said his delusional thoughts as he set it in a little box... to properly dispose of later.

With the spycams tucked away along with the worthless box, Vox turned to pure electric energy and zipped through the outlets and into the powerlines running all throughout the city. He followed them perfectly until he arrived as close as he could get to the hotel in question. So tacky, so thrown together with a bunch of shit! Alastor could be living in luxury, but he chose to stay and help out at a dump? Can't his little princess friend afford better with her daddy's money? The problems with a non-profit, he guessed. Apparently, that's what Alastor was into these days. Fucker.

He felt a circuit spark inside his head for just a moment before he shook it off. Focus time. He was a good distance away on the sidewalk outside of the gate. He wasn't on their property yet. All he had to do now was release the little spycams and let them find the perfect spots all around the hotel, inside and out, to plant themselves.

Yeah, this was a well-thought-out plan. Not one made on an impulse after an oh-so-kind invitation. This was going to turn out great.

[bayoudeathradio]

How's it feel to be a furry? Sorry you're an old fuck you probably don't get that. How's it feel to be a filthy wild animal? What's that say about you in life and death huh?

Just about all the culture and class he could expect from a washed-out old TV screen from the suburbs— but perhaps it wasn't his fault to be so ignorant. You couldn't very well get water from a rock, after all. He'd be so gracious as to not embarrass his guest as to correct him in front of everyone. How thoughtful to an old friend!

And no, he did not, in fact, know what this 'furry' business was about. Was this something recent, or some irrelevant fifties nonsense left to time? Given the company he kept, he suspected the former. Rather than reveal his own ignorance, he'd make no comment on it.

But what he did know was that that this miserable, 'game show host,' the empty suit turned empty dust collecting inside a forgotten box of a scrap metal head, had no room to talk. He recently had the pleasure of learning of a new term of his own at their happy little hotel as of late, overheard in meaningless conversation between inhabitants— a term that, from context, seemed quite suited for that exact sort of relic, no matter what 'upgrade' you give it this one or that— boomer. He had garnered the impression that it was not a compliment in the least! Oh yes, he had thought to be anonymous, but he couldn't fool him. Not now, or ever. Ah, well perhaps now wasn't the time yet, but he'd keep it in mind for later—

"Thank you for the call-in, Vox of— what was it now, VoxTek? Yes, I must say it's quite enjoyable! It keeps one quite warm in the winter months, indeed!" What was winter like, actually? No matter.

"However, it does remind me, speaking of freezing, I've heard some rather concerning rumours concerning your capability as CEO! Why yes, something about the dangers of a mind that can, quite literally, freeze up and take with them their ability to think, act, and make sound judgements when they're needed most! Could this be the cause of the recent concerns surrounding your company recently?"

[bayoudeathradio]

xxx. c̶̠͒̏ȩ̶̃̉r̴̤͉͊f̶͍͂ ̷̺̋͝é̵̮̻n̴̪͑s̷̠̐̌a̸̢̜̅n̸̢̦̆͐ğ̵̳̎l̴͍̲̽a̸̟̞͂̇n̴̠̓͛t̶̥͐͠é̷̬̏̎

"Just don't you go to sleep still thinking about it tonight, Alastor. If you let it enter your dreams, it'll climb into your soul and you might not be able to get it back out. But even more importantly, even if it does get in, never give it a source of greed to feast upon. It'll possess you if you let it, and even all the heat of Louisiana in midsummer won't melt the frozen heart of a wendigo."

The myth of the wendigo wasn't from his mother's tribe— it wasn't even close, originating from and missing the mark by the distance of about three of those large, clunky cut-up blocks known as 'states' stacked north. But that never would have stopped her. Although naught but a mere seamstress by profession, what she truly was was nothing less than true storyteller at heart. Be it a scary story, a tragic tale, or one of those kinds with a mostly happy ending, she had a gift for telling it in a way that wealth and education couldn't buy. With only her words, she had a magical way of bringing monsters to life, demons up to the surface, and even bringing snow and ice right there to the bayou.

He had little way of knowing at that time, by the way, that his responses to some of the stories were a bit unusual. They were just stories, after all, as beautiful as they were. And when it came to the sheer style of it, the creative imaginings and the twists and turns, he appreciated it just as well as anyone el— no, rather, when it came to that part he appreciated it much better than anyone else. But when it came to feeling happy for the hero or sad for their misfortunes or scared of the horrors that might just cross the fourth wall and come to get you, it took him just slightly longer to notice that others seemed to actually respond a bit differently in that department. Oh, but especially in the so-called 'scary' stories was this most readily apparent! You see, even as a small child, he was already too intelligent to believe for a second that a ghost would ever actually come into his room at night and haunt him. And if the Tzitzimimeh actually were real, he'd be more excited to get the chance to meet them!

It was only that one time. The one, singular time he felt fear from one of his mother's stories.

But let's be fair, now. It wasn't really about the story itself. He felt pretty confident in his suspicion that carnivorous giants walking around with hearts of ice was too out there to be real, and besides, they'd just melt and die then in this kind of climate. More so than one of ice, a heart made of water melted on the ground was even more useless. No. Rather than the story itself, it was the way her eyes looked at him as she told it.

Creatures of insatiable greed. Ever hungry, but never able to be satisfied. She said that some envisioned them as monstrous giants, but others viewed them as something more subtle. Spirits, much more human than beast. Rather than monsters eating humans, dragging them away from their homes and society, humans killing humans. Desiring to kill other humans. A propensity—

—The way they crinkled at that, those eyes of hers, in such a peculiar and uncharacteristic way— had she seen through him already? He was only eight years old at the time, with hands still too tiny and worthless to carry out much of anything. Yet for the first time, what seemed to be a mere story at least on the surface held the power to form a heavy pit of dread within his stomach.

The desire to kill another person. He'd always been careful to hide it. The truth was that there were a lot of things that he kept hidden from her, actually. He may have only been eight years old, but that was hardly too young to bear serious responsibility. Life was not gentle, but then, neither was he. He couldn't protect his mother, not from a single thing but one, with him being even more powerless than she was. But there was that one thing, and in that way, it was one of his very first experiences of holding a sort of power.

Besides. Far more selfishly, and therefore perhaps more honestly, it was also just that he knew she would never be able to understand, and let alone to ever approve. Her love was generous and a source of comfort, but he knew it was not boundless. He was careful to preserve it, so then why did it feel like it all amounted to nothing in that moment?

---------••

Years passed with nothing amounted from the undue amount of terror stricken into his heart on that otherwise forgettable and insignificant day. Had he only imagined it? Or was it just that a fleeting moment of doubt couldn't hold a candle to piles of evidence to the contrary? Whatever it was, it faded from his mind. His childhood preoccupations were just that— childish, and past-tense. By the age of twenty-seven, he'd managed to go his entire life without ending a single human soul. He even managed to forget about the whole thing for long stretches of time! What did a little murder have on a life well-lived, what with a burgeoning career that rewarded his wonderful natural talents, the hard-earned good esteem of all most he'd come across, and the love and respect of his mother who was so proud of him—

Creatures of insatiable greed. Ever hungry, but never able to be satisfied. If he wanted to see suffering, that was never in short supply, and he knew even better than most exactly where to find it. Did it not truly sate him? Was it not enough? By any account, by any logic, the balance of trade was easy, it was obvious—

It was hollow.

Enjoyable as it may have been to watch, he was looking away from this simple fact. From beginning to end, the truth was already there, right in front of him. Would he justify it to himself? Did he even need to? Was it just for fun? Was it out of anger? To try to take something back? To take something away? Was it all of these things, or was it none of them?

It didn't matter why, in reality. Not in the slightest! Did anyone actually care? If it were for no reason at all, that wouldn't have changed a thing. Every single broadcast he'd ever done up till this point, all combined together, couldn't have competed with this single, so very short moment—

And then years after that, once he'd died and his run was seemingly all over, with nothing to show for it except the precious memories, oh, at first he was just confused, perhaps somewhat on the dangerous verge of a f̶̡͝r̵̬̂o̷͍̕w̸̹̕ṉ̶̄, but the moment he realised—

They couldn't have picked a single thing better!

[bayoudeathradio]

WEIRDLY SPECIFIC BUT HELPFUL CHARACTER BUILDING QUESTIONS

What’s the lie your character says most often?

How loosely or strictly do they use the word ‘friend’?

How often do they show their genuine emotions to others versus just the audience knowing?

What’s a hobby they used to have that they miss?

Can they cry on command? If so, what do they think about to make it happen?

What’s their favorite [insert anything] that they’ve never recommended to anyone before?

What would you (mun) yell in the middle of a crowd to find them? What would their best friend and/or romantic partner yell?

How loose is their use of the phrase ‘I love you’?

Do they give tough love or gentle love most often? Which do they prefer to receive?

What fact do they excitedly tell everyone about at every opportunity?

If someone was impersonating them, what would friends / family ask or do to tell the difference?

What’s something that makes them laugh every single time? Be specific!

When do they fake a smile? How often?

How do they put out a candle?

What’s the most obvious difference between their behavior at home, at work, at school, with friends, and when they’re alone?

What kinds of people do they have arguments with in their head?

What do they notice first in the mirror versus what most people first notice looking at them?

Who do they love truly, 100% unconditionally (if anyone)?

What would they do if stuck in a room with the person they’ve been avoiding?

Who do they like as a person but hate their work? Vice versa, whose work do they like but don’t like the person?

What common etiquette do they disagree with? Do they still follow it?

What simple activity that most people do / can do scares your character?

What do they feel guilty for that the other person(s) doesn’t / don’t even remember?

Did they take a cookie from the cookie jar? What kind of cookie was it?

What subject / topic do they know a lot about that’s completely useless to the direct plot?

How would they respond to being fired by a good boss?

What’s the worst gift they ever received? How did they respond?

What do they tell people they want? What do they actually want?

How do they respond when someone doesn’t believe them?

When they make a mistake and feel bad, does the guilt differ when it’s personal versus when it’s professional?

When do they feel the most guilt? How do they respond to it?

If they committed one petty crime / misdemeanor, what would it be? Why?

How do they greet someone they dislike / hate?

How do they greet someone they like / love?

What is the smallest, morally questionable choice they’ve made?

Who do they keep in their life for professional gain? Is it for malicious intent?

What’s a secret they haven’t told serious romantic partners and don’t plan to tell?

What hobby are they good at in private, but bad at in front of others? Why?

Would they rather be invited to an event to feel included or be excluded from an event if they were not genuinely wanted there?

How do they respond to a loose handshake? What goes through their head?

What phrases, pronunciations, or mannerisms did they pick up from someone / somewhere else?

If invited to a TED Talk, what topic would they present on? What would the title of their presentation be?

What do they commonly misinterpret because of their own upbringing / environment / biases? How do they respond when realizing the misunderstanding?

What language would be easiest for them to learn? Why?

What’s something unimportant / frivolous that they hate passionately?

Are they a listener or a talker? If they’re a listener, what makes them talk? If they’re a talker, what makes them listen?

Who have they forgotten about that remembers them very well?

Who would they say ‘yes’ to if invited to do something they abhorred / strongly didn’t want to do?

Would they eat something they find gross to be polite?

What belief / moral / personality trait do they stand by that you (mun) personally don’t agree with?

What’s a phrase they say a lot?

Do they act on their immediate emotions, or do they wait for the facts before acting?

Who would / do they believe without question?

What’s their instinct in a fight / flight / freeze / fawn situation?

What’s something they’re expected to enjoy based on their hobbies / profession that they actually dislike / hate?

If they’re scared, who do they want comfort from? Does this answer change depending on the type of fear?

What’s a simple daily activity / motion that they mess up often?

How many hobbies have they attempted to have over their lifetime? Is there a common theme?