Chapter Text
Two thousand years had passed since Hazbin Hotel Season 1 began streaming on Amazon Prime Video.
Two thousand years had passed in Hell as well.
During that time, with the help of the knowledge, technology, and magic brought in by newly arrived sinners, science advanced another two millennia.
Science transformed the cityscape in countless ways.
Just last month, the Hazbin Hotel opened its first cyber branch. VoxTech’s geofront project was progressing smoothly, and in three years they expected to break through the mantle and reach the outer core.
Once completed, the plan was projected to solve Hell’s chronic housing shortage for the next twenty-five years.
That day, Vox had risen in a hurry from the 3450th Pentagram City—where he was staying on business—to 495PC, to receive a package sent from VoxTech’s Central Mantle Branch.
Inside the small courier container, cushioned with packing material, was a thin LCD display.
It was the new head he had ordered.
However, it wasn’t a model from the era two thousand years ago. Rather, it was from a “retro revival” boom four hundred years back.
It wasn’t made by his own company, but since the tech division had sent it, compatibility would probably be fine.
“What inch is this supposed to be?—goddammit.”
Vox sighed.
The black-based design was tolerable.
But the shape was nearly a perfect square, the corners were rounded, and the whole form lacked sharpness.
Of course, he didn’t really have the luxury of being picky.
Two thousand years had passed, and demons with appliance-head bodies had evolved in many directions.
Those with television heads were practically antiques now. Most such demons had switched to hologram-type heads—types that projected facial expressions into the air.
LCD TVs had long since ceased production; you couldn’t find them anywhere.
At this point, Vox was barely managing to maintain his identity as a “TV-head” demon by scavenging secondhand units from company warehouses, markets, and museums.
(This might be the last physical monitor I ever get.)
Such was the fate of electronics: almost nothing lasted more than a century.
Even when he did find monitors, most were degraded or broken, and replacement parts were hopeless to obtain.
Vox exhaled again, deeply.
He snapped his fingers lightly, and a robotic arm slid out from the wall.
The automatic machinery began replacing his cracked head with the new screen.
“Sir, you have a visitor.”
Just as the setup finished, his secretary contacted him.
“Who?—Fine, show them to the guest room.”
He snapped irritably—then remembered he had already ordered that no one but scheduled visitors be admitted at this hour.
Unlike a human secretary, an AI secretary made a poor outlet for frustration.
Vox dressed himself and headed to the guest room.
Through the large window stretched the nightscape of 495PC, wreathed in colossal crystal structures.
A demon sat on the sofa against that backdrop: the deer demon in a bright red coat—the Radio Demon, Alastor.
Even after two thousand years, Alastor still clung to radio and looked almost exactly the same.
The red pinstripe coat, the boots, the cane, the monocle—everything was just as it had been two millennia ago.
Vox had once mocked him as a fossil, an out-of-touch old man. Yet now, that unchanging presence brought him an odd sense of relief.
Demonic souls were immortal.
But against the sweeping current of thousands of years, nothing could remain truly unchanged.
“Good to see you, Alastor.”
When Vox entered, Alastor glanced toward him and gave a faint smile.
“Vox… you’re blinding.”
Alastor squinted, wrinkling his brow.
Apparently, the monitor newly installed as Vox’s head was the kind designed to double as an interior light source. His entire head was shining white.
It even had a pointless feature that flashed rainbow colors every thirty seconds—distinctly annoying.
“I’ve been trying to turn off the damn light, but there’s no manual, so I can’t figure out how.”
The guest room was meant to be calming, lit with indirect lighting—completely ruined by the glare pouring from his own face.
“I brought you a gift today. Can you even see it? Your aspect ratio is strange.”
“This is the only physical monitor I have left. No matter how much junk I sift through, no manufacturer deals in LCD TVs anymore… So, what’s the gift?”
Vox sat down on the sofa, a bit unsteadily.
“Whiskey. Not a replacement head for you—this is the last bottle I have that was distilled by human hands.”
“I haven’t been topside recently, but I hear production everywhere is run by androids now.”
“Yes. The quality is excellent, but every bottle tastes the same. A thousand years ago, when every winemaker in the world rose up in protest, I quietly took care of two or three pro-android officials myself.
But you can’t fight the tide of time.”
“Don’t feel bad. I blew up one of my own factories, but public opinion never changed.
Actually—‘public opinion’ might not even exist anymore. It’s harder to find humans than data online these days.”
“There used to be people who longed for the house wines of some little restaurant they stumbled into while traveling the Lorraine region… not anymore.”
Even Alastor’s sentimental line didn’t amuse Vox.
The rich memories of human life once provided endless entertainment for Hell.
But over these two millennia, even the entertainment world had transformed, and Vox no longer cared much for it.
“The media you pinned your dreams on—didn’t it lose in the end?”
“No… not yet. Ah, I may have found it.”
“Found… your dream?”
“No—sorry, the setting to turn off the light.”
Vox dimmed noticeably.
The hue shifted to a warm orange.
“A kind of ‘sleep mode,’ I suppose.”
“Damn it! If this were one of my company’s products, I’d never allow such a stupid feature!”
For the past thousand years, VoxTech had focused entirely on geofront development; its consumer electronics division had been sold off long ago.
He never expected this to leave him unable to find replacement parts for his own head.
He had dug his own grave—and it was a very deep grave.
“What about asking your precious V-Crew?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Valentino’s the one who smashed my last remaining head.”
“Well, well. Sounds like you’re all doing lively underground.”
“Sorry we can’t be perfect for you!”
But even his V-Crew was no longer the same.
Velvette had abandoned her beauty-and-fashion academy after five centuries and now ran a tiny boutique.
Valentino was still violent, but he had changed careers—from porn director to art filmmaker.
When he confessed, looking tortured, “I think I’m done calling sex ‘fuck,’” Vox had no idea how to respond and simply fell silent.
Vox had been keeping some distance from the two lately.
Two thousand years ago, Vox had called Alastor an outdated fossil who couldn’t keep up with evolution.
But two thousand years later, Vox himself was the one being left behind.
Of course, VoxTech’s technological capabilities were still cutting-edge.
And Vox never neglected to update his own knowledge.
Yet he sensed something—something shapeless—trying to let go of him.
“You should just switch your head to a hologram.”
“I’m not… going hologram.”
“But you love cutting-edge tech.”
“Alastor… this is truly my last physical monitor.”
“A rare treasure indeed.”
“Aren’t you ever going to feel like kissing me?”
Alastor didn’t answer.
The light from Vox’s face washed everything out, leaving his expression unreadable.
Probably the same irritating smile he always wore, two thousand years ago.
Even after two millennia, their relationship hadn’t changed.
Whenever they sat together on a sofa, they left an entire seat’s distance between them.
Handshake? Forbidden.
Hug? Unthinkable.
Even brushing against a strand of Alastor’s hair earned him a look reserved solely for cockroaches.
Thinking about it made Vox’s newly installed head feel unbearably heavy.
“Vox… are you crying?”
Alastor sounded concerned.
Two thousand years ago, he never would have cared about someone else’s emotions.
If Vox’s expression changed, the Radio Demon would simply have sneered.
He certainly wouldn’t have come through the front door, carrying a gift for Vox’s birthday.
Two thousand years ago, such progress would have been unimaginable.
But today, even such small victories felt empty.
This was two thousand years later—his last chance.
Truly, in every possible sense, the very last.
“Hey, Alastor… I don’t think I can stand even one more second of things staying like this. I want to move forward.”
With his expression display still off, Vox’s head blinked every three seconds—
Light on. Light off. Light on.
Light on. Light off.
Light on… light off.