Barnaby walked into the kitchen. There he saw a figure with red hair and deer ears. He was dress in a red suit stirring a pat. He was humming a tune from 1933. Barnaby walked over to the overlord and asked him, "Alastor, the radio demon I presume?"
Alastor didn’t stop stirring. The rhythm of his wooden spoon against the pot stayed perfectly in time with the faint, crackling jazz emanating from the air itself. Then, with a sharp, mechanical tilt of his head, he spun around.
His grin was wide, fixed, and filled with yellowed teeth that looked like piano keys from a nightmare.
"The one and only! A bit formal for a kitchen, don't you think?" Alastor’s voice sounded exactly like a high-fidelity broadcast from a vacuum-tube radio, complete with the occasional pop and hiss of static. He leaned over his cane, the microphone eye on top blinking curiously at Barnaby’s 2040 gear. "And you must be the man of the hour! The soldier out of time. Charlie’s been chirping about you like a songbird on a Sunday morning!"
"I came from 2040, sir." Barnaby responded.
"2040? My, my, how the future must scream!" Alastor chuckled, the sound layered with the crackle of a burning hearth. He circled Barnaby like a predator inspecting a new species of prey, his shadow stretching across the kitchen floor to poke at the soldier's rubber boots. He leaned in close, his microphone staff humming with a low-frequency buzz that made the fillings in Barnaby's teeth ache. "I must admit, the 'future' has always been a bit... muffled to me. Too much digital chatter! Too many ones and zeros! It lacks the soul of a live performance."
"I'm afraid the future isn't as glamorous as you assume it is. Earth is in a far worse state than Pentagram City is right now." Barnaby disagreed. "You see, Alastor, there is a pandemic in which parastic barnacle eggs are attaching themselves to people and turning them into zombies."
"Parasitic... barnacles?" Alastor repeated, the words tasting strange in his transatlantic accent. He let out a sharp, dissonant laugh that sounded like a radio dial being spun too fast. "Oh, how delightful! And here I thought the living world had grown dull and corporate. It seems Mother Nature has developed a sense of the macabre! A grand, global stage of mindless puppets—what a show that must be!" He leaned in so close that Barnaby could see the flickering scan lines in his eyes. "Tell me, do they scream when the shells crack the skin? Or is it a more... muted affair?"
Barnaby didn’t flinch, his eyes hard as flint. "It’s not a show, Alastor. It’s an extinction event. Because of this global infection, my platoon and I have to hunt down the infected and incinerate their bodies just to stop the spread of diseases. It's not a pretty sight. If you were there, you'd have to wear a gas mask so you don't breathe in the airborne eggs so you don't get sick. It is my job to go to those areas. Haven't you witnessed the Spanish Flu when you were alive on Earth?"
Alastor’s grin froze, his head tilting at a sharp, unnatural angle. The sound of a needle scratching across a vinyl record screeched through the kitchen. For a brief moment, the static died away, leaving an eerie, heavy silence.
"The Spanish Flu," Alastor murmured, his voice dropping the radio filter for a split second, sounding hauntingly human. "I remember the masks. I remember the silence of the streets and the smell of vinegar and death. It was... exquisite in its misery, but dreadfully monotonous." He began to pace around Barnaby, his cane tapping rhythmically like a heartbeat. "But you... you speak of burning the masses to save the remains. A true hero’s burden! How tragic! How cinematic!" He spun his cane and leaned his weight on it, face-to-face with the marine. "You think a gas mask would protect me? My dear fellow, I am the plague that ended my enemies. But I digress."
"Okay, but I have a question, are you able to make a radio that can connect to Earth even though you can't leave Hell?" Barnaby interrupted. "I know it might sound impossible but could you do that?"
Alastor let out a sound like a flurry of canned laughter from a 1950s sitcom. He leaned his face uncomfortably close to Barnaby’s, his glowing red eyes widening until they looked like the heated filaments of a power tube.
"Impossible? My dear boy, I find that word so... pedestrian!" Alastor chirped, spinning his microphone staff with a flourish. "I don't just play the radio, I am the broadcast! While I cannot physically step back onto that drab little mortal coil, my voice—and anything I choose to carry with it—can certainly dance across the frequencies of the living." He tapped Barnaby’s chest plate with the head of his cane. "I can weave a signal through the static of the universe, bypassing your satellites and your 'digital' nonsense. I could make every radio from London to Los Angeles scream with your voice if I felt the whim! But..." The static in the room grew heavy, tasting like ozone. Alastor’s grin pulled back, revealing more teeth than should fit in a human mouth.
"Transmitting across the veil requires a... significant amount of power. It’s a long-distance call, and the roaming charges in Hell are, shall we say, exorbitant." He leaned down, his shadow now looming over the entire kitchen, its antlers brushing the ceiling. "I could build your bridge. I could find your 1985 and your 2040. But why should I spend my energy on a world that's already rotting at the seams?" His gaze locked on Barnaby. "What does a soldier with no world left have to offer a demon who already has everything?"
"Hang on, how did you know about the Shamu and Crew from 1985? Charlie, Vaggie, nor myself has told you." Barnaby asked.
Alastor’s head snapped to the side with a sickening crack, his grin remaining perfectly level while his neck tilted at a ninety-degree angle. The static in the room surged, the sound of a thousand radio stations being flipped through in a second filling the air. "Oh, Barnaby," Alastor chuckled, the sound echoing as if it were coming from every corner of the kitchen at once. "Do you truly think a 'Radio Demon' only hears what is spoken directly into his ears? I told you, I am the broadcast!" He began to pace, his heels clicking like a metronome on the tile. "Every time you speak, you vibrate the air. Every time Charlie frets, she sends out a little frequency of panic. And that name... Shamu and Crew... what a quaint, rhythmic little title for a group of doomed men! It’s been bouncing around your head like a catchy jingle since the moment you stepped into this hotel." He leaned in, his shadow stretching out and playfully miming the act of wearing a military headset. "I don't need to be told, dear boy. I simply... tune in. You’ve been broadcasting your secrets on a very wide band. Your grief, your 1985 nostalgia, your fear of those nasty little barnacles—it's all been playing on my favorite station for the last hour!" He tapped his microphone staff against Barnaby’s temple—just a light, mocking tap. "You’re a walking transmitter, soldier. And I must say, your 'signal' is much more entertaining than the usual weeping and gnashing of teeth I hear around here."
"So, can you build a radio signal?" Barnaby asked again.
Alastor’s grin stretched so wide it looked painful, his eyes flickering like a television screen losing its vertical hold. He leaned back, spinning his microphone staff between his fingers with practiced ease.
"Can I? My dear fellow, asking if I can build a signal is like asking a shark if it can swim or a politician if he can lie! It is my specialty!" He slammed the base of his cane onto the kitchen floor. Suddenly, the shadows beneath the stove and the cabinets began to bleed out, swirling into the center of the room. Scraps of jagged metal, glowing vacuum tubes, and coils of copper wire seemed to manifest out of thin air, knitting together with a rhythmic clack-clack-clack. "I can stitch together a frequency that pierces the veil between this delightful pit and your crumbling Earth," Alastor purred, his voice layering over itself in a chorus of radio static. "I can give you a voice that rings out in 1985, 2040, or any year where a radio is left turned on in a dark room. But remember..." The half-formed radio on the table let out a piercing, high-pitched squeal before settling into a low, ominous hum. Alastor leaned over it, the green glow reflecting off his monocle. "A broadcast requires a power source. My magic provides the reach, but your 'connection' provides the tether. To reach your Shamu and Crew through the tides of time, you’ll have to stay very, very close to the transmitter. Essentially..." He looked up, his pupils narrowing into slits. "You'll be my personal guest for the duration of the show. Do we have an understanding, or are you going to keep the listeners waiting?" "I don't understand, what do you mean by your personal guest? What's the catch?" Barnaby asked. "I prefer to read the fine print before I sign." Alastor let out a sharp, crackling whistle that sounded like feedback from a blown speaker. He leaned in, his grin staying perfectly still while his eyes crinkled with amusement.
"How refreshing! A man who worries about the fine print. Vaggie has clearly been whispering in your ear," Alastor chuckled, tapping his chin with a clawed finger. "The 'catch,' as you put it, is purely technical, I assure you! To broadcast a signal across dimensions and time, I need a 'Living Battery.' My power provides the bridge, but your soul provides the destination coordinates." He gestured to the jagged, humming radio on the table, which was now leaking a faint, rhythmic pulse of blue light—the same color as Barnaby's futuristic gear. "If you want to talk to 1985, you have to be the antenna. You stay where I can see you—within the reach of my shadow—so I can keep the frequency locked. If you wander off, the signal snaps, and your 'Shamu' friends are lost in the static forever. "He leaned down, his voice dropping to a low, distorted rumble. "And as for the 'guest' part... well, every great broadcast needs a star. I’ll build your radio, but I want the exclusive rights to the audio. Every word you say to Earth, every tearful goodbye, every frantic warning about those charming barnacles... it all goes out on my channel for the Pride Ring to enjoy. Tragedy is the best form of entertainment, don't you agree?" He didn't offer a hand—knowing Barnaby wouldn't take it—but instead, he tapped the radio dial, which let out a ghostly, distorted sound of a 1980s power ballad. "You get your warning to the past. I get the highest ratings Hell has seen in a century. A fair trade, wouldn't you say, Soldier?" "What do you mean lost in the static forever? And how will you be able to see me?" Barnaby asked. Alastor’s grin sharpened, and for a moment, the shadows in the kitchen seemed to lean in as if they were listening to a juicy secret. "Lost in the static is a fate far worse than death, dear boy!" Alastor chirped, the sound of a falling whistle sound effect playing from the air. "Imagine a radio tuned between stations—just white noise and endless, empty rushing. If our connection breaks mid-transmission, your friends' voices won't just stop; they'll be scattered into the cosmic background radiation. Pieces of them in 1985, echoes in 2040, but never a whole person again. A digital ghost story for the ages!" He then spun his cane, the eye on the microphone pulsing with a rhythmic, crimson light. "As for how I'll see you..." Alastor chuckled, and suddenly, several small, shadowy imp-like creatures with single large eyes manifested on the kitchen walls. "I have 'eyes' all over this charming little establishment! But more importantly, once you become my antenna, our frequencies will be intertwined. I’ll feel your presence like a humming wire. You could hide in the deepest pit of the Sloth Ring, and I’d still hear your heartbeat like a drum on my speakers." He leaned over the radio, which was now vibrating so hard the silverware on the table began to rattle. "You see, Barnaby, you won't just be using the radio. For as long as the broadcast is live, you are the radio. And I am the only one with the dial."
Barnaby scratched his chin thinking. "And could I end up just like them if I vanish from your sight too?" Barnaby asked.
Alastor’s eyes suddenly flared, the radio dials in his pupils spinning so fast they became a blur of static. A low, distorted feedback loop hummed through the kitchen, making the glass jars on the shelves vibrate.
"Oh, you have a sharp mind for a man of action!" Alastor chirped, his voice dropping into a deep, gravelly bass that sounded like a recording played at half-speed. "If the connection snaps while you're 'on the air,' the feedback wouldn't just scatter your friends. It would pull the transmitter right along with them!" He leaned in, his shadow growing long, jagged claws that mimicked the act of tearing a piece of paper in half. "You wouldn't just vanish from my sight, Barnaby. You’d be shredded across the frequencies! A toe in the Gluttony Ring, a memory in 1985, and your very soul turned into nothing but background hiss. You'd be a song that nobody can quite hear, playing for eternity in the space between heartbeats." The green eldritch light around the radio pulsed like a dying star. Alastor straightened his coat, his grin returning to its usual, polished shine. "So, you see, staying close to me isn't just for my entertainment—it’s for your structural integrity! I’m the only thing holding your molecules in the right order while we punch a hole through time." He tapped the radio's glowing vacuum tube. "The 'fine print' is simple: I am your anchor. If you cut the rope while we're in the middle of the storm... well, I hope you enjoy the sound of silence."
Barnaby then got an idea. "Okay, Alastor, I heard your terms. Now here are mine. The barnacle infection was not a result of nature, at least I don't think. If I catch the person responsible, that person becomes the transmitter, the Shamu and Crew and myself go free. The people directly supporting the culprit will be taken to the static. It is my job to make sure those responsible are dealt with. What say you?"
Alastor’s grin didn't just widen; it split, his face momentarily flickering like a corrupted film reel. The static in the room surged into a roar of canned applause and cheering crowds that seemed to come from the very walls.
"Ha-ha! A trade in souls and justice! Now that is a pitch worth a prime-time slot!" Alastor cackled, his shadow dancing a jagged jig across the kitchen tiles. He leaned over the radio, his eyes glowing with a malicious, emerald intensity. "You want to swap your tether for the neck of a villain? To cast the architects of your 'barnacle' apocalypse into the eternal hum of the Void?" He tapped his chin, the sound echoing like a rhythmic drumbeat. "It’s a bold gamble, Soldier. You're betting you can catch a monster while you're still on my leash. But... the thought of broadcasting the screams of the 'guilty' as they are shredded into white noise? Oh, the ratings would be simply divine!" Alastor extended his microphone staff, not his hand, toward Barnaby. The small eye on the staff blinked rapidly. "I accept your counter-offer! You shall be my antenna for now, but the moment you bring me the 'Producer' of this little biological tragedy... I shall let them take your place as the battery. And their little helpers? I’ll scatter them across the frequencies like confetti!"
Vaggie, who had been watching from the doorway, gripped her spear tightly. "Barnaby, you’re playing a dangerous game. If you don't find them, or if Alastor decides he likes your signal better..."
"Nonsense, Vaggie! I’m a man of my word!" Alastor chirped, the radio on the table suddenly screaming with a burst of 1985 synth-pop mixed with the sound of a heart monitor. "The line is open, Barnaby! The frequency is hunting for 'Shamu and Crew.' Shall we see if anyone is listening in the past?"
"But we haven't made the deal yet." Barnaby interjected. "No deal if I don't sign." Barnaby then told Alastor, "Let's do it."
Alastor’s grin twitched, a sound like a skipping record repeating his chuckle as he leaned in. "How meticulous! You have the spirit of a true auditor, Barnaby! I do love a man who insists on the proper... formalities." He snapped his fingers, and the air between them shimmered with emerald light. A scroll of parchment—aged, singed at the edges, and smelling of ozone—unfurled itself in mid-air. The "fine print" Barnaby requested began to write itself in jagged, glowing ink. "There! Your terms, written in the very ink of the Abyss," Alastor purred. "A simple Swap Clause: You act as my antenna now, and the moment you deliver the 'Producer' of your little barnacle tragedy, they take your place. You and your 'Shamu' crew go free, and the culprit’s lackeys are scattered into the eternal hiss of the Void!" He spun his microphone staff and held it out horizontally. "In this realm, words are air, but a handshake is iron. To make it binding, to make it real... we must shake on it."

"That is once I can reach Shamu and his crew. They won't be able to be connected to me once I get a portal out of her but Charlie is on it." Barnaby said.
Alastor’s grin sharpened, the green glow in his eyes pulsing in time with a low, rhythmic thrum of static. "A portal? Oh, Charlie is a girl of many talents, but even the Princess of Hell finds the veil to Earth a bit... stubborn."
He leaned in, his voice layering into a distorted harmony of multiple radio frequencies. "But you’re missing the melody, Barnaby! You didn't just sign up for a phone call. Our deal is the signal itself. If you step through a portal and leave this Ring, you aren't just 'disconnecting'—you're pulling the plug on the entire broadcast!"
Alastor tapped his microphone staff against the floor, and a shimmering, spectral green wire appeared, tethering Barnaby’s chest directly to the radio on the table.
"You can go wherever you like in the Pride Ring," Alastor purred, circling him like a predator. "But if you try to cross that portal back to Earth before we've found your 'Producer,' the tether will snap. And we already discussed what happens to a soul lost in the static, didn't we?"
"Oh, dear, that won't be good for either of us." Barnaby explained. "If I can't leave the Pride Ring, I won't be able to reach Shamu and you won't get the culprits if I can't go back to Earth in my time." Barnaby put his thinking cap on. He got another idea. "Of course! My knife!" Barnaby showed Alastor the knife. This knife can catch my blood. That way a part of me stays here, my blood on my knife, while I go complete my missions. You hold on to it and my residue will never leave your side until I find the perpetrators. Will that work?"
Alastor’s head tilted so far it nearly touched his shoulder, a sound like a rusted gate creaking through the kitchen. He leaned over, his monocle magnifying one eye until it looked like a glowing red orb. He inspected the knife with the clinical curiosity of a jeweler.
"A literal blood sacrifice? How wonderfully old-fashioned!" Alastor cackled, the canned laughter from his internal speakers sounding particularly delighted. "Using your own life force as a biological relay station! It’s gritty, it’s visceral... it’s perfect for the ratings!"
He reached out a clawed finger and tapped the blade. The metal hummed with a low, sinister vibration.
"Your 'residue' as a tether... yes, I see the logic! As long as that blade stays within my broadcast range, the frequency remains locked to your soul, no matter which century you’re currently bleeding in." Alastor’s grin turned jagged. "But be warned, Soldier—if that knife is cleansed, or if your heart stops beating on the other side of that portal, the signal won't just fade. It will shatter. I’ll be holding a piece of your soul, and you’ll be an echo in a world that doesn't remember you."
Barnaby said, "To make this work, keep the knife with you under your coat or something. Okay?"
Alastor’s grin sharpened, his eyes glowing like the vacuum tubes of an overheating transmitter. He took the knife, flipping it expertly in the air before catching it by the hilt. With a flick of his wrist, the blade vanished into the dark, infinite folds of his red pinstripe coat.
"A secret kept close to the heart! How melodramatic! I simply love it!" Alastor chirped, his voice layering with the sound of a studio audience’s collective ooh. He patted his chest right where the blade was stashed. "It shall stay nestled right here, Barnaby, vibrating in time with my own... rhythm. You’ll feel the hum of my power through your very marrow, no matter how many decades you jump!"
He leaned in, his shadow looming over the glowing portal Charlie was stabilizing. "But do try to keep your blood inside your body on the other side, won't you? If you bleed out in 1985, this little 'antenna' goes dead, and I do hate a silent broadcast."
Charlie shouted over the roar of the swirling blue energy, "Barnaby, Queen Bee wants to see us! If you're going, you have to go NOW!"
Barnaby shouted, "Coming, ma'am!" He faced Alastor, holding the knife over his left palm. "Remember, this doesn't count for losing blood and my hand heals at the seal of the deal."
"A contractual loophole! How deliciously lawyerly of you!" Alastor cackled, the sound of a canned studio audience cheering erupting from the kitchen walls. He leaned in, his monocle flashing with an emerald light as he watched Barnaby prepare the sacrifice. "I do love a performer who commits to the bit!"
"Alastor, WE HAVE A DEAL!" Barnaby slashed his palm. The blood residue stained on the knife. His hand healed in an eerie glow.
"SPLENDID!" Alastor’s voice distorted into a terrifying, layered screech of a thousand radio stations all screaming at once.
As Barnaby’s blood touched the steel, the kitchen lights didn't just flicker—they turned a violent, bruised purple. The Radio Demon snatched the stained knife out of the air with a blur of motion, tucking it deep into the breast pocket of his coat, right over his own static-filled heart.
"The frequency is LOCKED!" Alastor cackled, his shadow growing so large it swallowed the kitchen ceiling, its antlers scraping against the rafters. "I can feel your pulse, Soldier! It’s a rhythmic little march, isn't it? Thump-thump, thump-thump! A perfect beat for a slaughter!"
The glowing scar on Barnaby’s palm pulsed with a faint green light, humming with a low-frequency vibration that made his teeth ache. The deal was physically bound.
Barnaby nodded toward Alastor. He rant to Charlie and said, "Alastor has created a signal in which he can reach me if so you are all aware. Now let's go to the Queen Bee and speak to her about opening a portal."
"A signal, a leash—tomatoes, toh-mah-toes!" Alastor chirped, his voice crackling like a record player as he tucked the blood-stained knife into his coat. He gave a mock salute with his microphone staff. "Don't worry, Princess, I'll keep the dial tuned to our dear soldier’s frequency. It’s going to be a blockbuster broadcast!"
Charlie looked at Barnaby, her eyes wide with a mix of worry and determination. "A signal? Barnaby, just... be careful. Dealing with Alastor is like walking through a minefield in high heels." She shook off the nerves and gripped her phone. "You're right. We don't have much time.
Barnaby got his black overcoat and gasmask on. "Let's go."
Barnaby pulled the straps of his gas mask tight, the rubber seal hissing as it locked against his face. Through the dark lenses, the world of the Hazbin Hotel became a muted, clinical green. He adjusted his heavy black overcoat, hiding the futuristic tech of 2040 beneath a silhouette that wouldn't look out of place in a London fog.
Alastor leaned against the counter, his grin glowing through the dim kitchen light. "A bit gloomy for a party, don't you think? But I suppose every drama needs its masked protagonist! Go on then, Soldier—don't keep the Queen waiting!"
Charlie took a deep breath, her eyes flashing a bright, demonic pink. She grabbed Barnaby’s sleeve and stepped into the honey-gold vortex.
The transition was like being dunked in warm syrup and static. The smell of Alastor’s kitchen vanished, replaced by the thumping bass of a bass-heavy pop track and the scent of cotton candy and expensive booze.

End of Chapter