Hi! This is my first attempt at writing a fanfiction. That doesn't mean you have to be polite about it if it's terrible, though. Please feel free to roast me alive if it sucks! I should also probably mention that this contains lemons, murder (as in, sending people who probably don't deserve it to Double Hell), major character death of much-loved characters, and very, very, out-of-character mindsets for two characters; Alastor and and our beloved Charlie. (Alastor is OOC because he's canonically arosexual and in this he is... most definitely not. Charlie's OOC because she becomes a psychotic murderer who not only enjoys being a psychotic murderer, but doesn't mind, and, in fact, enjoys walking out on her girlfriend, family, and a dream she's fought and killed for to live a life of death and sin with someone who she originally never would have trusted, let alone attempted a relationship with.) So yeah, M rating. Enjoy!

CPOV

This made no sense. I had been over it a dozen or more times in my head, and I couldn't even come up with an educated guess. I was also fairly certain that no one else in this building could shine any more light on it, except for the one person I had zero intention of asking.

Why in the Nine Circles did Alastor have a to-scale mannequin of me in his suite?!

I had expected to find any number of things when I had entered. Syringes and manacles and sloping floors that led to drains in the floor perhaps. Nothing along those lines was in sight, and it actually looked relatively standard. When I had begun this project I had endeavored to give any potential guests the comfort I felt, and still feel, they deserved. A queen-sized bed, comfortable furniture, a bookshelf or two... And of course a restroom, which I had not entered.

My Hotelier had done precious little to expand on the baseline features. A generic-looking novel rested on the bedside table with a postit note inserted as a bookmark. Several articles of archaic male clothing were visible through the slatted closet door. And there was a padlocked footlocker at the base of the bed that's contents I could only speculate on (although his broken radio microphone staff seemed as good a guess as any).

Nothing else seemed out-of-state...

Which led me back to what was.

I leaned in and inspected "my" features a bit more closely. The mannequin's facial expression was blank, although the features were quite detailed. Oddly, the mouth was slightly open. I fingered the collar of the red suit that seemed to be identical to the one I was currently wearing.

I brushed a piece of lint off the shoulder, sat back, and frowned. What use would Alastor be finding in a life-sized mockup of me...? This is very bizarre...

Suddenly, seemingly bereft of outside influence, there was a short crack, and the head keeled forward and landed on the floor in between real me and model me with a thump.

At that moment, although I strained to hear, I was fairly certain I heard the front entrance of the Hotel open.

There's no way you could hear that from four floors up, Morningstar! I instantly chastised myself, but because I wanted to completely delegitimize the scare I had just been given (or, more likely, invented), I walked over to the window.

It was open.

Oh God.

I yanked it open further and leaned out, looking down at the entrance in mounting panic.

Just in time to see the left front door of the Hotel be closed shut from the inside.

Damn Damn Damn!

I glanced at the headless mannequin and rapidly concluded that it would take at least a few minutes to repair the damage. Time there was a good chance I no longer had.

Thinking desperately, blindly, I yanked open the closet, and threw the head into the back of the small space. I grabbed the rest of the mannequin and shoved it into the closet. As I was doing so, however, my hands were pressing against its chest, and the soft resistance I was met with brought me up short.

Why would a mannequin have breasts... wait. Hold on... Is this a-?!

Footsteps in the corridor cut short that extremely uncomfortable thought. With my time now decidedly depleted, I sat back against the wall, held my arms and legs out stiffly, let my mouth drop, and assumed the blank look of the doll that now sat decapitated in the closet.

The door opened.

This isn't going to work. This is insane, this is-

"Charlotte, darling, what are you doing on the floor?"

The only reason I managed to maintain my neutral expression was the quirk of annoyance at having my full title used. Then, he surprised me further by picking me up and gently placing me on his bed. He then walked over to the closet and began to hang up his coat.

Something strange was happening to me. All of my long life I had been the most caring, compassionate, selfless soul in Hell if my parents were to be believed. I suppose I would have to have been, to found a literal rehabilitation hotel in this locale. It was as if all those thoughts, those feelings of goodwill and empathy, those very mindsets were being siphoned out of me, and the empty space they left behind was being replaced with something much darker. Visions of blood-spattered ceilings, Human teeth in zip lock bags, and bodies with ritualistic symbols carved into them swam before my eyes. A sound like rushing water competed with screams of agony and whimpered pleas for mercy for my hearing.

I felt everything that I held dear - love for my family, for Vaggie, the desire to see the best of the best in the worst of the worst - begin to leech out of me, to be replaced with something truly sinister. Part of me fought it, a part of me too established over millennia of pure thoughts to be extinguished immediately, railed in protest. No. This is wrong. This isn't you. This isn't who you are. This isn't who you want to be. But as my conscience slipped further and further into sadism, it was clear the old me was losing.

And then, it was over. Like the mass surrender of a defeated army, the last vestiges of anything that could be considered good, kind, or welcoming broke and attempted to flee from me, only to be chased down and have their throats cut by the vanguards of the terrifying new creature I had become.

I felt powerful. I felt preeminent. I felt like I wanted to slaughter a hundred million of the sinners I was trying to help not five minutes ago and wreak destruction and sorrow on my own kingdom.

Alastor sighed deeply and lay down on his back beside me. He looked weary. I was still trying to keep the unblinking, blank, agape stare in hopes that he might continue to think I was his mannequin that I had beheaded and closeted. I wanted to talk to him, though. I wanted to tell him he had been right. Redemption was laughable, and Heaven was welcome to the idiots who lacked the will to surrender to their base instincts. We were the real power. We were the ones to be feared.

Suddenly, he looked over at me. I saw the realization come into his features. Of course. This was never going to work if he inspected me closely. I clearly wasn't a life-sized doll.

"Charlie?"

I smiled. "Hello, Alastor."

I placed a hand on his shoulder. "I suppose we owe each other a bit of an explanation. But first, I'm in the mood to hear something scream for mercy."

I sat up cross-legged, cocked my head, and put on a grin that felt like it looked pretty unhinged. "I want a scalpel in one hand, a mallet in the other, and a Sinner Demon, bound and gagged, in that chair, before I count to five."