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Day4-Omega in Hiding | Suppressant Failure

Mushishield

Chapter 3: The First Overlord Meeting (Regarding the Radio Problem)

The Overlords sat around a heavy oak table—every one of them, except Alastor and Valentino. This meeting was secret. Very secret.

Zestial had called it.

He stood at the head of the room, his ancient gaze sweeping the assembled sinners before he spoke. “We all know why we are gathered. His scent. It has intensified. And with it, his behavior grows... increasingly perplexing. We require answers.”

“He’s not just acting weird,” Zeezi snapped, pacing like a caged animal. “He helped Lucifer. Voluntarily. He despises that man! Next, he’ll be best friends with Vox again. That is not Alastor. Something’s wearing his skin—badly. And that smell? That’s bait. It has to be.”

Carmilla exhaled slowly, her gaze cool and analytical. “Agreed. The scent is anomalous. He used to mask it flawlessly—releasing only controlled traces. But since joining that infernal hotel, something’s changed. This sudden, pervasive emergence—so pungent, so consistent—paired with behavioral shifts this extreme? It feels calculated. Deliberate. So the question remains: what is his endgame?”

“Endgame?” Velvette scoffed, eyes glued to her phone as her thumbs flew. “He’s trying to give us diabetes with that fucking bakery stench. Worst of all? He’s trending. Dozens of posts: ‘Why does the Radio Demon smell like cinnamon rolls and look like he needs a cuddle?’ Half of Hell wants to fuck him. It’s chaos. It’s distracting. It’s—fuck!” She slammed her hand on the table. “He’s trending again! There’s a photo going viral—Alastor patting Angel Dust’s head. Looking soft! #RadioDust is gaining traction!” Velvette shrieked. “He’s got a shipping name now—with Val’s porn star! He needs to be stopped. This is deliberate sabotage against the Vees!”

Rosie, seated with her usual grace but an uncharacteristic tension in her posture, finally spoke. Her voice was calm but firm. “I believe you are all leaping to melodramatic conclusions.”

The room fell silent.

Zeezi froze mid-stride. Carmilla arched a perfectly sculpted brow. Even Velvette looked up from her phone, momentarily pausing her hate comments and mass-blocking of #RadioDust defenders.

Rosie smoothed her skirt and continued, “Yes, Alastor is acting strangely. And yes, the scent is... pronounced. But ‘bait’? ‘Skin-wearing impostor’?” She fixed Velvette with a sharp look. “Trying to ruin the Vees because he’s trending? Little girl, Alastor found more interest in a stone than the internet. He doesn’t even know what trending means—I was the one who taught him. That’s the tea.”

Her gaze swept across the room, lingering on each Overlord. “We’ve all known him for decades—some longer than others. When Alastor plots something dreadful, you know it. His eyes glitter. They narrow. He savors chaos. Do you see that now? In any of his recent actions?”

Silence.

Only Vox offered a slight smile and nod. Rosie couldn't tell whether it was agreement or mockery.

“I don’t,” she pressed on. “I see... restlessness. An absence of that sharp edge. He hums off-key. Just the other day, Lucifer couldn’t find a spatula—Alastor conjured one up and handed it over. No favor demanded. No barbed comment. Just... distracted generosity. That’s not a trap. That’s someone who isn’t himself. The king thanked him. Charlie praised him for being ‘so nice’ to her father these past months.” Rosie paused, a faint smile touching her lips. “Alastor got flustered. He said he had a meeting with me and practically ran. It was... oddly endearing.”

“He’s pretending,” Zeezi muttered. “He never does anything for anyone but himself. He’s a selfish dick, always has been. That cinnamon sugar stench isn’t innocent. He’s setting the stage for something. And we’d better be ready when he attacks.”

“Perhaps,” Rosie said. “But what if it’s not a plot—it’s a problem? What if he’s ill? Or experiencing a dynamic instability he’s trying desperately to conceal? We shouldn’t jump to wild theories. What if he genuinely needs help?” She gestured around the table. “He’s protected your territories more than once, Zeezi. Carmilla, yours too. Never asked for payment. He did it out of courtesy. Alastor has only ever moved against another Overlord when lines were irrevocably crossed or when they threatened more than one domain.”

She turned to Zestial. “You’ve known him nearly as long as I have. Have you seen the familiar gleam in his eye? That predatory joy? That Radio Demon delights in orchestrating mayhem?”

Zestial steepled his fingers, considering. “The eyes of the Radio Demon are... telling. His manic sharpness is absent. The cruelty feels... diluted. He seems... adrift.”

He leaned back, voice lowering. “Yet the alternative—that Alastor is simply unwell, or that his Alpha presentation is faltering—feels just as implausible. He is a creature of absolute control. Meticulous calculation. This behavior, this scent—it defies his nature. Alphas do not mimic Omegas. And if that is indeed what’s happening...” His tone darkened. “...we have a different, perhaps more alarming, problem.”

“Exactly!” Carmilla snapped her fingers. “It’s a ruse. A predator feigning vulnerability. Emitting false Omega pheromones to lure in curious Alphas. Maybe Betas. Maybe even other Omegas. A classic predatory trap. The scent is the invitation.”

Velvette rolled her eyes. “And the ‘nice guy’ act? Textbook guard-dropping. He wants someone close enough to bite. He’s using the hotel as his hunting ground. Make his victims feel safe and—” She clapped her hands sharply. “Snap. Fake Omega. Easy pickings.”

“Like a trapdoor spider,” Vox murmured, finally speaking up, amused.

Everyone turned to look at him. Velvette pointed. “Yes! Exactly. Like that spider.”

Rosie sighed in genuine frustration. “He hasn’t done anything. He’s just smelling like a dessert and helping Lucifer with kitchenware. Alastor can be civil. He reserves his hostility for those who earn it. He hates uninvited touch—especially from Omegas. I’m one of the few he tolerates near him. Along with Niffty. And now the princess. If he wanted to devour someone, he wouldn’t bother with theatrics. He doesn’t play with his meals. He just eats them.”

Her gaze swept the room. “If you’re worried about predators luring Omegas, look to yourselves. I know your histories. I am the Cannibal Overlord and the Queen of Gossip. Don’t pretend innocence. Alastor is the only Alpha among us who’s never stooped to such tactics.”

A ripple of discomfort passed around the room. Most averted their eyes—except Vox. He felt a sting of guilt. The only Omega he’d ever really “lured” was currently waiting for him in a nest.

“Husk accuses him of building a bomb daily,” Rosie added. “And Alastor is apparently flattered by the idea that Husk thinks he could build one. Where is the menace? Where’s the scheming? His eyes look vacant—not vicious. Something’s genuinely wrong.”

Carmilla folded her hands. “Rosie, your concern is touching. But the facts remain: the scent is overwhelming. The behavior is aberrant. Whether it’s bait, psychological warfare, or something else—we must be vigilant. We cannot afford to live in your fantasy where Alastor is a wounded fawn in need of care.”

Zestial leaned forward. “We shall observe. We shall document. And if anyone is lured by that cloying miasma... we’ll witness their fate. Then decide our course of action.”

The meeting adjourned shortly after, filled with muttered strategies and plans for surveillance.

Rosie remained seated long after the others had filed out, frowning at the empty chairs—especially those where more reasonable voices might have sat. They hadn’t listened. They only saw the predator they feared, blind to the possibility of genuine distress.

Something was wrong with Alastor.

And she seemed to be the only one who could see it.

Velvette stormed out of the building beside Vox, grumbling, “If I see #RadioDust trending one more time, I swear I’m blowing up a server farm. Thirty years of ‘Mysterious Radio Demon’ rumors, and he still becomes internet catnip? What am I doing wrong? Why can’t I get this kind of buzz for my fashion lines?”

Vox smirked but said nothing, the screen flickering softly.

Velvette gasped suddenly. “I know! I start a rumor that I slept with that female angel who visited hell—what’s her name?”

Vox sighed. “Emily.”

“Yeah! That’s her. Vox, when we get back, start editing some images of me and her. Send them to Val. I’ll be trending for months.”

Vox didn’t respond.

Much later, Alastor was safely curled up in his nest—a fortress of blankets and plush fabric—when Vox materialized silently in the shadowed corner of the room. He removed his shoes and clothes and climbed in beside him, carefully pulling Alastor into his lap.

“They held the meeting,” Vox murmured, voice modulator low.

Alastor stirred, blinking up sleepily. His ears twitched. “Oh? What delightful theory prevailed this time? That I plan to detonate Heaven? That I’m secretly God in disguise, seducing sinners? Could it be that my influence extends to the banking system? Or that perhaps I still have a sugar daddy, which is why I never needed a job?”

Vox snorted. “That you’re emitting fake Omega pheromones to lure and consume others. That you’re a skinwalker imposter. And that you’re sabotaging the Vees by trending. Oh—and congratulations: you’ve got a ship name with Angel now. #RadioDust. You look extra cute and soft in the photo, by the way.”

Alastor giggled, burying his face in a pillow. “How utterly flattering. A trapdoor spider now, am I?” He paused. “Did Rosie defend my honor again?”

Vox nodded, pulling him close and petting his hair. “Vehemently. She’s worried. Thinks you’re ill. Hurt. Malfunctioning.”

Alastor’s expression softened. His ears drooped as he rubbed his cheek against Vox’s thigh. “She truly cares... Though I admit, I’m a tad wounded she didn’t give me some villainous credit. I did make myself the most feared overlord for a reason.”

Vox chuckled. “Please. If Val had shown up, he’d just say it’s a sex thing—and that you forgot how to get yourself an Omega.”

Alastor rolled his eyes. “Val was the one who said I had a sugar daddy.” He looked up with sleepy mischief. “Vox... are you my sugar daddy?”

Vox’s screen glitched, emitting static. “Al... you know I’d buy you anything you wanted. Just say the word.”

But Alastor didn’t hear him.

He was already asleep, face serene, curled up in the Alpha’s lap.

Vox looked down at the sleeping Omega, his heart aching with quiet love. He wouldn’t jeopardize this strange, tender thing between them—the nest, the trust, the secrecy.

He’d just stay by his side.

Not his mate.

Just... his best friend.

And with that, Vox shut down, settling himself in sleep mode.

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