A strange, pensive mood. Also, fries.


He sits in a portrait of dejected satisfaction.

Old magician with beer, shit on canvas, 21st Century, Hell.

It is believed to represent the aftermath of a performance, that bittersweet torpor. Performing is like doing drugs, they say. There's a high and then a low.

Notice the drooping lines of the old magician's shoulders, where they hang weary, as if holding up more weight than they can carry. The half-lidded eyes that gaze far into the distance, looking nowhere and anywhere. What has he seen? Notice the half-smile that tenses his face in cynical quietude.

The current state should not be used as a gauge of outcome. It could have been a standing ovation, he could have been booed off the stage. It does not matter. The man is winged, and cat-like. We associate cats with cheating death, and wings with freedom. He can fly, there's nothing chaining him down, he just does not care to. Why? What is he waiting for?

Consider the fragility of wing-bone under the sleek fur. It would be shinier, if he took better care of himself. His emaciated appearance brings to mind cheap allegories to the human condition, its hollow-boned fragility. The damnation we create for ourselves. Is the Oldmagician a cautionary tale against rattlesnake dreams, or an homage to the tragedy of past glory?

Lean close. Look at his hands. What story can we reconstruct? In his magician's hands he gathers his leftover props. The brushstrokes here are short and sweeping, the man immortalized forever in the act of shifting objects on the weathered wood of a bar's table, like a game of Solitaire. A beer bottle, a candle, a pack of playing cards. What does symbolism tell us about this particular trinity?

Is dejection necessarily conflated with indifference?

("Disillusionment of the Illusionist," you'd say. And laugh.)

Notice the empty seat in front of him. Notice the red flower, still and unmoved. There, right where you'd put down a plate.

Don't bring it up, though.

Have some fucking manners.


Husk has claimed the front row table off to the side, the one with the bench against the wall. He doesn't have a bad leg anymore, but still likes to stretch it out sometimes. Habits.

The light of the candle flickers idle on the dark amber glass of his bottle, as he puts it down on the same spot, wet with condensation. It was a good night, all in all. Deserves some malt-sweet Fraoch Heather, just light stuff, attempting to preserve that rare light mood that captured him on stage.

Can't believe something went well, for once. He raises his beer to the flower. A stand-in toast.

All the good he had left to share, discarded on a piano stool. But what did he expect, really? He's all out of energy, limbs heavy with the particular, rare torpor of accomplishment. All the evening needs now is a shower and some shut eye.

No, he shouldn't go looking. If the bastard is not around, it's because he doesn't care to be. No idea where the fuck you disappeared to, you mad bastard, but cheers to that.

Overall, he must admit, Alastor has used his powers with discretion. He's been careful not to steal the spotlight, even for a moment. He's been almost… considerate. Alastor. Considerate. It reads like a dark omen.

Husk is still wearing the outfit, baffled with how comfortable it is. Clothes don't agree much with this form—what with the extra limbs, slinky vertebrae, lack of collarbone and whatnot. The stuff you can learn to live with would surprise you, though. All he had to do was get in the habit of storing essentials in the lining of his hat, like some furred parody of a late Victorian gent. Just thinking it makes him chuckle. That's the level of comfortably buzzed he's managed to achieve, for once.

It's hard to take his eyes off the cufflinks. Such perfect little things, impeccable even under close examination. Perfectly themed, four-parted squares. Card suits, of course. Husk's not exactly hard to shop for, is he?

But, thing is, Alastor's magic is not usually structural. That's a lot of effort, much easier to put up an illusion and hold it for however long. Less clean-up, too. And yet, the elements of the show all stayed behind. The candles, the flowers, the outfit. Even the Celesta. Alastor might actually have made the effort to make them.

For the life of him, Husk can't figure out why.

A shift. Electricity tickling his whiskers. The air again grows thin with that difference, that brink-of-winter smell like dust burning in an old radiator. He guesses the Radio Demon must have come up to him when, mysteriously, most of the patrons sitting nearby scuttle a few tables over.

Disguising a huff of relief as one of annoyance, Husk puts his feet up on the chair opposite of him, just because he can. "Hey," he greets without looking up, lazily waving his beer. "You missed all the applause."

There's nothing better than walking around the city with Alastor, he remembers apropos of nothing. Strained, terrified smiles everywhere the tip-tap of his shoes can be heard, and no one dares to come bother you. It's fucking fantastic. Only catch is… the guy usually has to be with you for it to work. Not always, though—ongoing collaboration does have its perks. Alastor never needs a reservation to eat anywhere he wants, either. Or any money.

That's a funny one. Despite money absolutely being a thing in Hell, the Radio Demon operates as if it were not a thing at all. Dealmaker by trade, he conducts a life of intricate bartering, dealing only in favors and services.

Why, money has no place in the afterlife! he says when questioned about it. It's one of those principles of his. No more pieces of paper deciding what he is, or what he owns. There are fires, floods, Cleanses. Papers get lost, soul contracts are forever.

Alastor's a riot to play faro with, and a fucking nightmare to be indebted to.

Not a word uttered, the bastard ignores the free chair and rounds the table, sitting next to him on the bench. He sits too close. Not surprising. Close enough that Husk can feel the dig of his hipbone against his side. Kinda surprising. Husk leans away, but just a bit. Too settled in his spot to shift much.

"T'was like, a whole ten seconds," he continues. "And you missed it. I don't know how you'll live with yourself."

A bottle from his under-table stash, generously offered. Gracious acceptance, evaluation, a snap of deft fingers. Alastor pours his new robust red wine, and Husk laughs. Now, that's some actual magic that would really come in handy.

There's just one thing bugging him: in over forty years of acquaintanceship, Husk cannot remember a single instance of Alastor not saying a word for so long. The only thing more unsettling than Alastor's voice, after all, is Alastor's silence.

"Oi," he calls, blunt, "did they leave you on mute tonight, or what?"

There is a minute startle, then a faint electric hum and crunch, like the sound of an amp being switched on.

"Just a little preoccupied, I suppose."

The voice sounds farther than usual, like something recorded facing away from the mic, but it is Alastor's unmistakeable nasal tenor.

The pleasant torpor returns, like a big swing of something strong pooling comfortably in Husk's stomach. The knot of dread that was twisting it is only noticed in its dissipation. Finally, it breathes out. If the smile is in place, and the voice is doing its usual weird shit—then things can't be any worse than what Husk is used to.

Alastor's voice reminds most folks of old Hollywood—something he's seen make the Radio Demon's eye twitch, if mentioned in his presence—but for Husk, his coeval, it brings back his days of youth and the few idle hours at dad's casino. Had he ever heard Alastor's voice over the radio, back then? It's possible. Guy used to be a big shot, they say. Husk can't say he remembers much.

What he does remember is that they were building a real big dam, south-east. Made a whole pristine town just for the workers, expected to live free of sin. Embodying the defiant spirit of the neighbouring Vegas, the workers still wanted to gamble, drink, and fuck—which at the time had were all at various degrees of illegal. Not easy years, those ones, and in dire times gambling houses are at their fullest. He'd be mopping floors and planning moonshine rides at all hours, listening to the crackle of the radio. The new president, in that same phony rich boy inflection, told them every few weeks that things wouldn't always be this bad. That it would turn. That there was hope.

Alastor has called the lily to his hand. He twirls it idly, red on red against his nails. It strikes Husk with a sharp, sudden tug that Alastor has not lived long enough to hear even one of those fireside chats, collect any of the hope.

"Preoccupied? With what?"

"Nothing important, really. I might be feeling a little off." Con le mani brucianti, a snippet of operatic wail plays out of him, chopped up with interference, stringerò i lembi d'oro del tuo manto stellato…

"... huh." For a second, Husk is at a loss for words. He elects to ignore, gesturing to his drink, the table, the metonymy of hospitality. "Uh, what you say about a bite to eat? That usually helps."

"Hm! I'm not really in the mood," Alastor says, distracted. "But, if you're hungry, I believe I heard someone not clapping at that table over there. Back in a jiffy!"

Confused to alarmed in an instant, Husk starts forward to stop him. Perhaps as a testament to Alastor not feeling much like himself, he makes it in time.

"Waitno—I was thinking more like a chippy, or whatever else they have." He clears his throat, a little touched in some weird awful way. "Never sampled the food here, but it's hard to mess up fries, right? Shh, don't answer that."

Alastor lowers the index finger he had raised, likely to make a point about proper fries, or whatever, and sits back down. Evidently deeming it a solid alternative to heckler steaks, he takes it upon himself to hail a waiter and get them some beer-battered goodness to share.

"Huh, didn't even know they made them with gravy, here," Husk hums. Salt and grease and beef drippings, what's more to wish for? He rotates the basket to offer Alastor the most bitter-burnt half. "My theory's that British cuisine as a whole is secretly hangover scran."

The Radio Demon is turning his glass in his hands, letting the wine swirl around. "Poison and its remedy, available side by side! Are these the marvels of modernity, I wonder?"

Then he knocks the glass back in a single noisy gulp.

"Uh." Husk looks from him, to the drained glass, to his barely-touched fries. He frowns. "... that usually goes the other way 'round. Have you got a fever, or something?"

Without taking his glove off, Alastor feels his forehead with the back of his hand. "Hmm. Can't say that I know." He probably can't even get a fever, this asshole. "But! It is likely all this giggle juice."

He pours himself another glass, and repeats. Husk blinks at him. Is this the day the freaking Radio Demon outdrinks him? The fuck is going on. What are you trying to forget.

"What, you drank before coming here?"

"Some."

Perhaps on the tail of his talk with young Jérôme, he scolds without thinking, "On an empty stomach?"

Alastor snorts, tickled into some dry, bitter chuckle. "Well. As it happens, yes."

"Well, I ain't holding your hair back. I've had enough puke fumes for tonight."

The familiar laugh-track crackles choppily from Alastor's mic. He taps it with a claw. "Husker, my dear friend, don't be so harsh! After all, I've rescued this..." He trails off a moment, gesturing vaguely to the dingy pub, "... show of yours, haven't I?"

Husk lets out a derisive huff. Fishing for thanks, the snob bastard. "Hah, sure. And say, what's it gonna cost me, eh? All of this." He flips up the lapel of his vest with a lazy stroke of his thumb. "Been wondering since you volunteered."

"Oh, that." A shrug. "I was thinking of writing this one off as a personal favor. You didn't ask, and I originally came here just for a laugh… oh, but then!" He shoots to his feet, gesturing dramatically. "I see there... a fellow showman! There, on stage, alone and forsaken, without the barest semblance of sound support!" A double, heartfelt fist-clench. "And oh, by the names of H.P. Davis and R.A. Fessenden, I could not stand witness and just let it happen!"

Cheek propped up on his bottle, Husk waits for him to sit back down. With the patience of a gold panner, he filters through the antics to get to the substance. Something in what he said throws him off more than what he actually said offends him.

Did Alastor... just say he was already in the audience?


Notes: The first section of the chapter is a tiny homage to Within The Wires (Season 2)

The snippet Alastor plays says [With burning hands I'll clasp the gold border of your starry cloak…]. For reasons.

Husk is referring to the Boulder Dam (now Hoover Dam), and the federal company town built for its workers, Boulder City (!), during the Depression. The influx of lone worker dudes gave Vegas some good business.