Chapter Text
"Okay, fine, this is starting to get annoying..." — Vincent had been unsuccessfully trying to "catch" the princess… that is, Charlie, as she had asked to be called, for several days now. She was literally avoiding being alone with him.
Vincent, of course, had given her time to think about her answer, but... He didn't think she would stall for this long. He assumed Charlie would cry into a pillow or on her girlfriend's shoulder and then come to tell him. Vincent was definitely wrong in his assessment of Charlie.
Perhaps he should reconsider the personality of the Hellish princess.
Well, though who knows, maybe she's ashamed of what she did with the angels' bodies? Who knows. Although that option is most likely, after all, she's here in Hell, seemingly the most "righteous" and with an "angelic" character.
Mhm, sounds rotten, but that's not the point.
To be honest, Vincent was interested in how Charlie even managed to grow up so… gentle in the conditions she was essentially born into. Charlotte is essentially a hothouse rose among weeds, given how much she differs from the local population.
It seems Lucifer and Lilith raised their daughter in isolation from the rest of the world, as she lacks many social skills, she completely doesn't understand human psychology, and if she were an ordinary human, not the daughter of a fallen seraph and the first sinner, well... she wouldn't last a day here.
In any case, that's not the main thing. The main thing is that because of her, Vincent suffers, who is pressured by Sera, and Sera is pressured by the inhabitants of Heaven and the exorcists.
One continuous headache, that's all. Add to that the annoying hotel guests, among whom is a lustful spider whose every other word is obscenity, and, as the cherry on top, Vincent has acquired a stalker in the form of the Radio Demon.
Speaking of the latter, right now he's standing behind his back, while Vincent was talking to Emily, who, like an enthusiastic fledgling, kept chirping away, telling him about her day.
"Emily and Charlie, if you think about it, are very similar." — There was nothing wrong with such a thought, even the opposite—it seemed even amusing. — "Both were isolated from society, though the difference is that one was born in Hell and the other in Heaven."
As soon as Emily's glowing figure disappeared behind the door in the hotel lobby, where Vincent was finally trying to carve out a minute to check his emails (he distinctly remembered one of the letters was from Sera), the silence that had just begun to form was broken by a familiar, static-filled voice sounding above his head.
"Positively touching, Mr. Whitman," it came, sweet and venomous. — "Such… paternal care for a young seraphim. And with the princess, you converse as if instructing a clueless child. An interesting behavioral model for a heavenly emissary. Could it be a maternal instinct awakening in your… cybernetic chest?"
"This bastard..." — Vincent didn't turn around. He slowly, with exaggerated calm, closed the holographic interface before him. The irritation that had been building inside him for days finally found its target. But he didn't let it burst out crudely.
Who knows, maybe Vincent could shock this arrogant jerk? No one's around, no one would see... The temptation was enormous, but...
Instead, he turned to face Alastor, and a smile bloomed on his face — perfectly polite, utterly cold, and not reaching his eyes.
"Mr. Alastor," he began, and his voice was smooth as ice. If looks could kill, Alastor would have died a hundred and five times that day. — "I have always admired your… powers of observation. They are undoubtedly useful for your radio broadcasts. However," — he tilted his head slightly, and a polished, professional gleam flashed in his multicolored eyes, hidden behind the sensor, — "allow me to note that your conclusions about my communication methods are not only inappropriate but are based on rather superficial observations."
He made a small pause, letting the words hang in the air.
"My interactions with Emily and Princess Charlie are dictated solely by diplomatic necessity and the pursuit of the most efficient achievement of my mission's goals. If that reminds you of parental patterns," — Vincent shrugged gently, deliberately putting on an innocent look, — "that perhaps speaks more to your personal experience, or… lack thereof in healthy interpersonal relationships, than to my intentions."
Vincent could have told Alastor to go to hell, but his sense of professionalism didn't allow him to do so.
"Thus," — Vincent continued, his smile becoming a bit narrower, sharper, as if deliberately trying to provoke, — "the nature of my relationships with colleagues and representatives of the host side is solely my business and that of the heavenly administration. Your opinion on the matter, however… picturesquely it may be presented, has not the slightest practical significance and, to be honest, is beginning to lose its initial… entertainment value through constant repetition."
He finished, holding himself with an impeccable, detached posture. The message was clear: You're annoying. This isn't your territory. Shut up. And all of it — in an impeccably polite, diplomatic package, which was far more infuriating than any rudeness. Vincent made it clear that their verbal duels were no longer an exciting game for him, but a bothersome hindrance he tolerates only out of politeness, and even that, less and less each time.
"O. Vincent." — Such sudden familiarity was disorienting. Alastor had always addressed him by his surname all this time, but what was strange was that this form of address seemed both right and wrong to Vincent at the same time.
But the demon looked neither insulted nor irritated. On the contrary. His red eyes narrowed to slits, and his wide smile stretched even wider, revealing rows of sharp teeth. He didn't show the displeasure Vincent had hoped for.
"O. Vincent," he repeated, and the name on his tongue sounded somehow new: not familiar, but… possessive. As if he was tasting something long forgotten and found it pleasant.
"Does he have the memory of a goldfish? Why repeat my name a second time?" — Vincent didn't like the sudden change in Alastor's behavior.
Alastor himself took a step forward, closing the already small distance between them to a dangerous degree.
Vincent instinctively retreated half a step, but his back hit the edge of a high table. A trap.
Alastor paid no attention to that. His gaze, full of predatory curiosity, slid from his face down to his back, to the folded wings. Vincent didn't like that look, so his folded wings pressed tighter against the wall.
"Your methods, of course, are your personal affair," he agreed almost amiably, but his voice was subdued, intimate, as if they were sharing a secret. — "But some details... they so persistently beg to be discussed. Take, for instance, these..." — With a smooth, almost caressing gesture, he ran his hand through the air a centimeter from the outline of Vincent's folded wing, not touching it. — "...delightful appendages. They differ so much from the fluffy, soft things your heavenly colleagues sport. Yours... They look as if they were forged."
Vincent felt a chill run down his spine. His wings, sensitive like an extension of his own nervous system, clenched even tighter. — "Since when did he become interested in my wings?" — flashed through the angel's head.
"I don't think that concerns you," he cut off, and his voice, usually so even, sounded a bit sharper than intended. — "My wings are not public property."
"Oh, I'm sure," Alastor parried, and a sweet, venomous mockery sounded in his tone. — "But what craftsmanship! What… individuality! Those lines, that blue light... and those tiny, barely noticeable red flecks. How interesting. A color so rarely seen in your serene palette."
He took another step, and now Vincent was literally pinned against the table. — "This is already crossing the line of decency. Why is he suddenly so tactile?" — raced feverishly through his mind.
"Allow me a closer look," Alastor hissed, and it was not a request.
Before Vincent could react, the demon's long, strong fingers wrapped around the rigid frame at the base of his left wing. The touch was cold, tenacious. — "Don't touch them," Vincent's voice sounded.
But it wasn't his voice. Or rather, not the voice everyone was used to hearing. It broke into a low, hoarse, vibrating note. It crackled with interference, like a bad recording on a demagnetized tape. It sounded old, worn, distorted — like a broadcast from a broken radio station, barely breaking through the noise.
Even to Vincent himself at that moment, his own voice seemed unpleasant and grating to his ears.
And at the same moment, under the pressure of Alastor's hand, the wing straightened. With a sharp, mechanical hiss, it snapped open for half a meter, brushing against furniture and causing the holographic lines on its surface to flare with a bright blue, almost white light. In that light, those very details the demon spoke of became clearly visible: the plate seams, the complex pattern, and yes — tiny, like droplets of congealed blood, red accents in the most unexpected places.
Alastor froze, his hand still resting on the frame. His eyes, burning crimson, greedily studied every detail, every line. He was so close Vincent could feel his breath.
"O-ho-ho," the demon exhaled quietly, with immense satisfaction, when he suddenly felt a sudden electric discharge, forcing him to jerk his hand away from the wing.
It was done more out of surprise than pain.
The discharge wasn't strong — more of a warning, a sharp snap of static escaping from under the plates. But it was enough.
What flashed in the red eyes wasn't pain, but the sharpest, most alive surprise, instantly replaced by an even greedier interest. He looked at his slightly smoking glove, then at Vincent, as if he had just discovered a hidden lethal mechanism in a boring toy.
"Bastard..." — that was the only thought Vincent had then. A sharp feeling of disgust arose; he wanted to go back to his room and wash himself all over.
That instant was enough. The electric shock emanating from his own body shook Vincent, breaking the paralysis of rage and confusion.
The distorted, old voice caught in his throat. He took a deep, strained breath, feeling the systems stabilize, the wing panels, still spread wide and brightly shining, beginning to vibrate in response to his internal command.
With a sharp, mechanical whir and a series of precise clicks, the wing began to fold. The plates slid over each other with perfect synchrony, the blue lines dimmed until the entire structure returned to its tight, flush position against his back, once again resembling an impeccable, non-functional cloak.
The light went out. The lobby became relatively dark again, save for the weak glow of Vincent's halo.
He stood up straight, pushing away from the table. His face was pale beneath the artificial skin but utterly impassive. The sensor over his eyes hid any emotion, but the corners of his lips were pressed into a thin, straight line.
Inside, everything was trembling — from humiliation, from anger, from the chilling fear of what had just manifested in his own voice. But outwardly, he was an icy statue. As he should have been from the start.
He gave a slow nod to Alastor, a short, almost imperceptible, mockingly apologetic gesture.
"I apologize for the… unintentional discharge," Vincent said, and his voice was his voice again. Vincent averted his gaze. — "The system sometimes reacts to unexpected external stimuli. A safety glitch. It won't happen again."
He didn't apologize for being touched, because he shouldn't apologize; it wasn't his fault.
"Now, if you'll excuse me," he continued in the same impassive tone, — "I have a report that requires completion. Good night, Mr. Alastor. I have no idea how a woman like Mathilde could raise a son like this..." — The last sentence was quiet, barely audible, but against all odds, it was heard.
Much to Vincent's own great misfortune.
Vincent, waiting for a response and not looking at the demon, whose smile now seemed strained but therefore appeared wider than ever, turned and walked away.
The Radio Demon, however, seemed to have been stunned, pondering the other's words.
His steps were even, confident, his back straight, and his folded wings didn't tremble a millimeter.
---
The door to the room closed behind Vincent with a quiet, but final click.
Vincent was tired, not so much physically as morally.
He leaned his back against it, pressing into the wood as if trying to calm the trembling that came from within, right from his spine where the wings were attached. In the absolute silence of the room, he finally allowed himself to exhale — a long, choked, uneven sound.
Vincent was angry.
The touch. Cold fingers on the frame. The intrusion. The feeling of disgust and pure hatred. Alastor was an interesting and in a way fascinating personality, but...
That didn't change the fact that Alastor was a fucking stalker who seemed to enjoy pushing people's buttons.
Why a stalker? How else to explain the fact that the entire time Vincent had been here, he had always followed him like a shadow.
But maybe Vincent was just too tired and imagining things.
He pushed himself away from the door sharply and headed to the bathroom. Without turning on the overhead light, he stopped before the large mirror, turned his back to it, and, without looking at his reflection, commanded voice activation.
The wings opened with a soft hiss to their full width, filling the entire space of the small room. The blue lines pulsed with an even light.
Vincent took the special wipe spray for delicate electronics — a colorless, odorless liquid (a gift from Matt). Methodically, with almost painful thoroughness, he began to wipe every plate, every seam, every line of lighting on his left wing.
Where Alastor's fingers had been. He rubbed until the matte white surface became impeccably clean, shining, sterile.
"Not clean enough." — He focused on the tiny red flecks — they seemed brighter now, as if irritated. He went over them with particular attention, though he knew it was just pigment in the laminate, part of the design. But it didn't help.
That strange, so annoying sensation — cold, tenacious, alien — wouldn't wash away.
"At least Matt's gift came in handy somewhere..." — Having cleaned the wings, he folded them and finally raised his eyes to his reflection. The face in the mirror was pale, the eyes beneath the sensor remained the same as before.
But the echo still rang in his ears. The echo of his own voice. That other one. Hoarse, tearing, old. And had his eyes always been like that? Yes. Always. He was just overthinking things again.
"System glitch," he muttered into the void, and his usual, velvety voice sounded unconvincing even to himself.
He left the bathroom, took off his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt collar, and collapsed onto the bed, staring at the dark ceiling. His body felt heavy as lead, and his mind was feverishly empty. The migraine, his faithful companion to stress, began pressing on his skull with renewed force.
Surprisingly, lately, the migraine had hardly appeared at all. That was at least some small plus in a mountain of minuses.
"Right... The report for Sera..." — surfaced in his consciousness, as if from thick fog. Yes. He had to send the report. The daily, detailed one, full of optimistic half-truths and omissions about the real state of affairs.
About how Lucifer's daughter was avoiding responsibility. About how the deer-demon was pursuing him with manic interest. — "Almost like Matt, but with a different appearance, personality, and without wings and a halo."
He turned onto his side, toward the nightstand where his tablet lay. The holographic screen flared to life in the dark, blindingly bright. He opened the draft of the letter.
"Dear Supreme Seraphim Sera," — he began typing with mechanical, practiced movements. — "Today at the Hazbin Hotel was dedicated to further observation of group dynamics and rehabilitation methods..." — So infuriating.
Alastor always looked at him as if he were a ghost, as if seeing someone else. Vincent didn't like that.
His fingers froze. He stared at the blinking cursor. Inside, everything clenched. He couldn't. Not now.
"Okay, fine, I'll finish it later." — In the end, Sera wouldn't get angry at him for not sending her one measly report on time, would she?
Vincent would just rest a bit and then get to work; in case of questions, he'd think of something to tell Sera.
Vincent turned off the tablet, shoved it onto the nightstand, and fell back onto his back, covering his eyes with his palm. The darkness beneath his eyelids was thick but brought no peace.
"Mathilde..." — he whispered into the dark, and the name became a gulp of clean air in this suffocating room. The thought of her calm, warm smile, of her kitchen smelling of jambalaya, was soothing.
"I need to unwind, urgently." — Vincent sighed heavily before getting up.
Earth. The air was thick, saturated, and... dirty.
Not in the sense of sin, but literally—the smell of exhaust fumes, dust, millions of lives and their waste. An ordinary day on Earth. Nothing new.
Vincent stood in a long line at one of the countless coffee shops lost among the glass and concrete of the big city. His angelic attributes were carefully concealed: his wings retracted and masked by a special field simulating an ordinary back under his simple, dark coat; his halo deactivated; the sensor over his eyes replaced by ordinary square-framed glasses for vision.
Whatever anyone might say, Vincent's eyesight wasn't actually as perfect as one might assume. It sounds like nonsense, but what can you do? Sometimes he wore glasses, sometimes contacts, but mostly glasses.
To the eye—just a tall, somewhat aloof man in expensive but understated clothing.
Vincent didn't do this often. Descending to the mortal world was strictly forbidden. But sometimes—in those rare moments when the pressure of Heaven or Sera herself became unbearable, and he didn't want to bother Mathilde—he found a loophole.
A short, unauthorized jump down into this noisy, chaotic-smelling world he had once, apparently, known so well. After all, he was born in it, lived, and died.
And every time, the same thing struck him.
He looked through his glasses at the people around him. At the girl glued to her phone screen, nearly walking into the door. At the man who spent five minutes on the phone using exclusively swear words, discussing a "creative brand synergy strategy." At the barista with dead eyes who asked a customer's name three times and still wrote something illegible on the cup.
"They've truly become… duller," flashed through his head, not maliciously, but rather with mild interest and slight disgust. Not in an intellectual sense—technology had advanced. But in the sense of… intellect. Attention. The ability to be here and now.
They lived through intermediaries—screens, algorithms, simplified narratives. Their emotions seemed as flat and disposable as the cups in their hands.
That sounds rather ironic.
The line moved forward. "What can I get for you?" asked the barista, not looking at him.
If you looked closer at the guy behind the counter, you could see a unfocused gaze, red eyes, and... a barely noticeable thin white line?
"Seriously? Right on the job?" — Vincent thought for a second and was once again disappointed in the new generation.
"Double espresso. Nothing else," he finally said, his voice sounding unnaturally quiet and flat against the general din.
While his order was being prepared, he watched a young couple arguing about who forgot the passport at home for some unnecessary, in his view, procedure.
"Was I really like that?" — a thought flashed, unpleasant and making him grimace with disgust. — "Just as shallow?"
"Double espresso!" they called out to him.
He took the small, scalding cup, feeling the heat through the cardboard. Paid in cash—bills. (Where he got the money is a separate story that probably doesn't require explanation.)
Vincent stepped out onto the bustling street, where noise merged into one continuous roar: the rumble of cars, snippets of music from passersby's headphones, voices.
He took a sip of the espresso—bitter, strong, but with a strange aftertaste, though better than nothing.
And then, just as he was about to turn into a quieter side street, his hearing picked up something sharply distinct from the general background.
Vincent slowed his pace. Vincent instinctively turned his head toward the sound.
Right in the middle of the street, some commotion was happening; in the center, it seemed, was either a celebrity or some crazy fanatic preaching.
Through the crowd, Vincent could just make out two figures.
One—tall,skinny, wearing something like a sleeveless vest? Let's say, a dark gray shirt with ridiculous puffy sleeves.
But his attention was most drawn to the other figure. Vincent squinted. Long, coiled black-and-white striped horns sticking out from under a wig pulled over the head. Stripes on a flicker of red skin glimpsed in the chaos. A tail that thrashed violently against the asphalt before being pulled back in.
An imp. A pure-blooded imp from Hell. Oh, great. Has Lucifer really become that neglectful of his people and the agreement with Heaven?
And then the two figures were shoved into a white van.
The scene lasted seconds. The van door slammed shut with a dull thud, the engine roared, and the vehicle sped off, dissolving into the traffic flow.
Vincent stood motionless. He was still clutching the coffee cup in his hand, but the drink had lost all taste. The observed scene lasted less than a minute. Questions certainly arose, like how did the imp get to Earth? Why was it here? And so on.
Vincent needed to report this, but... That would be followed by the question of how he found out. Explaining it to Sera would be another problem entirely.
Vincent slowly brought the cup to his lips, took another sip. The coffee was cold and disgustingly bitter. He turned around and walked on, in the opposite direction.
"Every day, a new problem." — He threw the unfinished coffee into a trash can—it was lousy anyway. He needed to return, but before that, he intended to smoke and watch the meteor shower.
An hour or maybe two passed; Vincent honestly didn't keep count.
Vincent found a quiet rooftop of an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts. Above, through the light haze of urban smog, rare stars flickered weakly. He took off his glasses, carefully placed them in their case, and lit a cigarette.
For a while, he simply looked up, watching the falling stars. It was nice to just stand there, observing the night sky and smoking.
Not his best habit, but it helped a little, in its own way.
Vincent took a final drag, crushed the butt on the concrete, and activated the return protocol. A quiet, almost inaudible hum filled the space around him. "Need to get back." — The air trembled, and a thin, vertical slit of radiant, cold light opened right before him—a portal. He stepped into it, and the human world dissolved into white emptiness.
The next moment, he was standing in the dark, quiet lobby of the Hazbin Hotel. Little time had passed on Earth; here it was the dead of night. A lamp somewhere on the front desk was buzzing, casting uneven shadows. He sighed with relief, shrugging off his coat, letting it transform back into his usual jacket. He felt tired, a vague nausea from the illegal jump, and a general desire to fall into sleep.