The months passed in a blur as Sans began to fix up the room. He didn't necessarily throw himself into the work, and there were days where he completely skipped out on progress in favor of visiting his friends or taking a break. But it wasn't too uncommon for Sans to find himself hunkered away in the big room, bent awkwardly underneath a desk as he prodded and tugged on random wires or screws.

The first thing Sans did was dismantle the audio processing machines in the back of the room for parts. A few pieces sold for good money, and the rest he either had to pitch or repurpose for the main desk. A bunch of shattered bulbs left broken glass in the bottom of the displays, pieces that Sans had to sweep up and toss out with care. After that, Sans tucked himself into a crawlspace, knees padded with washcloths, while he tended to the issue of wiring that would inevitably result in a house fire. Once he drew away and patted his knees, that was that. And his focus shifted from the environment of the old, dusty room onto the decrepit masterpiece itself.

It was nothing new for Sans to have to fix something old or busted. Heavens knew Gaster, the old Royal Scientist with a new hyperfixation every week, would always come bumbling into work with a chatter of an idea and a box of scraps to boot. Machines tossed into the dump from the surface often came with that. Sans couldn't count how many times he'd been sitting there, minding his own business, before some metal hunk clattered onto his desk with Gaster rambling on and on about how fascinating this discovered machine was. While the tech was often new instead of near rotten, Sans always had less to work with down there. Materials were sacred Underground; you didn't waste them on a whim. Especially with a hardass like Gaster overlooking you, who would pinch pennies whenever necessary.

Like guardrails around a core reactor, for example.

It was almost nostalgic to take a crack at fixing up an old radio station. Reminded him of his old intern days, when he figured out how to make things tick and felt a thrill at figuring things out. Just like when he was sat down in his old Snowdin basement, surrounded by diagrams as he tried to build that one machine that would never come to fruition. Sure, equations and calculations came easily without physical exertion and made him money, but there was always that little thrill of figuring things out. Knowing Comic Sans had done something.

His sleep schedule became one that less followed the light and darkness of the day and instead became one that happened when it happened. Sometimes Sans found himself balancing a ramen bowl on his lap while watching the stars from the radio broadcast room, his feet tucked up while he slurped on overcooked noodles. The stench of wiring and grime-encrusted materials mixed together with the distant lingering static that crawled around his inner skull, a pest of his life.

The process of fixing the ancient machinery led to an entire disembowelment of it, where Sans had to undo over half of the interior and yank out old, rigid wires that would probably explode or shrivel up if he ever tried to use them. The metal stunk of age, and there was so much dust inside of it that Sans sneezed for a few minutes straight. His eye sockets watered as he rolled out from under the desk in a desperate flee. Kind of funny, looking back at it, but at the time he got a faceful of dust and wasn't having it.

Too many bad memories, he supposed.

Sometimes Sans drove down to meet up with Paps and Grillby to have dinner parties or to go out and enjoy the upcoming summer festivities. Usually he picked up extra parts or books during that time, since delivery to his house was a bit of a bitch because he always had to give detailed instructions. Sans had tried to persist with his laziness, but after the fourth package was lost to space and time, he bit the bullet and rumbled down in his car to the local stores for supplies. If he had to order online, Sans settled for his brother's address. A fancy excuse to travel down again and see his favorite little bro.

Summer came with blistering heat and waves of bugs that swept across the fields. That was when Sans started noticing his house, the quirky little thing, had decided it simply wouldn't be afflicted with such issues. When Maurie's harvest of fly traps was delivered in bulk, Sans' didn't have a single catch. He had felt bad about it, considering Maurie had gone to such lengths to make sure Sans' adjustment was comfortable. A perfect welcome gift for him, one that had eased his nerves around a human enough to fancy a conversation here and there with her.

All Sans could do was shrug and sneak them back onto Maurie's porch to help her own insect problem. Whatever caused their avoidance of Sans' home wasn't his concern. Sans didn't get paid enough to care—that was quite literally the reason he chose such a location. The convenience and money.

Loneliness, though, eventually crept up on Sans.

Calls and texts still happened, of course, but his friends were busy. Papyrus and Grillby both ran a diner that'd become very popular, with homemade food that cheaped out on not one ingredient. Undyne still was Head of the Royal Guard, and Alphys continued her pursuits of science until the royal family's dime. Toriel busied herself with Frisk and the occasional phone call to Sans regarding whoever pissed her off that week. Sans' door visits with puns hadn't prepared him for constant access to Toriel's short patience, but he made do with it.

And, of course, there was Asgore. Leader of the entire kingdom. Other friendships weren't exactly friendships. The dogs at the bar were acquaintances, the kind he busied himself with on lonely nights.

It wasn't terribly lonely. Sans didn't mind the solitude in small doses. But when days passed by, and the only phone chime of his phone was his brother saying a daily goodnight, Sans knew he was a bit too deep into it. Yet he couldn't find the will to climb outside and make a new, genuine friend with a human. There was a difference between pleasant greetings with them and...

Sans just couldn't. So he settled for cracking down on that broadcast machine.

Finally, when crickets sung and the sky was tinting to a hue of pink and orange, Sans finished it. After redoing all of the faulty wiring, reorganizing a few parts, and cleaning it out, Sans had a functional radio broadcast machine. It sat, pristine and polished, as Sans sagged back into the swivel chair he bought for himself. Can of soda in hand. The fixed machine bore back, if it could even stare.

Sans, of course, swiveled in his chair, because having a chair that can and proceeding not to do that was the factually incorrect choice. There was a burn of satisfaction at getting that task done, a sweet little tang to his soul knowing Sans managed to do this. This old, vintage radio broadcast system from the 1930s was up and running. Because of him. There's no harm if Sans felt a bit proud of himself, right?

Sure, he worked a quantum physicist job on the side, a monotonous job where he just wrote or checked equations. Simple, tedious quotas he filled for a weekly paycheck. And all life has been sucked from his jokes when he's selling them off to stand-up comedians too boring to write their own material. This, though? This was all him. This Sans did with... not really blood, sweat, or tears. More so fumbled curses at three AM or the occasional headache from staring at an old guidebook he managed to snag for too long.

Sans leaned forward, his bare fingers brushing across the start button, before he flicked it on. The machine hummed to life, a bright red text display of LIVE printed out onto the small monitor to his left, along with a few flashing red lights. Sans knew he wasn't live anywhere, not after he disconnected all of the outgoing wires and no current radio system was even compatible with the hunk of metal. He'd be talking to nothing but a brick wall by using this thing.

But talking to a disconnected radio system was better than knocking on an old door that led to the ruins and making silly little puns that had a secret little listener. Sans could remember how he had played it off, all cool and slick as if his face hadn't been soured red by humiliation.

"Heh, maybe I should become a radio host. Real good at fine-tuning this sort of machine. Real music to my ears. A sound investment I've made. But I shouldn't get e-static about this and stero-type, right?"

Sans spent that night tucked against the chair with a warm plate of Maurie's homemade cookies and the headset around his skull, making as many puns as he could. A comfortable silence met Sans, knowing no one else was listening so he could just spill to his heart's content. Sans practiced his best and his worst. He went until his voice got croaky and the plate became nothing but crumbs. A bristling static and unease crept up his back, one he willfully ignored in favor of pretending people were actually listening.

Somewhere, in the depths of a red-soaked hell landscape, a single light pinged in a radio tower.

The radio room, in a way, became an escape for Sans.

There's something oddly comforting about being able to sit down in a room full of windows and stare up at the sky that's eluded him for years as he spat out his stupid puns and stupider jokes. Sans would test his material with the microphone pressed against his teeth and then would spin in his chair until the world around him blurred.

A week and a half after Sans fixed the once decrepit and abandoned room into something cool, he was busy using the radio once again. An unwilling audience to him as he tested a new pun-filled book he found in some crooked bookstore a walk down from Maurie's house. The book in question was settled down upon his lap, his legs extending to press against the desk as he lightly pushed himself clockwise and counterclockwise. As if he was orbiting the pun-filled pages themselves.

"A crazy wife says to her husband that moose are falling from the sky. The husband says, It's reindeer..." A small uptick next to that one. He'll save it for the holiday season, probably. "What did one plant say to the other? 'Girl, you really got me growing...' fuck no." He scribbled that one out, making a face at it. Not even the good bad, where it's so shitty it loops right back around to being funny.

"Noodles that are... heh, impasta. Need to save that for when Frisk forces me to play that little bean game again." Sans tapped the edge of his bright blue ballpoint pen against his cheekbone as he continued onto the next page. "I had a taser once. It was stunning... eh. That one is just alright."

When Sans moved to scribble that one off, a sudden light blinked to Sans' right. A horrid, wretched, painful static suddenly blared in his headphones while every part of the console lit to life. And a sudden, chipper voice picked up.

"What do you mean just alright? That one was hilarious!" A loud, pompous voice declared through the headset.

Sans didn't shriek, but he did echo a strangled exhale as his legs jolted out from the sudden activity. A grand, pitiful display followed as Sans crashed sideways into a cluster of odd, tilted limbs and tangled feet. The panic lasted for a moment, as the next came to be replaced by absolute, soul-sucking confusion.

What the fuck?

What the fuck?

Sans sat up on the floor, glaring towards the dangling headset and the microphone. He ignored the ache of his left side in favor of crawling upwards, feet steady as he tugged up the spinning chair to be vertical once more.

Had someone been listening? How long? How fucking long? Sans knew for a fact this place isn't connected to any outgoing signals; he personally cut it off himself. And even if he did fix all of the other machines he had tossed out, there was no place anywhere in the world that would be compatible with the outgoing signals, much less even connected to them.

Sans gingerly reclaimed his seat and snapped back on the headset again. Because that clearly was just a stupid accident where he just hallucinated the voice. Because surely there wasn't someone else on the other side.

"Heavens, it sounded like you took quite the tumble!" The man on the other side eagerly said, and Sans could hear the grin in his voice.

Sans leaned forward with a sharp, unnerving tingle of static up his spine, staring down at the panel before him. There's no way. How the fuck was he talking to someone with this thing?

The guy's voice held high with static and radio-y... if that was even a word. An accent carried through, barely legible over the overwhelming technology grinding away against his inner skull. As if a million tiny workers with equally tiny knives crawled up within his skull and started stabbing every surface of bone they could reach. It was positively nauseating.

Sans did what he should have done the first time he had an unwelcome listener. He turned off the radio station and fucking booked it.

There's a crackling of laughter behind him. One that seemed to escape the confines of the headphones and wrapped around him, as if whispering for him to come back, taunting him with a come here, come here, come here that lingered for the rest of the day.

Sans tried to chalk it up to some mistake in his wiring or an accidental radio wave he somehow managed to get connected to, but all of those options felt like sour excuses that didn't sit right with him. Especially since the weird static feeling that used to be fleeting now hung heavy in the air, almost suffocating in the house. He wasn't sure what caused someone to be able to hear him; he wasn't even sure if that hearing was even natural or not. Logic gave way to embarrassment, though, so Sans finally heeded the advice of the other visitors and pretended the room had the plague.

Then the jazz music started playing at the ripe time of 3:06 AM.

Sans, of course, was dead asleep in his room when he was suddenly woken by loud, blaring music from the room over. Radio-tinted jazz music swept through the hall and threatened to rattle his walls. Sans was up in an instant, sitting with a grumble and a cut-off swear. The music seemed to almost sway around him like a dance floor, rattling the boards and windowpanes alike.

All suspicions of it being some weird group of rowdy teenagers were tossed out the window, of course, when the fucking lyrics came on. "I've got my eyes on you." Some woman was singing it, low and sensual, and he wanted to burn everything.

Because Sans knew exactly who was playing it.

Sure enough, when he slammed open the door to the radio broadcasting room with a heavy glare, the music immediately went dry. Sans settled for acknowledging that yes, haunting was real, and yes, Sans' ass was very, very incorrect about such notions.

The panel of lights and switches was bright with power despite the fact Sans very clearly remembered shutting it off. Sans stole a moment to peek at the outlets, all empty with strewn plugs lying amok. Nothing was plugged in.

And yet, his seat was drawn close with the headset neatly settled upon the plush cushion. Wide open, inviting the only local to take his throne.

A hot, burning crawled up Sans' spine, with a tension that clung to his shoulders and drew them into a hunch. Fuck him. Fuck that guy. Fuck whoever did this so damn early in the morning.

A static of radio coiled up in the air, sounding much too similar to a giggle to make Sans feel anything other than a tick of annoyance. Sans wasn't typically a man who hated so deeply, much less so easily, yet the voice over the radio had decided to become a first.

He threw on the headset and plopped down into the chair with a huff. "Yer called?" He asked.

A brief moment is all Sans got to feel like he'd gone crazy. A brief moment in time where silence greeted him, where he had a chance to teleport out.

Then the moment passed when the same voice from earlier cackled through the electronic connection.

"Why, I did! I waited all day for you to shake a leg and hop on. Yet, not a single peep from you! Which is such a shame, because I didn't even have a chance to thank you for fixing my old radio broadcast station!" The man on the other side babbled, as if trying to squeeze in every word in case Sans took off once more. "I must say, you do an excellent job! Quite a feeling indeed, to feel this lovely baby running once more. Why, I feel like I'm back in my thirties in that very office!"

A sharp, dousing confusion swept over Sans like a bucket of ice water.

"Your radio?" Sans asked.

"Yes! I sat in that very spot you're in when I was a young man! Ah, memories. I can nearly remember talking about the great stock market crash itself!"

Sans blinked. The burning rage he felt moments ago from being woken up by some stupid jazz song shimmered away into something else. He slinked back into his chair ever so slightly, giving a bewildered look toward the station.

"You woke me up, at two in the morning, to talk about a stock market crash...?" Sans grumbled and swept a hand down across his face. "If you're going to somehow haunt my shit, at least choose a better topic."

The other man only offered a soft snort. "What are you talking about? Why, that's one of the funniest topics there is! And I hadn't meant to be rude; beauty sleep is very important to those of your attitude-"

"Hey."

"- but bountiful conversation is also of the utmost importance! And you are the one who rudely claimed my items as yours."

"Your items? No, they're not. They're mine. I bought 'em. Came with this place. Not to mention, these things are fucking ages old. I know yer not a ghost, but you're somehow in my electronics. Get out. Shoo."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that. You see, my radio equipment is tied to my soul itself. Not even death could separate us."

Sans stared blankly. "So, like, from the afterlife or something?"

"Bingo! Precisely! Oh, I love it when people prove me wrong. Good job!"

A heavy annoyance weighed in his chest, as heavy as a dumbbell, as Sans sunk lower into his chair. His fingers wriggled up to the curve of his nose socket and pinched. "Clearly you're not from heaven, if that exists, so you're from hell then? You expect me to just believe that shit without any proof? That I somehow managed to repair a radio station that broadcasts down to hell?"

"Just to me, I'm afraid you aren't that special." The voice tsked, bored already.

"Oh, that's worse. Are there any other demons I can talk to? I dunno, I'll take like, what, Lucifer over you? Is that the big guy?"

The voice cackled. "Why, that is indeed! Though I'm sorry to say you can only use this to communicate with me and me alone. We're quite stuck together..."

Sans made a point of gritting his teeth as he crossed his arms, like a child on the verge of throwing a tantrum. If this were a demon, since Sans' religious boner was pretty lacking, he knew it would probably be a pain in the ass to get rid of. Fantastic.

"Dear, where are my manners? I should introduce myself first! I'm Alastor—the radio demon, if that would help at all."

"Pretty sure those are in the dumpster since yer woke me up. Jackass."

"Why, I didn't realize how pissy you would become over a harmless song! It's quite rude to interrupt someone's work for hours with such jokes and ignore the funniest one yet! And yet, when I responded, you fled. Quite bothersome, I do say. It's been a while since I've heard a lick of a split about the living world, and you won't even offer a pretty penny about it? Wow. I'm deeply hurt."

His eye lights traveled past the blinking red lights, toward the wires, and looped back up against the shine of the metal plating. In search of any singular reason as to why he, specifically, was suffering with a pain-in-the-ass demon. Alas, none came. The voice just decided to exist, apparently, and make itself his problem. Sans was cranky, quite frankly. Woken up with loud music by some entity that decided that yes, Sans was the perfect victim to haunt. Apparently. With stupid witty remarks and a constant smirk that carried through voice alone. Sans wanted to crawl through the headset and wrangle the man who had ruined his perfectly good sleep.

The narcissistic ass of a haunting demon giggled to itself, and Sans felt a squirming discomfort.

"Oh, dear, it seems I've lost your attention. Do I need to make a little example?"

And before Sans could even unhinge his jaw to speak, a horrible screeching static consumed the air. One that clatters his bones and makes him collapse back against the floor in violent, sharp bursts. A sudden smack slammed against the glass, nearly deafening over the horrifying white noises consuming the room, and bloody handprints dragged down the outside of the glass on the second-story floor.

Sans stared. A horrible, vile taste filled his mouth. And without breathing, he teleported away. Because fuck that.

Alastor couldn't keep down his grin. He never quite could, not when there's always a reason to smile, but it was the type of grin so honest and true that everyone could tell. Alastor was in a very good mood. He got a swinging cane, a pleasant hum stuck in his throat, and he even decided to spare throwing Angle Dust out of the window when the spider demon dared to try and flirt with him again.

How long had it been since he'd felt a connection to the mortal world? Ages. Decades.

For sinners like himself, leaving hell was tricky. The only way to secure an access point to the mortal realm was an intense connection you had during your lifetime, and one can't be expected to plan what exactly their souls became bound to, could they? And for those rarities who did have connections, a good connection was more bothersome to luck out on. Some had it on their pets' collars, already buried or left in a box to rot. Others had it to their wedding rings, tucked away into their coffin and stapled to their corpse. Having anything you were connected to be buried with your corpse was a fate worse than having none at all—after all, you were forcibly shoved into the front row seat of your own body decaying.

That was precisely why having Husk—the little hissy cat—in his corner was such a steal. It was why Alastor aimed to claim the gambling addict instead of maim. Why, his spiritual connection was a simple deck of playing cards in Las Vegas. It was almost sad how many demons failed to see how valuable that sort of connection is. For over seven years, that deck was used in high-risk gambles. And Husk, the clever little thing, could switch the cards around. Make luck, a fickle idea, become a guarantee. The deck had long since been retired due to a few too many tears and rips, but Husk had become useful in other ways. And those seven years delivered enough profit to Alastor. Gambling was something that could kill a man if done right. And Alastor knew just how to do so. Giving such harrowing defeats to living mortals that plunged them straight to hell into his waiting arms, ready for a deal to help them when he already knew their woes? Why, that was something invaluable.

Alastor himself had three. Three whole connections. Not rare for a demon of his strength. All overlords had at least one. Though, sadly, his connections served no purpose. One was his locket of his mother that was buried with his body. The second, his own personal radio, had burned in a house fire while he was busy becoming an Overlord.

The third, though, remained. The very station he used to broadcast at.

Unfortunately for Alastor, the spread of news of his late-night activities on Earth led to the entire building being shut down and abandoned. No one wanted to buy the station where a mixed man with sullied hands worked. By the time Alastor had his bearings on the underworld, the station had been left to rot, forgotten in the middle of nowhere. And as time passed, so did his connection, chipping away until nothing but a distant, frail string remained. Alastor didn't really mind, not when hell was so entertaining.

Then, as Charlie continued on her little silly attempt to redeem the unredeemable, he felt a little tug. Someone was in the building again. Near his radio station.

Alastar, at first, simply sat back with an amused, distant presence. He can't watch or feel much of what was happening, not when the machine was so old it was practically a lost cause. People these days had no interest in the classic medium, and his mere connection to it was enough to leave an unsettling presence that scared most away.

Then, someone fixed it. And turned it on. Never in his life has Alastor been so caught off guard. A few hours of listening informed him that this man, the young mortal with a deep voice and lazy disposition for speech, had converted the radio station to a home. And then proceeded to fix up Alastor's old broadcast system, making his connection to the mortal realm flare to life.

While Alastor couldn't peer through the machine, he could feel and hear through it. In the same way one could feel and hear through a blanket on their body. The feelings were distant and disconnected, in a way. When Alastor decided to talk for both of their interactions, he let his connection seep into the microphone in his own radio tower while he spoke. Felt more natural.

Sadly, it seemed that his mortal of an unknown name wasn't too keen on sticking around after he gave a little proof to the likely doubting man. It had been about a day since Alastor gave the man a silly fright, and he'd been scared off. How tragic. Charlie's hotel was disappointingly lacking in entertainment recently, and the new pal served as a perfect source of fun.

Alastor swung by the cannibal colony that afternoon. Fancied a meal that resulted in a raw chunk of venison, one that complemented a humming tune perfectly. The iron-tinted blood coated his tongue—tangy and delicious—when there was a sudden, wet, sweeping feeling of slime and goop spreading across his precious radio station.

While Alastor couldn't exactly see it, he knew the young man from last night was standing above his console, with an empty bucket, watching the slime spread. No doubt a smile crackled across that daring, soon-to-be-corpse's face. His chest sullied with goo, and his mind went white with annoyance.

Oh, Alastor hadn't been quite that angry since that snake ripped off a precious little piece of his tailored coat. It's the same simmering anger that made his right eyelid twitch ever so slightly. He was tempted to jump up and sprint across hell to give this mortal a round two of his little show but refrained. While he was the radio demon, Alastor was also a gentleman. Instead, Alastor dabbed at his mouth with a napkin before setting it down onto his plate.

"Rosie, my dear, I'm afraid I cannot finish my meal. Something time-sensitive has come to my attention," Alastor explained as he moved to stand. His claws brushed against the table and then against his chair.

Rosie, from across the cafe, gave a sharp smile. "Have fun. Did you like the new food?"

"I did! Quite splendid, as always. You sure do know how to treat your guests to a fine meal."

The woman, tall and thin, blushed from the compliment and waved a hand at him. "Oh, you and sweet words. Go on, I'll clean up after you. Have a pleasant day, Alastor."

Alastor was in his radio tower in less than three seconds, stalking toward his seat with agitated shoulders. What an interesting reaction he managed to squeeze out of the mortal that called his old workplace a home. Alastor anticipated the usual circles of salt that never work, destruction of his last physical connection, or moving out entirely. The typical responses others had documented.

Instead, his person's response to his mischievous acts was to do so right back. How interesting.

How fun.

So Alastor booted up the connection once more—not that he could necessarily turn it off. He had discovered that his own necklace to keep his mama close to him had rotted away with his unmarked corpse. Alastor had been freed from such a fate after nineteen years, after the metal in the decoration decided to give way for a more muted connection. There was a difference between existing with one's hand and actively focusing on it.

Alastor had propped himself up, prim and ready. He had squared his shoulders back and expected to howl and jostle at the poor, unsuspecting fool of a mortal and treat him the same as all the others.

Alastor hasn't gotten to do that, though. Not in the slightest.

"Alastor Augustin," the person on the other side of the radio connection said, and Alastor stilled. His claws tapped against the table as he leaned forward, the corners of his grin wide. "That's your full name, right? You died in 1933."

He couldn't stop smiling.

"You killed over sixty people since you turned seventeen, the first being your own dad. Never got caught for that one, but I'm adding it to the list. It just makes sense, from what I've read about you."

Alastor swallowed down a giggle.

"Died burying a body; that's how the police figured out it was you. The New Orleans killer. You used to work here—as the first mixed man on radio in this city. Made big news at the time, and you leveraged that into a pretty damn good career that ended with a bullet to your head in the forest."

Alastor shivered with excitement, as if he was enduring the thrill of being dissected on a table. There's a growing thrill in his gut that he couldn't keep down.

"So," The man on the other side concluded with crossed legs and a self-assured, snarky little smirk. "Now that we know each other, let's talk. About that whole waking me up at night thing, and how yer not going to do it again."

Alastor couldn't help it. He tilted his head back and cackled.

Alastor laughed in a way he's never laughed before. Every wheeze threatened physical pain; his chest was bent over, there were tears in his eyes, and he was slapping his knee until it stung. Every fiber in his being was roaring with absolute amusement that he couldn't stop laughing. Not until he'd run himself dry with crossed eyes and shaking limbs.

How funny. How amazing this was! Of course Alastor was so lucky. Instead of getting any common folk who'd scream and cry and try to ignore him, he got anything but. Got the one person in the world that decided to capture his attention, untried yet ever so true.

Did this man want to captivate him? Because, well, he considers himself very much captivated.

"I'm glad you've done your research, young man! Though I can't necessarily say 'knowing each other' goes both ways, I'm afraid. You seem to know so much about me, and I don't even know a name." Alastor spoke as he cozied himself up against the console, fully engaged.

The other groaned. "Sans. It's Sans."

"Sans."

Alastor tested out the name on his lips. Somehow, this man had captured the very middle ground of his name being so damn unique he had never heard it before, yet so forgettable and bland that he would be sure to regardless. A perfect middle ground.

Alastor wondered how long this 'Sans' would last before becoming boring. Charlie, sadly, endured a few months. Even the daughter of Lucifer herself eventually faltered with intrigue. Sometimes the hotel provided entertainment, enough to keep it around, but the tedious days gave way to boredom. He was running thin, and right on the verge of gnawing for more, a perfect little prey had pranced right upon his goo-covered lap.

Alright then, Sans. Go on. Dance your little dance on your stage. And when he tired out, like the others all did, Alastor would toss him aside with them.

"You certainly come in with strong impressions! I feel so complimented by how you bought all of this slime just for me. I do hope you know I won't clean this up, not like those handprints I left," Alastor said.

"It's fine. It's easy to pick off. Slime flies when yer having fun, right?" A pause. "Eh, damn, guess it'll be really long then."

Cheeky little thing. Not many people spoke that way to Alastor, as if they were undeniable equals. The fear from last night was a bit fun, but this? The banter was much more exquisite. Like a fine meal laid out before him, prime for the feasting. A person of puns and a laid-back attitude who knew how to bark and bite?

Oh, Alastor didn't know what he did to deserve this, but thank whoever did it. He would feast fine for the next couple of weeks.

"What exactly do you expect from this, Sans? I'm curious to your thoughts."

There was a shuffle of fabric. "Eh, I'm not really sure quite yet. Just sorta threw myself into demon research and came back to fuck with you. I think it's pretty clear you want to talk to me, by the way yer all but went 'oh baby, I have my eyes on you' at fucking way too early in the morning. And since various sources have conflicting results about destroying the haunted shit either getting rid of the demon or releasing it, I don't want to risk it. So I want to make sure that kind of wake-up call doesn't happen again."

Human knowledge about demons could be rather lacking at times, so it was no surprise this 'Sans' had no clue to nip Alastor in the bud. Simply burning an item can completely snap the thread. Of course, Alastor wasn't going to spill that.

"All I ask for is a little entertainment! I won't even ask for your soul quite yet!" Alastor grinned, leaning back in his sturdy leather chair. "I find it rather rude to ignore your guests."

"I didn't invite you. Yer not a guest. You came into my home without an invitation, so technically, you're an intruder."

"If we're going by that logic, then I would have to point out how you touched my objects without my permission! I believe that is theft."

Alastor can feel the eye roll the other gave, looking both tense and bored at the same time. Their arms were sluggish, but their shoulders were stiff. As if Vaggie and Husk somehow combined into one being, with both their best and worst traits.

"You died, lost rights to it. By ninety-one years, to be exact. And you also have a good chunk of murders under yer belt, and disturbance of peace by blasting that music."

"I find it very amusing how you ended with the music instead of the murders. You are aware I ate some of my victims, right?"

The other tensed a bit more before forcing themselves to relax. "Yeah, I know. Felt a bit peckish or whatever—but that's besides the point, bud. You seem to want attention, and I don't want to be woken up in the morning. Moving out isn't really a good option right now, since housing is a bitch for monsters, so we're stuck together. We need to figure out a way to make this work."

Monsters? His eyes sharpened with a distant recognition.

"You're a monster?" Alastor asked slowly. His fingers twitched with curiosity.

Now, logically, Alastor knew of monsters. They were punted Underground when he was just a young boy in elementary school. Was covered in all of the papers. Their withdrawal, while not the only reason, was a heavy contributor to how terrible the stock market crash of 1929 was. Alastor had only seen a few of them in the papers when the war was over. Learned about them in school a bit, but only the bits and pieces teachers were willing to whisper about in between lessons. It was difficult to share when the government didn't like anything that put them in a bad light, and banishing an entire species was certainly a sticking point. His knowledge in life had been trivial at best, and death even more so. Most people in hell all claimed they were human—which was most certainly a lie, considering the statistics and how easily many threw away their previous identities in favor of new ones. The few who did own up to being monsters tended to get weeded out for information. It was an unspoken rule that everyone assumed everyone was a human and that monsters kept quiet about their previous heritage and life Underground.

How interesting. Monsters were on the surface now. Alastor didn't think he'd ever actually had the pleasure of speaking to one, knowingly, until that moment.

"Uh, yeah? I guess yer can't see me, then, if you have no idea I'm a monster."

Alastor could only grin as the person leaned back and stuck up a middle finger.

"What a classic move. I wouldn't need to know your movements to know you did that. Quite predictable, the middle finger. Overused, even here in hell! People do need to come up with more interesting insults."

A monster was on the surface. All monsters, by the news of it. This was valuable information. Sinners that were recent arrivals would update the older folk, but it would take a while for stories to align and for the news to properly take hold. And yet there was Alastor, with a prime source right at his fingertips. A source that also had a backbone to them, with enough of a personality to keep his attention. An asshole, yes—the kind he could mock relentlessly for his own amusement. Such joy!

"Yeah, like calling someone Alastor. Real nice insult there."

Cheeky little - "Why, I believe it's a great name! My mother gave me that name; she adored it. I'd prefer you not go around and insult my mother's chosen name like that. Nonetheless, I believe we've gone off topic. I'm very interested in making a deal with you regarding your acknowledgment of me and my... fortissimo style of music playing that just so happens to keep you awake! I'm sure we can work something out."

What a splendid unofficial deal Alastor managed to claim! Alastor always did assume that his old radio station would bring forth no profit. Yet there it was, proving him wrong once again!

Sans and Alastor had spent the following ten minutes hashing out a deal that suited both parties. Alastor would perform no more of his grand displays of music, and Sans would willingly talk with him once a week for an hour if he wasn't busy that day. Alastor wanted to shake on it, to smear his name all over this with a glowing handshake, but Sans wasn't feeling very inclined towards summoning him or shaking any suspicious, glowing hands. A pity that he wasn't dumb, but it was no issue.

Alastor could change anyone's desire for a deal with enough time.

So they settled for a verbal agreement of mutual responsibility, one that gave way to a seven-minute insult slope until Sans eventually trudged off to go do work. Alastor was quite pleased with the outcome. He had a good source of knowledge right at his fingertips, and it was interactable! Play loud music, get complaints. So wonderful.

It's about time he got a new show. He was ever so desperate for one, after all.

"What happened to you?" Husk asked as Alastor walked past him, the drunken man looking the radio demon up and down. "You look happy. Watch some kid get eaten alive or something?"

"No, not quite! I just found something amusing. That's all," Alastor said, his smile sharp and wicked.