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If there was one thing Alastor could count as a certainty in his life, year after year, without fail, it was Vox.
Despite having parted ways so long ago, they had continued to dance around each other in a never-ending cycle. Radio and television, forever bound to be interconnected. Always trying to see who was better, who was stronger, who was in control.
Not very informative, because everyone knew it was Alastor. There wasn't much debate about it. Rosie's power amplified what Alastor had naturally, ensuring that he always came out on top, and Alastor wasn't ashamed to have that little extra advantage. It was just like being born with light skin in life, right? Same conditions as Vox in the end, starting at the same baseline as the other. And when there was no initial disadvantage to stop him, Alastor always ended up winning. But that didn't make those confrontations between them any less fun.
Alastor enjoyed those games.
And especially the attention.
Like clockwork, Vox would send a note wishing him the worst start to the new year imaginable. Hoping he'd break his back or fall into a hole and wake up in another ring of Hell, where he'd stop being such a pain in the ass to everyone. Or, at least, to Vox.
Then Alastor had disappeared. A single word from Rosie, and he was forced to follow her orders, even if he didn't share her reasons. And with everyone too terrified to even say his name, as he wanted, no one had bothered to look for him.
But Vox? Vox had continued to send his notes.
Year after year.
First to Alastor's abandoned radio tower, where he had found all the cards and not-happy-new-year messages once Rosie had allowed him to return. After a couple of years without Alastor making an appearance, the other man had changed his strategy and destination, and his letters had started appearing in Cannibal Town instead, as Rosie herself had told him with a laugh. Perhaps because Vox knew they got along well; it would make sense that, if anyone knew anything about where he was, it would be her. And yes, of course she knew what had happened with Alastor. Rosie had not replied to the letters or contacted Vox to ask him to stop, which Alastor appreciated. It was more interesting to see how far Vox would go. Besides, torturing him with silence was a bonus.
Finally, in the seventh year, there had been no letter. Or if there had been, Alastor had not yet been able to find it. Sometimes he fantasised about asking the other demon directly, at least to satisfy his curiosity. Had Vox given up, or had he gambled on a location that even Alastor himself had not yet thought of? How well did the other think he knew him? He was clearly obsessed with him, but perhaps not enough if he had not guessed correctly and Alastor could not find the note.
When he had started his job at the Hazbin Hotel, he had given one last thought to that missing piece. He had concluded that it couldn't be considered a great loss, just a stain on Vox's record, and had spent his time entertaining himself by watching the princess and her group of misfits try to achieve the impossible.
He was so focused on Charlie's endless to-do list—of which he only took care of a quarter, Alastor was a busy person with his own affairs after all—that when Charlie arrived one day telling him he had mail, his first thought was not Vox. But once he saw the blue envelope in her hands, he remembered what time of year it was, snatched it from her and went to open it in the privacy of his room.
Wishing you a very terrible New Year. Hope you DIE!
Short. To the point. But Alastor had his not-happy New Year's card. Vox had succumbed to his obsession with Alastor, and there he was again. What a pathetic cry for attention! Alastor displayed it in the hotel kitchen, placed precisely among the array of photos and souvenir magnets that the residents had gathered on the fridge's door so that everyone, without exception, could see Vox's humiliation.
When the festivities were over, that simple card joined Alastor's collection. His little trophies. Proof of how Vox couldn't move on.
How ridiculous!
A lot could happen in a year. Alastor had almost died at the hands of an archangel. He had freed himself from the deal that had held him back for a century, opening so many doors that had previously been closed to him.
Vox had tried to start a war against Heaven.
“Hey, boss, I may regret this, but can I ask what’s wrong with you?” Alastor didn’t bother to look at the other man, preferring to ignore Husk in the hope that he would stop trying to make conversation. Couldn't a demon just sit quietly in the bar of the hotel, staring at the door as if he could explode it with his mind? “You're scaring away any potential customers with that attitude and that angry bee-like buzzing sound.”
“Wow! So your brilliant idea is to hit the hive with a bat, Husker?”
“Look, just don't complain later if the bar's accounts don't add up. I'm washing my hands.”
Alastor wrinkled his nose, but that was his only reaction, letting Husk go back to pretending to be cleaning a glass. He wasn't in the mood to entertain himself by terrorising Husk during his working hours. After all, the other man was already sulking over the spider's absence, so he saw no point in going in for the kill. It wouldn't be very satisfying.
Vox had created a weapon to destroy Heaven and had aimed it at Alastor. That had been a somewhat exaggerated reaction—the games the two of them played never reached the point of total annihilation of the other, coupled with suicide. Taking the others out as collateral damage would have been interesting, at least, but not enough.
He had been enjoying himself. Nothing like trying to rip each other apart, tearing off pieces with claws and teeth, enjoying the familiarity of knowing what Vox was like inside after so many other fights in the past. But the picture box had changed the rules of the game and tried to get rid of Alastor completely, to the point of using the power of an archangel to erase him.
He hadn't been able to process how that made him feel. He had put it all in a box in his head and hadn't thought about it again. And he had refused to attend any of the therapy sessions Charlie had tried to invite him to.
No, what he wanted from Charlie was something else.
Vox had been beheaded by his own partner, reduced to a ridiculous tablet and little else. Valentino had taken over the company, and Vox had not been seen since. But obviously they had taken the trouble to keep him alive, and sooner or later they would give him his body back. Alastor had even formally asked them if he could keep it, but his request had been rejected several times. The last time, Velvette had written back—a rather informal letter, full of words with missing letters that Alastor had needed Niffty's help to decipher, did the young didn't know how to write anymore?—to make it clear that if they were going to use the body for something else, it would be one of her new mannequins before letting Alastor eat it or whatever he was thinking.
He hadn't thought of that possibility until she had mentioned it.
The thing was: the Vees had Vox's body. Surely sooner or later they would give it back to him. Perhaps they already had, since it had been a few months since the incident. They had even taken a promotional Christmas photo where Vox clearly had his body—although he also looked a bit out of sorts, so perhaps he had needed to be sedated a little to get him to cooperate.
But the question was: why hadn't Vox sent him any New Year's wishes?
It wasn't something he usually did, completely forgetting that tradition they had. No, no, Vox's absolute need to try to get his attention was extremely pathetic in its repetition. Over and over again. Alastor kept every single piece of evidence.
So... Why was it late that year?
When Charlie entered the room, Alastor's ears shifted in her direction, alert. She was intercepted by another resident trying to ask her something, so Alastor spent the next minute and a half weighing the pros and cons of murdering that pest right there and then. The fact that Charlie wouldn't be very eager to talk to him if he did that in front of her won out, so he moved with the shadows to approach them.
“Charlie, dear!” he exclaimed suddenly, effectively startling the other sinner. “Do you have a minute?”
Charlie watched the other sinner leave with a worried expression, but turned to him to continue the conversation she had been forced into. “Hey, Alastor, how are you?”
“Fine, fine. You know!” Charlie clearly didn't know, shaking her head in confusion, but he didn't have time for small talk like commenting on the weather. “I just wanted to ask if there was any mail for me this morning?”
The other frowned, taking a moment to think, before shaking her head again. “I don’t think so, or I would have left it on your desk. Are you expecting anything? Should I keep an eye out for a package?”
“Oh, no, no, it's nothing important! But if a letter arrives, you know what to do!”
"Yes, of course, Al. Is it from a friend, or did you buy something? Is it a gift? Oh, oh, is it something you ordered online? I knew that putting a computer in the lounge would spark people's interest, and if you've dared to use new technology for that, it's a-"
But Alastor was no longer there to answer, leaving her speaking to the air without a single explanation.
Niffty was the only one who could enter Alastor's room without permission. He had learned long ago that even if he locked the door, it meant nothing to the little sinner. Niffty didn't usually wander into the bayou anyway, simply cleaning the area closest to the door. So, they didn't always coincide even when they were both in the room. But on this occasion, Alastor was writing on his desk, near the fireplace to keep himself warm at a time when Hell was slightly colder than usual.
“What are you writing?”
Alastor admired his work for a few moments before hurriedly putting it in an envelope and sealing it. “Nothing important, dear. You know what time of year it is, just a simple wish.”
“For Vox?” she asked once she managed to climb onto the desk and saw the name Alastor was writing as the recipient. “It's been a while since you two exchanged letters like you used to.”
“Good heavens, no! It's nothing as personal as a real letter. Just doing my part in a tradition we have.”
“The one you never reply to?” she pressed, being the only sinner who knew about his collection. “I suppose there's always a first time for everything.”
“Don't say it like it's something important, dear! If he fails to fulfil his part, I'll be the mature one and take the initiative. I'm sure when he sees this, one will arrive from him.”
Niffty said nothing. They both watched in silence as Alastor held it between two fingers and green flames enveloped the letter before it disappeared, leaving no trace of it.
From his position in his chair, he heard the sound of the door opening behind him. He wasn't surprised that the footsteps belonged to Ethan; he was the only person who had been in his room in the last week.
“Sir, you have received a letter.”
Vox remained indifferent. Velvette and Val had restricted his access to any electronic device that allowed him to interact with the rest of Hell. They mentioned that they needed to first clean up the mess he had caused with his brilliant plan—ah, so when it was working, they were upset if Vox didn't include them, but when it failed, it was his fault, his plan. How nice. They had also said something about his own safety, and that he should think about what he had done so that he would learn not to repeat it in the future.
A nice touch on their part, as if he hadn't already been watching it on repeat –after all, he only had what he himself had recorded for entertainment at the time– to see when it all went to shit.
Fuck them and fuck him.
The thing was, Vox was sure he had received thousands of emails that he hadn't replied to yet. If someone sent him a physical letter, it was either someone very angry at not receiving a reply or one of the old fossils from that corner of Hell.
“Whatever. Leave it there.”
“Don't you want to... read it, sir?”
“I'll decide what to do with it, Ethan, just leave me alone. Aren't my partners keeping you entertained while I don't have any tasks for you? I was counting on them to take care of you.”
“And they are, sir. It's just... This didn't come through the usual system, and I thought maybe... It seems to be from the Radio Demon, sir.”
At that name, Vox raised his head slightly, his eyes opening to fill most of his screen, but his system froze for a few moments as it finished processing the information. When he felt able to move his limbs again, he took a deep breath and let the screen fall back into his hand.
“Okay. Leave it there like I said.”
Ethan did not insist further and he heard him leave with hurried steps.
And although part of him was dying to pick up the envelope and see what it was, the fresh memory of what had happened not so long ago stopped him.
Maybe his partners were right. At least a little bit, just a little bit. He couldn't read it. Shouldn't. He ran both hands over his face, his claws making a noise as they hit the glass of the screen, and sighed.
What a mess.