Why yes, I'll take your soul

Alastor was in his tower. The last notes of his broadcast faded into static, the ON AIR light flickering out with a soft click. It was important to project strength, especially now, when he was at his weakest.

It had drained him more than he cared to admit. His shoulders sagged the moment the red light died, the forced grin slipping into something thinner, tighter. For a few long seconds he stayed in his chair, fingers drumming on the armrest as he waited for the room to stop gently tilting.

He briefly considered checking on the shark... Surf. Ugh. He refused to call him that. It was ridiculous. A shark demon called Surf. Lazy, unimaginative, and frankly, offensive.

Still, the thought lingered for a moment, but exhaustion was heavier than the obligation. With a soft click of his tongue, he pushed himself to his feet anyway. 

Composing himself, he pasted on his least inviting smile, set his deepest scowl above it, and marched off toward his room. He attracted some attention, but no one dared to stop him.

Alastor still felt like shit, even after a night’s rest, but he soldiered on. There was work to do, and he’d be damned thrice more before he let a little thing like creeping angelic rot interfere with his schedule. 

The warehouse was as grimy and forsaken as ever.  The shark was still exactly where he’d left him. Slumped in the same rusty chair, unconscious, head lolling forward, tongue half out of his mouth. His skin had gone papery and tight over his cheeks, his eyes were sunken and shadowed.

If Alastor felt like shit, the shark looked it.

Being chained to a chair was not, apparently, conducive to a good night’s rest. Nor, of course, was having a near-fatal chest wound, as Alastor himself could attest to.

“Good morning chum!” Alastor sang brightly, startling the thug awake.

“Let’s take a peek under those bandages,” Alastor continued, already reaching forward, “and then you can enjoy some of my dear mother’s famous jambalaya.”

He smiled wide, all teeth and cheer. The shark whimpered.

Alastor peeled away the bandages with slow, deliberate fingers. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he inspected the angry, puckered flesh beneath.

“So! Any changes? Anything noteworthy?”

The shark groaned. “Uh… no. Well… I guess it doesn’t really burn anymore. Just that dull, throbbing ache. Y’know, what you'd expect after getting stabbed.”

Alastor’s smile didn’t waver, though something behind his eyes cooled. That tracked. His own wound had eased before it worsened.

“As expected,” he hummed non-committally.

No golden threading. No unnatural swelling. Just an angry gash, healing slowly.

Considering the nature of the weapon that inflicted it, that’s not surprising.

"Alright now, no funny business!" Alastor said darkly as he undid the chains around the shark’s arms.

The demon rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms experimentally, before winching and letting out a short hiss.

Without comment, Alastor produced a bowl of jambalaya and pressed it into his hands. The shark eyed it warily, nostrils flaring despite himself.

“This isn’t… people, right?”

Alastor chuckled. “No, no,” Alastor said lightly, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. He was mildly impressed the brute even knew of his proclivities.

The shark hesitated only a moment longer before taking a tentative bite. He froze, processing, then practically inhaled the next spoonful. In an instant, restraint vanished. He dug in with feral intensity, shoveling the food into his mouth like a man who’d just remembered he was starved.

The bowl was empty in under a minute.

“That was fuckin’ amazin’,” he half-moaned, licking the spoon. “That might be the best fuckin’ food I’ve ever had.”

He may be a dullard, but he’s got good taste in food at least. Alastor served him another bowl.

The shark eagerly resumed slurping it down, only to pause halfway through and glance up.

“You not havin’ any?”

Alastor smiled thinly, folding his hands behind his back. “I ate before coming here,” he lied smoothly. His own appetite had been fickle lately, but that was hardly the thug’s concern.

"Ok. Cool," the shark said, rapidly polishing off the bowl.

Alastor wordlessly offered a third helping.

“This is so damn good,” the shark mumbled around a mouthful, barely pausing long enough to get the words out before shoveling in the next bite. Rice stuck to his chin. A bit of sausage almost fell back into the bowl, rescued instantly by his tongue.

About halfway through, he paused, resting the bowl on his lap.

"Hey, uh… you're not, like… fattening me up for later, are you?"

Alastor gave a low chuckle, genuinely amused. “Hah! No,” he said, flashing a toothy, predatory grin. “I am a hunter. I do not sit and converse with my prey.”

The shark nervously swallowed.

“Good,” he muttered, quieter now, and resumed eating with a bit more restraint.

He finished two more bowls before he was finally satiated. It's a good thing Alastor brought the whole pot.

“Now, chum,” Alastor said as he stood, brushing off his trousers, “I’m afraid I’ll have to bind your hands again before I leave.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” the shark muttered, already obediently turning in the chair and offering his wrists behind his back. “Can’t have me escapin’ while you’re gone.”

“Precisely,” Alastor replied with a pleasant smile as the chains clinked back into place.. “I knew you were a sharp one.”

The shark opened his mouth like he was about to say something, then thought better of it. His jaw worked soundlessly for a few seconds, teeth worrying at his lower lip as whatever half-formed idea he had gnawed at him instead.

Alastor had just turned toward the door when the voice came again. Tentative, but audible.

“Hey, uh… could you bring somethin’ to pass the time next time you show up?”

Alastor paused mid-step. A request? Bold. How quaint.

But… Why the hell not? The shark had been remarkably cooperative. That deserved a little encouragement. Even lab rats got sugar cubes.

Alastor let his smile stretch a touch wider. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Breakfast is a tiring affair. Most things are these days. Alastor wouldn’t have even shown up except his deal apparently compels him to occasionally attend.

Frustrating thing, that.

He regarded his plate with mild disdain. Pancakes. He’d never understood the appeal. To him, they were little more than a delivery mechanism for syrup, jam, and other saccharine atrocities he had no interest in ingesting first thing in the morning. Fortunately, Charlie had insisted Lucifer prepare his with peanut butter instead. It was… palatable.

He ate in relative silence, doing his best to ignore the pointed stare drilling into the side of his face. Vaggie had been watching him for a while now, and it was beginning to wear on his patience.

She finally spoke.

“You’ve been awfully quiet this morning,” Vaggie said, voice edged and pointed. “Lose your voice, or just your ego?”

“You go, girl!” Lucifer whooped, grinning as he leaned back in his chair.

Alastor’s grip on his fork tightened. He clenched his teeth, bending the utensil slightly in his fist. It took effort to suppress the reflexive spike of irritation and to not simply drive the utensil through someone's eye. More effort than he’d like to admit. After a pause to compose himself, he offered a breezy wave of his hand, forcing his voice into something light.

“Oh, you know… if you don’t have anything nice to say,” he replied lightly, though the words buzzed with static.

Charlie raised a hand gently, ever the peacemaker. “Okay, everyone, let’s calm down,” she said, giving Vaggie and Lucifer a pointed little smile before turning back to him. Her tone softened. “But seriously, Al… are you still feeling under the weather?”

She reached toward him on instinct, fingers hovering in the air like they meant to land on his sleeve. At the last second, she seemed to think better of it and let her hand settle on the table instead, close to his arm but not quite touching.

He stared at it.

She pities him? She’s worried for him?

Outrageous!

He was no wayward lamb in need of coddling.

"I have ǹ̵͖̖ë̷͙̣̇v̷͙̂̇ē̴͉̈́̑r̵̃ͅ been under the weather, thank you!" he said sharply. Too sharply.

Alastor was sorely tempted to storm off right then and there. But that would be admitting weakness.

Instead, he forced his shoulders to relax, smoothed his expression back into something bright and empty, and calmly returned his attention to his plate.

Charlie frowned, her concern flickering but unspoken. She didn’t press further.

Vaggie leaned toward her and muttered under her breath, “Told you.”

Alastor didn’t think they meant for him to hear that.

Unfortunately for them, he had exceptional ears.

He drained the last of his coffee like it was cheap booze.

The rest of breakfast passed in brittle silence. Not even Lucifer, socially inept fool that he is, dared to break it.

Once the meal ended, Alastor slipped into the kitchen to whip something up quickly. Then he stopped by his room and his radio tower to collect a few things.

Without another word to anyone, he headed for the door, steps echoing down the hall.

It was time to check on the shark.

Alastor returned to the abandoned warehouse with the easy confidence of a man who owned it. Inside, the shark was awake, and to Alastor’s mild surprise, seemed almost… pleased to see him. His posture straightened as Alastor stepped in, dull eyes brightening by a fraction.

He tilted his head, examining the expression like a rare insect. Could it be genuine? Intriguing. He believed the term for this sort of behavior was Stockholm syndrome. 

Delightful.

He smiled cheerily. “Good morning, chum,” Alastor sang as he dragged a rust-streaked oil barrel across the floor to serve as a makeshift table. He gave it a quick wipe with a handkerchief and began pulling out containers one by one, setting the scene with almost comical precision: tupperware boxes filled with Eggs Sardou, a short stack of French toast, and, because hydration was important, a bottle of water.

The shark blinked at the meal, then glanced up at Alastor, hesitant. “Uh, look, this smells real good, no lie…”

Alastor’s smile stiffened.

The shark noticed and cleared his throat nervously, continuing, “I just, uh…” His gaze dropped to the floor, then flicked toward the far wall. “I kinda need to shit. And piss. Been two days, man.”

‘Ah. That.’

Alastor clicked his tongue, feigning deep thought. Truth be told, he had forgotten. In his defense, he wasn’t in the habit of taking prisoners. The rare times he did, there were others to deal with such vulgar logistics.

“That’s fair,” he conceded at last, standing with a rustle of his coat. He let his gaze sweep the warehouse, eyes skimming over broken crates, collapsed rafters, and corners choked with debris.

A minute or two of idle prowling brought him to a cramped, stained bathroom tucked behind a half-collapsed hallway. The tile was cracked, the mirror spiderwebbed, and something unpleasant was growing in the sink, but after a brief investigation, he deemed it secure enough.

He returned to the shark and began unfastening the chains, “I will escort you to the restroom,” he said. “You may relieve yourself. If you run, you die. Understood?”

The shark nodded immediately. “Thanks.”

Alastor gave a shallow nod in return, lips curled faintly.

The demon shuffled into the decrepit bathroom without complaint. Alastor lingered by the door, whistling an old showtune and idly fiddling with a small portable radio he brought. After a moment of static, it clicked onto his personal broadcast, currently playing smooth jazz. It made the place feel almost civilized. Almost.

The shark finished his business soon enough and shuffled back out, looking marginally lighter in spirit if not in frame. Alastor escorted him back to the chair and secured him again. This time only chaining his legs.

“Once you have finished eating, I will inspect the wound.” Alastor said.

The shark nodded and dug in. His appetite was noticeably more controlled than last time, though he still scarfed it down rather quickly.

When the last scrap vanished and the bowl was scraped clean, Alastor clapped his hands once.

“Alright, chum! You know the drill.”

The shark leaned back obediently, bracing himself, jaw tightening as he exposed his bandaged chest. He winced when Alastor’s claws brushed the tender area, but didn’t complain.

Everything was about as expected. The wound was healing nicely, no signs of infection. Alastor didn’t start showing signs until three days after the battle, and it didn’t get bad until two more weeks had passed, so he’s not too worried. Though he doesn’t think he has two more weeks in him. Hopefully the shark progresses faster. He’s going to stop using disinfectant.

“Everything seems to be in order,” Alastor said, redressing the wound.

“Cool. cool, cool, cool.” the shark muttered, exhaling through his nose, shoulders sagging with relief now that the prodding was over.

“Now!” Alastor straightened, his tone brightening. “You expressed interest in some entertainment, and you have been so wonderfully compliant! I brought a radio to fill the silence while I’m not here, but I also brought this!”

With a flourish, he reached into his coat and produced a small portable chess set, and began setting it up.

“Do you know the rules, Chum?” Alastor asks, quirking an eyebrow.

The shark’s eyes light up and a slight grin spreads across his face. “Yeah, I, uh, play a lot.”

Really? Of all the things Alastor might have expected from this particular slab of muscle, a hobby requiring forethought and patience was not one of them. How delightfully unexpected. This just became significantly more interesting.

Alastor wasn’t a chess master, not by any means, but he knew some advanced stratagems, and he was an expert at reading people, at drawing out patterns in behavior.

“Care for a game, then?” he offered, setting the last piece in place.

The shark nodded eagerly, leaning forward as far as his leg chains would allow.

Alastor started off going easy on him, trying to get a feel for him, but quickly had to pivot to giving it his all. The shark was good, shockingly so. Not in a memorized, practiced way. He didn’t rely on standard openings or familiar traps. He played by instinct, fluid and reactive, and adapted with a kind of feral, tactical creativity that caught Alastor off guard more than once. Several times, Alastor felt the prickle of genuine irritation as he was forced to reconsider his approach. He seemed to have a natural intuition for this game.

Alastor won, but it was a hard fought victory. They played a few more games after that, Alastor still came out on top each time, but only just.

With each match, the atmosphere loosened. Eventually Alastor found himself conversing with the shark.

“So,” the shark asked during a lull, “why do you call me Chum?

“Because ‘Surf’ is a ridiculous name and I despise it.” He replied without missing a beat. “‘Chum’ is equally ridiculous, but at least it’s something people actually call one another.”

He huffed a short laugh through his nose. “Yeah, that makes sense. I don’t mind.”

“Good, because I wasn’t planning on stopping.”

Chum gave a little laugh at that.

After a pause, Alastor stood and brushed the dust off his coat. “Well, this has been swell. But I have duties to attend to, so I really must be going.”

“Be seeing you.” Chum said humorously.

Alastor slipped behind Chum, rebinding his arms in chains, and made his way back to the hotel.

Alastor was in a surprisingly good mood. Despite the dull ache gnawing under his ribs, his spirits were high. Not even Charlie waving him down and asking him to fix an electrical problem on the third floor could sour it.

“Of course I’ll help darling. After all, that’s why I’m here.”

Charlie blinked, clearly expecting resistance. The ready agreement threw her for a beat, then she brightened, shoulders easing. “Thanks, Alastor. I knew I could count on you.”

He dipped into a shallow bow, nothing too showy, (deeper ones pulled at his chest far too much) and turned on his heel, heading for the stairs with an almost jaunty stride.

The third-floor hallway greeted him with that particular stale hotel air that never quite left, even after the renovations. It didn’t take long to find the culprit. A single overhead light flickering with an annoying buzz.

‘Probably just a loose bulb, simple enough.’

Alastor glanced around surreptitiously. He couldn’t use his magic. That meant doing things the old-fashioned way. He’d rather no one see.

Satisfied he was alone, he slipped into a nearby vacant room and dragged a chair into the hallway, the legs scraping faintly against the floor. Even with his considerable height, he needed a bit of elevation to reach comfortably. Humiliating, but practical.

He stepped up onto the chair and reached for the casing, unscrewing it with his claws. He pinched the bulb between two fingers and gave it a firm twist, tightening it until it wouldn’t budge.

‘Still flickering. Damn.’

With a frustrated huff, he leaned in closer, bracing one hand on the ceiling for balance as the chair creaked ominously beneath him. He squinted up into the dark housing, poking his head farther inside.

“Aha,” he muttered, spotting the problem. A length of wire near the back, frayed and blackened at the edges, barely holding together.

Almost certainly the cause, and, inconveniently, not something he could fix with a simple twist of the wrist.

Alastor tapped a claw thoughtfully against his chin. The wire was frayed, it would have to be replaced. He could do it himself, of course, but he'd need to cut the power to the floor. 

That would most assuredly raise questions.

Questions he had no interest in answering.

‘Troublesome.’ 

Alastor pondered for some time before an idea popped into his head. A simple solution really.

He descended the stairs to the lounge at a casual pace and leaned on the bar with easy poise, hiding the twinge of searing pain such actions caused.

"Husker, there's a flickering light on the third floor. The wiring is frayed. Be a dear and replace it, won't you?”

“What?!” Husk looked up from the glass he’d been polishing, one eyebrow twitching. “That ain’t my fucking job. You’re the one supposed to take care of that shit.”

"Oh Husker, your job is whatever I say it is. And I am taking care of it, by having you do it. I'd handle it personally, but I'm far too busy.”

“Yeah, real busy,” Husk muttered into his drink. “Barely seen hide nor hair of you all week.”

“Yes, as I said, I’ve been quite busy as of late.” Alastor snapped.

 Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode off toward his radio tower, making it abundantly clear the conversation was closed.

“This is fucking amazing!” Chum moaned around a mouthful of venison steak.

Alastor had arrived not long ago, escorted Chum to the restroom again, and now was in the middle of what almost passed for a civilized dinner. This time, there were two plates laid out on the makeshift table instead of one.

For Chum, a thick-cut venison steak, pan-seared and dripping with rich, peppered juices.For Alastor, venison tartare, topped with worcestershire sauce and minced onions.

Chum, to his credit, had proved to have some sense of propriety. Now that Alastor was eating alongside him, he made an effort to use some manners. A marked improvement over his usual feral scarfing.

“It must be nice, being an Overlord,” Chum said between bites, waving his fork vaguely. “Having a personal chef and all that.”

"I actually do my cooking myself," Alastor said with some small measure of pride. Not that he was trying to impress this nobody.

Chum’s brows rose. “Oh really? You're, like, really good. You could be a professional chef.”

A pause.

“Not that you'd, uh, want to,” he added, scratching his neck and looking away awkwardly.

They finished their meals and cleared the makeshift table before setting up the chessboard again. With each new game, conversation came a little easier.

Somewhere between moves, Chum tilted his head and asked, “So, uh... why are you doing this?”

Alastor didn’t look up.

“You tryin’ to find a defense against angelic steel or somethin’?”

Alastor froze mid-move. His eyes narrowed. Muscles tensed. His grin  thinned, a tense, manic thing.

He couldn’t let him know. Couldn’t afford to.

But... why not? Who would Chum tell? The shark was chained, isolated, far removed from any power or audience. A curious, crude nobody with surprising insight.

Maybe he could confide in him.

Alastor exhaled slowly, letting the tension leak from his shoulders, his expression softening with performative calm. He looked up.

Chum was stiff as a board. Back straight, eyes wide, his entire body locked like a deer caught in headlights. The smell of fear rolled off him.

Amusing.

Rather than answer, Alastor began to unbutton his shirt. His movements were slow, methodical. Once the shirt hung open, Alastor peeled back the bandages wrapped around his chest. The linen pulled tackily at dried blood before coming away, still damp in places.

Beneath, a grotesque sprawl of gold-tinged corruption shimmered like molten filth. The inflamed wound at its core was still oozing, angry and raw.

Chum flinched. “Shit,” he muttered lamely, unable to look away. “No wonder, this is like... super fucking important.”

Alastor hummed softly, almost pleased by the horrified awe and began rewrapping his chest with the same practiced precision as always.

“Quite,”

Chum shifted in his chains, eyes flicking from the half-wrapped bandages back to Alastor’s face. “Is that gonna happen to me?”

“Hopefully. I plan to observe the infection in its infancy,” he said, tightening the final wrap, “to gather some idea of how to treat it.”

Chum swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Oh, don’t look so nervous!” Alastor chided. “It would be terribly counterproductive to let you die.” He scowled, but his tone remained almost cheerful. “You’ve probably got more time than me anyway, and, lucky you, I’m quite motivated to make sure you survive.”

Chum let out a breath, shaky and slow. “Yeah…”

They both sat there, stewing for some time before Chum broke the silence.

“Your move,” he said, gesturing to the board.