A Broken Record On Repeat In A Crowded Bar

You Are My Delightful Intruder

"—And over here we have the entrance hall! I really love the new stained glass—card suits, see? Husk suggested it. The hearts are my favourite, but I think you'd probably like the spades... or maybe you'd hate all of it; it's my dad's work, after all..."

Hazbin Hotel—second of its kind, alter of redemption, centre of self-improvement, and birthplace of second chances—positively glistened under the Pentagram's blood bright, noonday light. It was a glorious, crimson peacock of a building, with stained glass plumage and gilded eyes of cut crystal that stared proudly out over the Pentagram as though it were an Overlord in its own right. It looked too good a building to belong to Hell and yet, as it rose from the grim maroon of the heat-cracked, blood-soaked, eyeball-studded earth, it was impossible to imagine it anywhere else.

At long last, the labour of rebuilding was complete, and Charlie was giving her very first tour of the premises to an old tapped-together cathedral radio cradled in her arms.

A very silent radio, all things considered. It had been quite some time since she'd been confronted by one that was completely quiet—six months and three weeks, to be precise. They were Alastor's allies. They sang to him, hissing static secrets in languages only he could understand, never fully silent even when he'd left their immediate vicinity; everyone at the hotel had grown accustomed to the constant susurration of the airwaves, that low, droning hum. It was almost comforting, almost comfortable, a low murmuring reminder that the Radio Demon, their most dangerous ally, was nearby and active. The lack of it was like a stopped clock, an empty house.

Silence was anathema and yet it was everywhere; her voice wasn't enough to fill it. Eventually, inevitably, she had to draw breath and, in those seconds, quiet converged, gaining ground in increments until that fateful moment when she realised she had come all the way around to the front of the building where she had started and had nothing left to say. Charlie stared at the radio and, without eyes, it couldn't stare back but it did something similar and she felt lonelier for it.

"Come on, Al," she whispered, dropping her voice to something cajoling. "It's not the same without you here. We built you a new radio tower, all ready to go for when you want to get your show back on air. We've rebuilt the whole hotel from the ground up—even that stupidly unlucky wall! The hard part is over... you can come home now. I know you've got your whole 'mysterious and untouchable' act to keep up but... we miss you. I miss your dumb jokes, and dancing, and advice that's sometimes kinda good if you ignore the violent parts."

"You still talking to shadows Charlie?"

There was no way to know how long Husk had been stood there watching; he hadn't been on the steps when she had first rounded the building, she was certain of that. Or maybe he had been and she simply hadn't noticed. Regardless, he was there now, slumped against the front column in a way which belied the attentiveness in his sullen face. Wine-dulled eyes the colour of burned oranges followed her, and there was too much distance, close to wariness, in that gaze for it to be neutral. Feeling caught and a little ridiculous, Charlie laughed like she had been told a joke, a stilted series of ha!'s' she had to stretch her smile around.

"You said he'd still be tuned into his wavelength, right?" She asked, her own weak humour frangible in her ears. "If he can use these to chatter away at us whenever he likes then maybe it can go both ways." In her arms the radio seemed to grow heavier, somehow more inanimate. "I'm pretending he's out there listening to me."

Husk raised a feathered eyebrow and said nothing. The radio, it's insides disarrayed, it's casing cracked and stained, said nothing; it's weight was that of a dead thing and suddenly she didn't want to be holding it.