Who We Are (And Who We Choose To Be)

In the decades that Alastor had been in Hell, he’d come to expect a certain level of chaos from day to day. It would ebb and flow depending on what sort of malicious activity he was currently up to, and where he was conducting said activity, but still - the chaos was expected.

With the recent Extermination Day over and done with, the turf wars were in full swing, and Alastor relished in the utter discord. 

When he’d first appeared in Hell, he had admittedly gone a bit off the deep end with his takeover, something he would later learn was due to a sort of insatiable bloodlust that all new souls were subject to shortly after manifesting in the firey pit.

Since then, he had learned to curb his violent tendencies, to hone them to a sharpened point until the mere glint of his eye was enough to bring many a demon to their knees.  

At any other time, he would be taking full advantage of the unclaimed territory on the west side, but with his latest little interest, he’d decided to let the others tire themselves out. He’d have no trouble taking the territory for himself once the carnage had died down, if he was still interested.

And speaking of his latest little interest…

The Hazbin Hotel - because, really, he absolutely refused to let Charlie keep the name ‘Happy Hotel’ - had caught his attention the moment the Princess of Hell began her little musical number on the picture show.

It was an absolutely ridiculous idea, for sure. Redemption? He wouldn’t deny that he’d joined in with the crowd as they’d laughed and mocked her for even suggesting such a thing.

Alastor had been alive and dead long enough to know that there was no chance that any of the loathsome sinners in this pit would ever be capable of redeeming themselves. 

But still, something about the project intrigued him.

At first, he had thought it was just his morbid curiosity, like when there was a massacre and bystanders gathered for just a glimpse of the slaughter. Then it was the prospect of seeing these damned souls actually try to better themselves. Just imagining it made his grin widen until it threatened to split his face. 

After he’d approached the hotel though, and offered his services as a business partner and investor, Alastor came to the conclusion that he was, in fact, fascinated by the hotel’s founder. 

Charlotte Mange was an odd one.

If it weren’t for the overwhelming evidence in the form of photos, eye-witness accounts, and public appearances, Alastor wouldn’t believe that she was the daughter of the Devil himself. He saw the family resemblance, especially in the family portrait that hung in the main entryway of the hotel, but that was where the similarities ended. 

Where Lucifer was cruel, Charlie was compassionate.

Where Lucifer was selfish, Charlie was generous.

Where Lucifer was merciless, Charlie was forgiving.

For a soulless hellborn, she truly was one of the kindest souls Alastor had ever encountered, and that included the time he’d lived in the mortal realm. Such kindness was rare, especially in the bowels of the Bayou, where even the tiniest sliver of compassion was crushed underfoot.