The Great Hazbin Hotel Food-Mon Census
Based on this ask here
It had been Charlie's idea.
“If we're going to live with them,” she declared, standing in the middle of the hotel lobby with a clipboard hugged to her chest, “we should at least know what we're living with. Categorized. Organized. Alphabetized, maybe—”
“Charlie.” Vaggie gave her the patient smile. “It's not a library.”
Charlie gasped, scandalized. “It is absolutely a library.”
“It's a food court that breeds.” Vaggie gestured toward a passing Dachsbun couple, followed by a waddling parade of drowsy puppies.
Charlie watched them toddle past. “...Those things aren't mutually exclusive.”
She clicked her pen with decisive finality. “So! We're doing a proper census. Species. Habitat. Temperament. Anything important.”
Before anyone could object—
“My dear!” Alastor appeared beside her in a crackle of cheerful static. “An official inventory of my delightful little culinary empire?”
His smile somehow widened further.
“Why, Miss Morningstar…” One hand rose dramatically to his chest. “I'm positively tickled.”
Charlie beamed. “I thought you'd like it.”
“My dear, like is far too modest a word.” He gave an appreciative little laugh. “I adore bureaucracy when it benefits me.”
“...That explains so much,” Vaggie muttered.
Charlie held out a spare clipboard. “Would you mind helping?”
Alastor glanced at it. A slow grin spread across his face.
“My dear, I would be absolutely delighted.”
Charlie smiled. Vaggie immediately regretted everything.
---
Five minutes later, what was supposed to be a simple headcount had somehow transformed into a fully guided tour of the Hazbin Hotel.
Alastor strolled at the front with effortless confidence, his cane tapping a steady rhythm against the polished floor. Charlie hurried beside him, scribbling frantic notes before he swept them onward to the next "exhibit." Everyone else shuffled behind like increasingly exhausted tourists, Sir Pentious trailed by his two Egg Bois.
"Ladies and gentlemen..." Alastor's voice rolled through the corridor with all the polished grandeur of a vintage radio announcer. "Welcome to the inaugural tour of the Hazbin Hotel Culinary Conservatory."
Charlie blinked. "...We're calling it that now?"
"We most certainly are."
With a theatrical flourish of his cane, he gestured toward the hallway ahead. "Please keep your hands inside the designated walkways at all times. Do not feed the exhibits. Several are capable of feeding you."
Angel leaned toward Husk. "This is officially weirder than the shark week orgy Vox threw last week."
"Everythin’s weirder than that," Husk grumbled, taking another pull from his flask. "An’ that's sayin' somethin'."
Unfazed, Alastor continued as though narrating a prestigious wildlife documentary.
"Our residents have each selected their preferred habitats throughout the establishment. Observe their fascinating daily routines. Marvel at their impeccable manners." He glanced over one shoulder, smiling pleasantly. "And should any of them offer you food, it is considered terribly impolite to refuse."
His eyes gleamed. "I cannot guarantee what becomes of the impolite."
Charlie dutifully wrote:
General Observation: Hospitality appears instinctive across most food species.
Vaggie pinched the bridge of her nose. "We're really doing this."
"We're really doing this," Charlie agreed brightly, barely looking up from her notes.
Alastor turned with a flourish, spreading both arms toward the corridor leading deeper into the hotel. "Wonderful!"
Static crackled excitedly around him, sharp enough to make the ceiling lights flicker overhead.
"Our first stop..." The grin on his face turned positively radiant. "...the Dessert Division.”
Charlie eagerly flipped to a fresh page. Angel sighed. Husk reached for his flask again. Sir Pentious, only among them, that looked thrilled. Vaggie quietly wondered if it was still too late to back out.
The tour had officially begun.
---
A sudden chill swept over them, cool enough to raise goosebumps. It smelled overwhelmingly sweet, rich with vanilla and sugar, but beneath it lingered something faintly metallic—the taste of iron that clung stubbornly to the back of the throat, laced with a thin note of caramel.
Charlie flipped to the first page of her clipboard. "Okay. Ice cream types first."
"I know that one!" Niffty chirped, pointing enthusiastically toward the chandelier. "That's a Vanilluxe!"
Floating majestically near the ceiling was the twin-headed ice cream creature. Its snowy frosting looked faintly translucent around the edges, as though carved from ice left too close to a fire. Thin, branching fissures spread beneath the frozen surface, where dark, syrup-like veins pulsed lazily with every blink. Every so often a crimson glow shimmered beneath the cracks, eerily reminiscent of Hell's ever-watchful eyes.
Hell's own contribution to an otherwise picture-perfect dessert.
"Is it supposed to glow like that?" Charlie asked, squinting.
"It is now," Alastor said, entirely too pleased about it. "Environmental enrichment."
Nearby hovered two Vanillish, while three tiny Vanillite drifted lazily around them like judgmental little scoops. The entire lineage somehow managed to look adorable and condescending at once.
"They're judging me," Husk said.
"They're judging everyone," Angel replied.
"They simply possess refined taste, Husker," Alastor sniffed.
"They're frozen dairy," Husk pointed out.
"They're cultured frozen dairy."
---
Nearby, an Alcremie pirouetted across the dining table with all the grace of a professional pastry chef. It paused beside Charlie's untouched cup of tea, the one that had mysteriously vanished that very morning, and with a cheerful trill piped a flawless spiral of fresh whipped cream onto the surface before delicately placing a sugar flower and a bright strawberry on top.
It stepped back, tilted its head, studied the presentation from three separate angles, and nodded once, entirely satisfied with its own artistry, before wandering off in search of its next unsuspecting beverage.
Charlie stared down at the tea. "...It just plated my drink."
"It did," Alastor agreed proudly, sounding every bit the delighted naturalist. "They are remarkably devoted to presentation. One might even say pathologically so."
Sir Pentious leaned in, eyes gleaming with genuine scientific fascination.
"Extraordinary..." He adjusted his goggles for a closer inspection. "The consistency of the whipped cream...the symmetry of the piping...why, it rivals even my finest confectionery techniques."
Slowly, carefully, he extended one hand toward the immaculate swirl. "I wonder if I might obtain a small sample for—"
The Alcremie swatted his hand away with a small blob of frosting.
Pentious recoiled, clutching his hand as though it had been bitten. "How dare it! I am a culinary genius of considerable renown!"
"It doesn't care," Alastor said cheerfully. "None of them do."
"They've redecorated my coffee three times this week," Vaggie added. "I never asked them to."
"They interpreted your silence as artistic trust."
"I interpreted it as someone stealing my mug."
Already writing before she'd fully processed it, Charlie noted:
Alcremie—Strawberry Cream (at time of observation).
Closely related to Milcery.
Extremely committed to garnish and presentation.
Do not leave beverages unattended.
---
"...'At time of observation'?" Vaggie repeated.
"My dear," Alastor said with an indulgent smile, "Alcremie are wonderfully diverse. They come in an astonishing variety of cream flavors, each with its own unique temperament and aesthetic sensibilities."
Charlie's pencil stopped moving. "...They what?"
Angel jerked a thumb toward the corner of the room. "There's like nine of 'em."
Sure enough, an entire gathering of Alcremie had claimed one of the hotel's tea tables. No two looked alike.
A Matcha Cream Alcremie meticulously arranged fresh mint leaves atop tiny tea cakes with the concentration of a master pâtissier.
Beside it, a Mint Cream Alcremie obsessed over perfect symmetry, replacing decorative chocolate curls every few seconds until they sat at precisely the correct angle.
A Lemon Cream Alcremie balanced impossibly thin candied citrus slices across pastries with surgical precision, occasionally nudging one a fraction of an inch before nodding in satisfaction.
Nearby, a delightfully fluffy Salted Cream Alcremie seemed convinced every dessert required "just a touch of contrast," sprinkling microscopic flakes of sea salt over anything that remained still for more than three seconds.
Across the table, a dazzling Ruby Swirl Alcremie silently transformed an ordinary sponge cake into something worthy of a royal banquet, layering glossy berries and jewel-red syrup with almost reverent care.
A radiant Rainbow Swirl Alcremie somehow decorated six cupcakes at once, humming happily to itself as ribbons of cream danced through the air. Its colorful swirl shimmered with an odd neon glow, the colors gently pulsing beneath its cream like the flickering soul of a sinner beneath blacklight.
Then Charlie's eyes turned to the decorations.
Tiny strawberries. Blueberries. Sugar flowers. Chocolate stars. Four-leaf clovers. Heart-shaped candies. Ribbon-shaped cream.
Each Alcremie wore its chosen decorations with unmistakable pride. One proudly sported oversized berry ornaments that nearly hid its face. Another refused to wear anything except elegant sugar flowers. Two more were engaged in what appeared to be an intensely polite disagreement over the proper placement of cream ribbons, quietly adjusting the same pastry back and forth with unwavering conviction.
It looked less like a gathering of wild creatures and more like an exclusive pâtisserie society hosting afternoon tea.
Alastor gestured toward the group with pride. "They come in vanilla, matcha, mint, salted cream, lemon, ruby cream, ruby swirl, caramel swirl, and the very rare rainbow swirl."
"Hey, ain't that the one that followed me to work last week and became that special Ruby Swirl after Val—" Angel started, then stopped.
He looked away and rubbed the back of his head. "Never mind."
Nobody pressed further.
Charlie cleared her throat and added one final note:
Alcremie (nine-plus observed flavors and decorations).
Decorative forms include berries, flowers, stars, ribbons, clovers, and assorted confectionery ornaments.
Individual garnish styles appear to be considered deeply personal artistic expression.
Supplementary Note: Do not ask Angel about the Ruby Swirl. Seriously. Don't.
---
Near the stairwell, Niffty was engaged in what could only be described as trench warfare.
Opposite her stood a fluffy Swirlix and an enormous Slurpuff, the carpet between them coated in an alarming layer of sticky sugar fluff.
Charlie blinked. "...What's happening?"
Without taking her eye off her enemies, Niffty answered, "Cotton candy division. Enemy territory."
"They're so cute, though," Charlie said weakly.
Niffty turned slowly, her eye twitching. "They're war criminals." She jabbed an accusing finger toward the pair. "Sticky, messy war criminals."
The Swirlix innocently sneezed a puff of powdered sugar onto the wall. The Slurpuff barked happily and wagged its tail, sending a tidal wave of pink cotton fluff erupting behind it, coating an innocent end table, two chairs, and Husk, who had made the unfortunate mistake of walking past.
He froze, looked down at himself, and slowly brushed a handful of pink fluff off his shoulder. “...I'm gonna need somethin' stronger.”
He took a long drink from his flask.
"...See?" Niffty hissed. "They know exactly what they're doing."
Swirlix / Slurpuff—Cotton Candy.
Extremely fluffy. Extremely sticky.Somehow both at once.
Current status: at war with Niffty.
Do not pet without gloves.
Do not let Niffty near the carpet cleaner — she has plans, and none of them are safe.
Recommend a ceasefire.
---
The dessert chill gave way, gradually, to a warmer, yeastier air as the hallway sloped downward toward the greenhouse. The smell of an oven that had never once been turned off, underscored, faintly, by ash.
Even the good smells in this hotel had a little Hell baked into them.
Alastor, naturally, referred to this wing with immense satisfaction as the Bakery Division.
The greenhouse nursery was significantly calmer, mostly because every bread creature in it had apparently declared it naptime.
Reginald the Dachsbun was asleep inside his favorite oversized flowerpot, perfectly loaf-shaped beneath a patch of artificial sunlight, with Doreen curled comfortably beside him, snoring softly.
A much smaller puppy made entirely of warm dough toddled past them, carrying a flowerpot twice its own size.
Sir Pentious stopped dead, eyes sparkling. "...They remind me of the queen's royal hounds," he murmured wistfully. "I heard countless stories about them when I was alive..."
The Egg Bois didn't wait another second. "BABY!"
They descended upon the tiny puppy in an ecstatic swarm, surrounding it with delighted coos as it wagged its tail furiously, thrilled by the sudden attention.
Angel pointed. "...Is that a baby?"
Alastor's expression softened, almost imperceptibly. "Ah. That would be Arnold, the Fidough. Reginald's nephew. The sweetest little fellow."
He crouched, letting the tiny puppy climb happily onto his polished shoes before scooping it into his arms with surprising gentleness. It immediately began licking his cheek.
"He smells like fresh bread," Charlie said.
"Warm sourdough," Husk corrected, after one experimental sniff. "With just a hint of butter."
Alastor beamed with unmistakable pride. "Freshly baked every morning."
Charlie scribbled enthusiastically as Alastor narrated:
Dachsbun + Fidough line. Bread dogs.
Confirmed family unit.
Smell incredible.
Extremely affectionate.
DO NOT TOAST.
"...Who would toast one?" Charlie asked in horror, staring at what she'd just written.
Every eye in the room slowly turned toward Angel.
"What?" he said defensively. "I was curious."
"You put one in the microwave," Husk reminded him.
"I THOUGHT IT WAS A CROISSANT!"
---
They left the bakery's warmth behind for something greener and stranger. Humid air thick with the smell of overripe fruit, and underneath it, that same faint sulfur tang.
"Apple division," Charlie announced brightly as they stepped into the hotel's sunroom, though calling it a sunroom was becoming increasingly generous.
At some point it had quietly evolved into a full-fledged orchard. Apple trees brushed the glass ceiling, berry bushes had claimed the corners, and vines snaked lazily across the walls.
Somewhere overhead, a Tropius dozed in the rafters, its wings singed faintly at the tips, as though it had learned the hard way what Hell's version of "sunny" actually meant.
No one remembered approving any of it.
"...How did the hotel get bigger?" Vaggie asked.
"It didn't," Alastor replied pleasantly. "The orchard simply became enthusiastic."
"That's not how architecture works."
"It appears to disagree."
Charlie decided not to question it and flipped to the next page.
"Okay. Apples first." She pointed toward a tiny red apple sitting innocently on the windowsill. "...Applin."
The apple wiggled, and a pair of tiny eyes peeked out, followed by a little green dragon nose.
"Oh!" Charlie beamed. "There you are!"
The Applin chose that exact moment to abandon the windowsill, scurry across the floor, and vanish directly into Sir Pentious's coat pocket.
Pentious froze. "...I have elected not to question this."
Charlie checked another box. "Flapple and Appletun."
The pair lounged on the windowsill in complete contrast to one another.
Flapple perched upright, wings twitching every few seconds, glaring suspiciously at anything that moved. Beside it, Appletun had become one with the Hell-warmed sunlight, motionless for nearly twenty minutes.
Charlie wasn't entirely convinced it was awake.
"It is awake," Alastor assured her. "It simply believes movement to be optional."
Appletun let out the tiniest, most contented sigh imaginable.
"...Fair enough," Charlie said, and scribbled it down.
"And this," Alastor announced, spreading his arms, "is Dipplin."
Curled protectively around an entire fruit bowl was a much larger apple dragon, its caramel-red shell gleaming in the sunlight, both heads eyeing the visitors with suspicion.
"It joined us rather recently."
"It bites," Vaggie said flatly, holding up a finger wrapped in fresh bandages.
Dipplin huffed indignantly.
"I thought it was a plain apple," Vaggie explained.
"Really, Vagatha? I thought you were more careful than that." Alastor huffed right back at her.
"He was sitting in a bowl of fruits and looked exactly like the fruit! How am I supposed to know that he was there?!"
Charlie leaned around Dipplin. "...What's behind him?"
Everyone followed her gaze. Something enormous shifted beneath the apple trees. Branches trembled. Leaves rustled. Then five enormous syrup-coated necks slowly rose into view, and the room collectively stopped breathing.
Towering above the orchard, Hydrapple blinked all five pairs of golden eyes at once, its leafy frills rippling gently in the breeze. One head yawned. Another watched the group with mild interest. A third simply continued eating an apple the size of Charlie's head.
"Hydrapple," Alastor said, with unmistakable paternal pride, his smile warming further. "Dipplin's final form. Absolutely delightful, once one earns its trust."
One of Hydrapple's heads affectionately nudged Alastor's shoulder. Another draped itself over him like an oversized, affectionate snake. A third deposited an apple directly into his waiting hand.
"See? It's saying good morning."
"There are five heads," Vaggie whispered.
"Five perspectives, my dear. They're marvelous conversationalists."
Sir Pentious, who had gone very pale and very still, cleared his throat with as much dignity as he could muster. "I have built superweapons less structurally alarming than that creature."
From within his pocket, the Applin gave a small, muffled chirp, as if in solidarity.
Charlie noticed thick amber syrup dripping slowly from one of Hydrapple's leafy horns into a waiting glass bottle.
"Is that syrup?"
"The finest pancake topping you'll ever taste," Alastor said proudly.
Charlie quietly wrote:
Applin → Flapple/Appletun → Dipplin → Hydrapple.
Ask before petting.
Ask VERY nicely.
Bring apples as tribute.
Dad would probably love these guys…..
---
Down the hall, the orchard's green humidity gave way abruptly to something colder and drier, the air prickling faintly with static. The same crawling, watched feeling that settled over a room right before Alastor said something devastating with a smile on his face.
The Tea Service, he called it.
The Haunted Division, Vaggie called it, and refused to be argued out of it.
"This section concerns me," Vaggie announced, before she'd even entered the room.
The china cabinet occupied the far wall, filled with elegant porcelain cups, delicate teapots, sugar bowls, and cream pitchers. Everything sat perfectly still. The room was perfectly silent. And yet everyone in the group felt, quite distinctly, that something was watching them.
Then several lids slowly rotated to follow the group.
"...See?" Vaggie said flatly.
"Ah, the tea service!" Alastor exclaimed, utterly delighted as he swept open the cabinet doors with theatrical flourish.
Inside, several Sinistea politely tipped themselves in greeting. A dignified Polteageist offered a refined little bow. Further back, a pair of Poltchageist whispered quietly to one another while an elderly-looking Sinistcha steeped peacefully atop the highest shelf.
Charlie stared, wide-eyed. "...They're beautiful."
"They're haunted," Vaggie countered.
"They're enthusiastically haunted," Alastor corrected. "There's a difference."
"...Is there?" Vaggie raised a brow.
"Immensely."
"So," Vaggie said, eyeing one particularly ornate teapot, "are they possessed?"
"Entirely."
"...Do they poison people?"
Alastor looked scandalized. "My dear, they only poison rude people."
The Polteageist gave a single approving nod.
"I somehow feel worse," Vaggie muttered, rubbing her temple.
Sir Pentious sighed mournfully. "...There goes my dream of enjoying a proper English tea service..."
Right on cue, Niffty skipped into the room carrying a stack of tiny embroidered napkins.
"Oh! My babies!" Without hesitation, she scooped up a Sinistea and cradled it against her cheek. It let out a delighted little trill. Another climbed onto her shoulder. A third settled into her apron pocket.
"They like you," Charlie said.
"They adore me," Niffty said gleefully.
"...Why?"
"Oh!" Niffty beamed as though the answer were obvious. "I polish all their cups, fold their napkins, and teach them how to brew poison tea to kill all the bugs!"
"That's... one way to bond," Vaggie said, deciding wisely not to ask further.
Charlie quietly wrote:
Tea creatures.
Possibly sentient porcelain. Definitely haunted.
Do not insult the china.
Niffty appears to have been adopted as their leader. DO NOT question this.
Reminds me of the tea parties I used to have with Mom and Dad. Somehow, despite everything, this room feels oddly comforting.
---
The crackling static gradually faded, replaced by the low, steady hum of medical equipment. The air changed just as abruptly, turning crisp and impossibly clean, carrying the competing scents of antiseptic and lavender.
This, apparently, was the Medical Division.
The old supply closet was no longer a supply closet. Nobody knew exactly when it had happened.
One week, it had been crammed with spare towels, a perpetually leaking mop bucket, three broken lamps, and several dusty boxes labeled Charlie's Miscellaneous Decorations.
The next, it was a fully operational medical clinic.
Fresh paper flowers decorated every windowsill—Hell, after all, had no real flowers that wouldn't kill you on contact. Neatly labeled medicine cabinets lined the walls. Tiny examination rooms branched off into quiet hallways.
The whole place smelled faintly of lavender, fresh linens, and boiled eggs. It also contained an alarming number of clipboards.
Charlie narrowed her eyes. "...Those are my clipboards."
Alastor followed her gaze. "No," he replied pleasantly. "They're their clipboards now."
Charlie stared at him. "...You let them unionize my office supplies?"
"I prefer to think they've found their calling."
A Blissey glided gracefully from room to room, checking temperatures with practiced efficiency. Nearby, a Chansey wheeled an overflowing cart stacked with perfectly folded bandages, medicine bottles, and fresh linens. Three tiny Happiny hurried faithfully after her, each struggling under medical supplies nearly twice their own size without a single complaint.
Despite the cheerful chaos, nothing collided, nothing was misplaced. Every patient received exactly what they needed at precisely the right moment. The entire operation flowed with unnerving, almost supernatural precision.
More organized than the actual Extermination committee, Vaggie thought, and immediately wished she hadn't.
Charlie watched for nearly a minute before quietly asking, "...Who's in charge?"
Nobody answered. Mostly because nobody actually knew. It certainly wasn't the demons.
---
A Blissey suddenly appeared beside Sir Pentious carrying a perfectly warm egg. Without saying a word, she gently placed it into his waiting hands.
Sir Pentious blinked, and his eyes immediately sparkled. "Oh my..." He carefully cradled the egg against his chest. "Thank you so very much."
The Blissey smiled with quiet satisfaction, gave his shoulder a gentle pat, and glided away.
Meanwhile, the Egg Bois had somehow been shepherded into a brightly colored play area in the corner of the clinic.
No one had actually seen it happen.
One moment they had been standing beside Sir Pentious. The next, they were happily playing with a collection of other babies under the watchful care of a Chansey, who sang cheerful nursery songs while encouraging them to dance in a clumsy little circle.
The Egg Bois, naturally, threw themselves into the activity with boundless enthusiasm. It appeared they would be occupied for quite some time.
Sir Pentious watched the scene unfold. His lower lip quivered. "Oh... oh, that's absolutely precious..."
Comically oversized tears burst from his eyes as he clutched the warm egg tighter, utterly overwhelmed by the sheer wholesomeness of it all. The tiny Applin nestled inside his coat peeked out, climbed onto his shoulder, and gently nuzzled his cheek in comfort.
Sir Pentious sniffled. "...Thank you, little one."
Charlie smiled so hard her cheeks hurt.
"This," Vaggie admitted reluctantly, "is the only department in this entire hotel that actually makes sense."
"My dear." Alastor looked scandalized. "They all make perfect sense. They're simply specialized."
---
Charlie noticed another hallway branching off the clinic, a hand-painted wooden sign hanging above the doorway, its border ringed with tiny paw prints.
DAYCARE
"...Wait." She blinked. "We have a daycare?"
"We most certainly do," Alastor said casually, opening the door.
The room beyond was impossibly cozy.
Soft blankets covered the floor in cheerful patches of color. Tiny beds lined one wall beneath handmade quilts. Shelves overflowed with plush toys, picture books, and wooden puzzles. Miniature climbing frames occupied one corner, while a crackling fireplace somehow warmed the nursery despite no one remembering there ever being a chimney.
Dozens of pillows shaped like berries, apples, loaves of bread, flowers, and stars were scattered everywhere, and somewhere in the background a gentle lullaby drifted through the room.
Charlie melted instantly. "Oh my gosh..."
Tiny creatures were everywhere.
A sleepy Fidough curled into a warm loaf beside two snoring Smoliv. Several Cherubi bounced happily around a play mat, trying and failing to stack wooden blocks. A tiny Applin snoozed inside a knitted apple basket.
Baby Combee buzzed clumsily through the air while a patient Happiny caught them whenever they tumbled. One curious Milcery was finger-painting the floor with whipped cream.
Everyone in the room melted at the sight of the little ones.
Charlie's voice dropped to a whisper. "...They're babies."
"They hatch rather quickly and require attentive supervision," Alastor explained as he gestured proudly toward the Chansey family bustling about the nursery. "Fortunately, our nursing staff volunteered almost immediately."
A Happiny carefully tucked a blanket around a sleeping Bounsweet. Nearby, a Chansey patiently read a picture book to three utterly captivated Nacli, each leaning forward with complete concentration.
Across the room, a Blissey gently rocked a tiny Dachsbun puppy who had apparently decided that naps were only acceptable if accompanied by humming.
Charlie pressed a hand against her heart. "I'm going to cry."
Then she noticed something sitting in the center of the nursery: a large woven basket, filled with eggs. Lots and lots of eggs.
"...Alastor?"
"Yes?"
"...Whose eggs are those?"
"The creatures'."
Silence.
Charlie laughed. "...No, really."
"I am being entirely serious."
The room grew very quiet.
Vaggie looked from the basket to the Fidough puppy chewing on a toy bone, then to the sleeping Smoliv and the baby Combee.
"...Those become..." She gestured uncertainly between the basket and the babies. "...those?"
"Precisely."
Angel blinked. "Hold on." He pointed at a Fidough. "The bread dog came outta that?"
"Indeed."
"And the olive?"
"Also an egg."
"The milk cow?"
"Egg."
"The haunted teacup?"
"Egg."
"The mushroom?"
"Egg."
"The sentient pile of salt?"
"...Also an egg. Every one of them came from an egg," Alastor pointed out, matter-of-fact.
Charlie slowly lowered her clipboard. "I— I don't know what I expected."
Husk pointed toward a peacefully grazing Miltank. "...You're tellin' me the cow hatched?"
"Correct," Alastor said, grinning at everyone's reactions.
"...I'm gonna need another drink."
"I anticipated as much."
---
At that exact moment, one of the eggs wiggled. Everyone froze. A tiny crack appeared, then another, then another.
Charlie gasped. "...It's hatching!"
Two Happiny hurried over with practiced efficiency. One placed a tiny blanket nearby, another prepared warm milk.
A Chansey checked a clipboard while a Blissey hummed a gentle lullaby.
The shell broke apart with a tiny pop, and a very sleepy Sinistea peeked out. It blinked once, looked around the nursery, and toddled directly toward Blissey. Without hesitation, Blissey scooped it into her arms, and the newborn immediately fell asleep against her chest.
Charlie made the tiniest squeaking noise. "...I think that might be the cutest thing I've ever seen."
Nobody argued with her.
Near the window, a content Miltank quietly munched hay. Every so often a soft plinking sound rang out as the bucket beneath her filled itself with fresh milk.
No one commented. Nobody wanted to. And everyone silently tried very, very hard not to remember that they'd all had milk with breakfast.
Beside her, a towering Tropius snored peacefully beneath the skylight, ripe bananas hanging lazily from its neck, occasionally dropping into a waiting basket to be gathered by the nursery staff and processed into baby food.
Charlie watched the whole scene unfold — the milk, the fruit, the daycare, the clinic, the babies. Everywhere she looked, someone was caring for someone else.
"They're just..." she murmured, unable to keep the smile from her face. "They're just taking care of everyone."
"They insist upon contributing," Alastor said, with an amused smile. "I've attempted to refuse. They become rather insistent."
As if summoned by the comment, a Blissey gently placed another warm egg into Alastor's hands. He sighed with theatrical resignation. "...You see? I am but a humble recipient of overwhelming generosity."
Charlie laughed softly and made her entries:
Happiny / Chansey / Blissey — Hospital Wing & Daycare.
Professional caregivers.
Seem genetically incapable of not parenting anything within eyesight.
Miltank — Fresh dairy supplier.
Entirely self-appointed.
The milk is excellent.
Actually watching where it comes from, however….is an experience.
Tropius — Mobile fruit orchard.
The herd takes turns sharing fruit with the kitchen.
Also appears to have mastered the art of professional napping.
General Observation
These creatures hatch from eggs regardless of type. This somehow includes bread, fruit, cows, dragons, mushrooms, haunted porcelain, and living salt.
Do not attempt to apply biology.
Conclusion: every creature in this room appears genetically incapable of not taking care of someone.
---
They stepped back out into warmer air, and the antiseptic calm gave way to something sweeter and stranger. It was like sun-baked earth and crushed fruit, and beneath it, that unmistakable coppery tang that clung to anything that grew too well in a place that wasn't supposed to grow anything at all.
The Cherry Division, Alastor announced, as though it needed the introduction.
The orchard gave way to a small, sun-drenched berry garden. Charlie barely had time to step inside before something bumped gently against her ankle. She looked down to find a tiny Cherubi smiling up at her.
"Oh!" She crouched immediately. "Hello there!"
The little creature chirped happily and proudly presented the tiny cherry-like fruit attached to its side.
"That's a very cute fruit," she told it.
"It stores nutrients until it's gathered enough to become that," Alastor explained, pointing to the corner of the room.
There, a graceful Cherrim basked beneath a skylight. "Graceful" undersold just how much Hell had gotten its claws into this one.
As the crimson light of Hell's sky filtered through the glass ceiling, its petals slowly unfurled into a brilliant, blood-red bloom, sharper and glossier, each petal edged in a thin, obsidian-black thorn that caught the light like broken glass. Where a normal bloom might show soft yellow at its center, this one pulsed faintly, like an ember that refused to go out, and a curl of dark smoke drifted lazily from the center whenever it stretched.
It looked less like a sunny little flower and more like something that had crawled fully formed out of the Palace gardens.
Charlie actually gasped. "It changed! It looks like one of the flowers from the Palace gardens. The scary ones."
"It does that whenever it's sunny," Alastor said, entirely too casually for a creature that currently resembled a weaponized rose. "We installed additional skylights just for it."
"...Should it look like that?" Vaggie asked, taking a very deliberate step back from the thorns.
"It's simply had time to adjust to its environment," Alastor said. "Hell has a way of bringing out one's true colors."
The Cherrim preened, apparently taking this as a compliment.
Charlie quietly wrote:
Cherubi / Cherrim — Very cute berries.
Extremely friendly.
Cherrim's bloom form has developed noticeably sharper, darker features, similar to the plants in Hell.
Apparently capable of convincing Alastor to commission architectural renovations.
Their flowers remind me of the gardens at home... where Mom and Dad used to walk together...
---
The berry patch's coppery sweetness thinned into something lighter and greener as they wandered on, the temperature climbing again, humid and tropical.
Somewhere between the vines, a small sign read TROPICAL DIVISION, in handwriting Charlie was fairly certain belonged to Niffty.
"...Wait." Charlie flipped another page. "Do we have more berries?"
"We certainly do," Alastor said, pointing them out.
A tiny Bounsweet bounced happily through the grass like an overexcited rubber ball, smelling faintly of fresh fruit. Charlie reached down to pet it, and it immediately hugged her ankle.
"Oh! I've been chosen." She giggled and scooped it up into a hug.
Nearby, a graceful Steenee twirled through the orchard with surprising elegance, balancing baskets of freshly picked berries atop its leafy crown. Every movement resembled a dance. Even when carrying groceries, it somehow looked graceful.
"...Show-off," Angel muttered. The Steenee gave him a very smug little smile in return.
A loud THWACK!
Everyone turned. A ripe apple had bounced off Angel's forehead. High above, a regal Tsareena lowered one leg.
"Did she just kick an apple at me?"
"You were about to step on a Smoliv," Vaggie pointed out.
Angel looked down and found it was true. He'd nearly stepped on the little guy. "...Fair."
Tsareena gave a satisfied nod before returning to her post, supervising the orchard like an extremely glamorous drill sergeant.
Charlie wrote:
Bounsweet → Steenee → Tsareena.
Very sweet. Best in juice.
Excellent gardeners.
Will absolutely kick you if you endanger smaller creatures.
---
The tropical hum faded into something damp and earthy, the air going cool and close, faintly sour with the smell of mushrooms and mold.
Charlie had already privately named it the Questionable Vegetable Corner in her notes, on account of nobody being entirely sure whether "vegetable" applied.
"...What," Vaggie said, her voice perfectly flat, "is that."
Sitting perfectly still beneath a shady mushroom patch was a tiny Foongus.
"Foongus," Alastor replied cheerfully. "And over there is its adult form, Amoongus."
Several feet away stood an Amoongus large enough to use as an umbrella.
"...Is it going to gas us?" Vaggie asked.
"Only if provoked," Alastor hummed.
"...Generally speaking?"
"Generally speaking."
"Alastor." Vaggie crossed her arms and gave him a flat look. "Define provoked."
He considered this. "Rudeness. Aggression. Attempted theft. Calling it a mushroom."
Vaggie blinked. "It isn't?"
"It prefers 'fungal gentleman.'"
The Amoongus gave one solemn nod.
"...I hate that I believe you."
Angel, who had been unusually quiet, raised a hand. "Hey, Smiles?"
"Yes?"
"So," he gestured vaguely toward the mushroom creatures, "since they're technically shrooms... can I—"
"No." The answer arrived before Angel finished speaking.
"...You didn't even let me finish."
"I already knew."
"You don't know what I was gonna ask."
"You were going to ask if they possessed recreational properties," Alastor said.
Angel had the decency to look away, just a little. "...Maybe."
Charlie lowered her clipboard. "...What exactly would happen if he did?"
Alastor smiled pleasantly. "The mushrooms would be terribly offended."
The Foongus nodded very seriously.
Charlie wrote:
Foongus / Amoongus — Possibly toxic.
Statistically safe, according to Alastor.
Do NOT let Angel perform experiments.
She underlined the last line three times.
---
The earthy, mushroom-damp air disappeared without warning. One step carried them from the humid glow of the greenhouse into an oddly crisp atmosphere that smelled faintly of sea salt and clean ocean breeze.
Nobody had ever managed to properly name this corner. "The One Nobody Can Categorize" was the closest Charlie's clipboard ever got.
"And this," Alastor said, gesturing with all the ceremony of unveiling a priceless work of art, "is Tatsugiri."
Everyone followed his hand to a tiny orange fish, peacefully asleep inside a wooden sushi display case.
An awkward silence settled before Husk finally spoke. "...Why do we own a sushi case?"
Alastor only shrugged. "It seemed appropriate."
"...That answers nothing."
Charlie knelt beside it. "It looks so little..."
The Tatsugiri cracked open one eye, saw everyone staring, turned around dramatically, and resumed sleeping.
"...Rude," Angel muttered.
"Tatsugiri are creatures of very strong conviction," Alastor explained. "They know precisely what they like."
"What else does it like?"
"Sitting on rice," Alastor said, clearly amused.
"...Of course it does," Angel sighed.
Charlie quietly wrote:
Tatsugiri — Fish (Sushi?? Still investigating).
Possesses strong opinions.
Do not question the sushi display case.
---
The brine gave way to something warmer and homier as they crossed into the kitchen. Warm bread, fresh herbs, roasted garlic, and the rich, green fragrance of olive oil filled the air. Husk had taken to calling this corner the Oil Baron's office, and the name had simply stuck.
"This," Alastor declared with a satisfied sweep of his arm, "is our stop."
Beside one of the long wooden counters stood Olivia, the hotel's beloved Arboliva.
She worked in peaceful silence. Tiny olives swayed gently among the leaves crowning her branches, each one slowly beading with droplets of liquid gold. As they ripened, the droplets gathered at their tips before falling with soft, rhythmic plinks into waiting glass bottles arranged beneath her boughs.
The entire process looked so effortless it was almost mesmerizing.
Sir Pentious approached her with a smile. "Good day, Miss Olivia," he greeted warmly. "I do hope you're doing well today."
Olivia looked up from her work. She smiled with quiet warmth and inclined her head in greeting before returning to the steady rhythm of filling another bottle.
Husk strolled past without breaking stride, quietly swapping a full bottle of olive oil for an empty one. Olivia gave the tiniest nod. He nodded back. Neither said a word.
"...How long has that been your morning routine?" Charlie asked.
"...Couple months."
"And you never mentioned it?"
"Didn't seem important."
She shook her head, smiling, and made the entry:
Smoliv → Dolliv → Arboliva.
Produces exceptional olive oil.
Angel cried after tasting it. Claims he was "having a religious experience" and immediately started muttering in Italian.
Sir Pentious occasionally borrows the oil for his inventions.
---
The oil's richness thinned into a lighter, floral warmth, the low, steady drone of wings filling the air before they'd even opened the greenhouse door.
"The Apiary," Alastor announced. A tiny hand-lettered sign hung crookedly beside the door: The Honey Division.
"...Please tell me those aren't Hell bees," Charlie said, slowing as she peered through the doorway. "I thought Aunt Bee kept all of those in the Greed Ring."
"They're ordinary bees," Alastor assured her. "...Mostly."
The greenhouse beyond was awash in color. Flowers stretched from wall to wall in meticulously tended rows beneath warm artificial sunlight. Unlike their earthly counterparts, however, Hell's flora possessed considerably more enthusiasm for self-defense. Thick black thorns curled around stems like grasping claws, blossoms hid rows of needle-like teeth, and more than one carnivorous plant lazily snapped its jaws at passing insects.
It looked less like a flower garden and more like a botanical hazard zone.
Despite the hazards, tiny Combees buzzed happily from bloom to bloom without the slightest trace of concern. Each carried impossibly small droplets of nectar as they expertly navigated between snapping maws and thorny vines, gathering nectar from Hell's bizarre plant life with the confidence of creatures long since adapted to it.
They pollinated the infernal flowers. The flowers fed them. And occasionally, the flowers tried to eat them. Nature found a balance.
Charlie watched, fascinated, as one Combee carefully deposited a spoonful of fresh honey into the kitchen pantry before flying straight back outside.
"They're making deliveries..."
"They insist," Alastor said. "We've attempted to pay them. They found the concept offensive."
Charlie laughed. "I... don't know why that's so adorable."
"It appears to be a matter of professional pride."
At the heart of the greenhouse floated a magnificent Vespiquen. She surveyed her colony with calm, regal composure, every inch the queen.
Just then, one young Combee wandered a little too close to a particularly hungry-looking carnivorous blossom. The flower snapped shut and the little bee squeaked for help. Before it could be swallowed, half a dozen Combee descended like a tiny tactical strike force. Two distracted the plant with rapid feints while another wedged itself beneath the snapping jaws. The remaining workers pulled their panicked companion free before the blossom could close again.
A chorus of triumphant buzzing erupted as the rescued Combee was quickly fussed over by its coworkers before everyone calmly resumed collecting nectar.
"...She's running an entire workforce," Charlie whispered, watching the hive effortlessly reorganize itself around the brief emergency. "Like a queen."
"Oh, unquestionably."
Vespiquen noticed them watching and gave Alastor a single dignified nod. Alastor returned the gesture with equal formality.
"...Do they have meetings?" Charlie asked.
"Every Thursday," Alastor said casually. "I've attended several."
"...You're joking."
"They review nectar production, discuss new hive locations, and exchange strategies for dealing with particularly aggressive Hell flora." His grin widened. "Their battlefield tactics are remarkably sophisticated."
Charlie wasn't entirely sure whether that was fascinating or terrifying.
Then something caught her eye. Several squat glass bottles sat neatly arranged on a nearby shelf, each filled with sparkling amber liquid and decorated with tiny labels covered in cheerful little bees.
"Are those Beelzejuice?"
"Not quite," Alastor hummed. "They've attempted to recreate it several times but have yet to duplicate the original recipe."
He picked up one of the bottles and held it to the light. "I suspect they've simply created their own variety."
"Dibs on the newest batch," Husk called from behind them without hesitation.
Charlie quietly wrote:
Combee → Vespiquen.
Primary honey suppliers.
Possibly the most organized division in the hotel.
Hold staff meetings weekly. Apparently discuss military tactics.
Aunt Bee would love to meet them.
Vespiquen reminds me of Mom.
I miss h—
Before she could finish writing it, Charlie quickly flipped to a new page.
---
The warm sweetness of honey faded behind them as the group descended another flight of stairs, eventually emerging back onto the main floor. More specifically, the section beside the bar.
Everyone simply called it the Hole.
Charlie had tried, several times, to give it a more dignified name. It never stuck, mostly because it centered around the wall. The wall beside the bar, the wall that was perpetually, inevitably, and almost impressively getting blown up.
Today, however, a small gathering of living rocks had claimed it.
"Is that a pile of moving rocks?" Charlie pointed at what appeared to be a stack of decorative salt blocks.
One of them opened an eye.
"What the—?" Charlie blinked.
Three tiny Nacli toddled happily across the pantry floor, each carrying little crystals of salt like proud construction workers, while a sturdier Naclstack reinforced one corner of the pantry wall.
"Are they building a wall out of salt?" Husk asked.
"Yes, Husker," Alastor said. "Yes, they are."
Nearby, Sir Pentious had wandered over to inspect the worksite, peering fascinatedly at the crystalline foundation.
"...Extraordinary..." he muttered. "Salt should not possess this level of structural integrity..."
He crouched lower, already slipping into the dangerously focused expression of an inventor who had just found something he desperately wanted to take apart.
"...Unless the molecular lattice has somehow recrystallized under infernal pressure, or perhaps—"
The floor suddenly trembled. Heavy footsteps echoed through the pantry, and a towering Garganacl slowly ducked beneath the doorway.
Sir Pentious immediately abandoned science. "On second thought!" He hurried back behind the rest of the group with remarkable speed.
The Garganacl paid him no mind. Its massive body had weathered into deep smoky grays, the crystalline plates darkened by centuries of Hell's harsh environment. Thin veins of crimson wound through its joints like iron-rich mineral deposits, giving it the appearance of an ancient salt flat that had spent far too many summers baking beneath Hell's relentless sun.
And yet, as it entered, the room instantly smelled clean and fresh.
Without a word, the Garganacl approached the damaged floor beside the ruined wall. It rested one enormous crystalline hand against the fractured stone. A soft crackling echoed through the pantry. Salt crystals bloomed outward in intricate branching patterns, spreading through every crack before hardening into seamless white stone.
Within moments the damage had vanished, and the wall looked as though it had never been broken at all.
Charlie blinked. "...Did it just repair the building with salt?"
"Indeed it did," Alastor replied, sounding impossibly pleased. "The Nacli family possesses remarkable control over mineral crystallization."
He glanced toward the perpetually doomed wall by the bar. "Fortunately."
Charlie decided that was probably explanation enough and wrote:
Nacli → Naclstack → Garganacl.
Living salt mines.
Repairs structural damage using salt.
The walls taste like salt now. At this rate, the entire hotel is eventually going to become one giant salt block.
Honestly... that might make it sturdier.
---
The census was almost finished. Almost. There was one entry left, and it was the one nobody at the hotel had ever quite worked up the nerve to ask about.
Everyone headed toward the lobby, and somewhere along the way the air had gone very quiet.
Charlie flipped to the final page of her clipboard. "...There should only be one left."
The moment the words left her mouth, every creature in the room suddenly developed somewhere else to be.
A nearby Chansey quietly turned her medical cart around and disappeared down another hallway. The Alcremie abandoned their tea service with startling efficiency. Reginald and Doreen hurriedly rounded up every Fidough puppy in sight and shepherded them away. Even the Combee buzzed off in neat, orderly formation.
Sir Pentious felt a sudden tug beneath his coat. The tiny Applin nestled there wriggled deeper into the folds of fabric until it was practically burrowing into his scales.
"...Steady there," Pentious murmured. The little apple only clung tighter.
Even Hydrapple, whose idea of “moving” usually involved shifting one head every ten minutes, very deliberately decided it had important business elsewhere.
Charlie watched the mass exodus with growing concern. "...Why is everyone leaving?"
"Oh." Alastor's smile never faltered. "They're simply being polite."
Charlie frowned. "...That's not reassuring."
"It wasn't intended to be."
That did absolutely nothing to improve her confidence.
Her gaze followed Alastor's toward the fireplace.
Curled comfortably in the shadows beside it sat a creature no larger than a housecat—small, round, and purple. Its body resembled a ripe peach wrapped in soft violet hues, while faint ribbons of poisonous mist drifted lazily around it before dissolving harmlessly into the air. A gentle violet aura pulsed from within its tiny form, washing the room in an oddly soothing glow.
The little creature hummed quietly to itself a soft, pleasant, oddly familiar melody.
"...Wait." Charlie's eyes widened. "Is that—"
The humming resolved into an unmistakable tune: the opening jingle of one of Alastor's old radio broadcasts. Static crackled. The tiny creature happily swayed from side to side in perfect rhythm.
"Al," Vaggie said, very, very carefully. "What is that?"
"Ah." Alastor's grin widened even further. He strolled toward the tiny creature without the slightest hint of concern and crouched to scratch beneath its chin. "That is Pecharunt."
The creature let out a delighted trill that came out sounding, unmistakably, like an eldritch purr.
Charlie waited. Surely there had to be more to the explanation than that.
"...And?"
"Oh." Alastor chuckled. "My little apprentice simply knows when to make an entrance."
The room fell silent.
"...Apprentice?"
"Indeed." He folded his hands behind his back. "Pecharunt is an exceptionally fascinating creature. It possesses an unusual toxin capable of being refined into a rather delicious variety of mochi."
Charlie brightened. "Oh! So it's another food producer—"
"No," Alastor said flatly. "Absolutely not."
"The mochi," he continued pleasantly, "has the curious property of drawing forth one's deepest desires..."
Angel shrugged. "Still doesn't sound tha—"
"...while also allowing Pecharunt to manipulate whoever consumes it."
Silence.
Angel nodded slowly. "...There it is."
Pecharunt looked away, the picture of innocence. Nobody believed the act for a second.
"It also possesses extraordinary charisma," Alastor continued, absently scratching beneath the little Mythical's chin. "An instinctive understanding of influence, a remarkable gift for gathering followers..."
His smile became just a touch more knowing. "...and a rather alarming talent for convincing others to do exactly what it wants."
Pecharunt smiled proudly.
"Al," Charlie said slowly, "that sounds less like a cute little creature and more like an Overlord."
"Exactly." Alastor smiled. "I recognized the potential almost immediately."
His voice stayed cheerful, but there was unmistakable sincerity beneath it now.
"Given enough time and sufficient power," he said, looking fondly down at the little Mythical curled against his shoulder, "it could quite easily have become one."
The room grew noticeably quieter. Even Husk lowered his bottle.
Charlie looked at Pecharunt again. Not as a tiny, adorable creature, but as something that genuinely possessed the potential to rule through manipulation, if left unchecked.
"So," she looked back at Alastor, "you took it under your wing?"
"My dear," he sounded almost amused that she had to ask. "Of course I did."
"Someone had to teach it," he continued, smoothing his fingers gently over the little creature's shell. "Power without restraint breeds monsters. Power with discipline becomes responsibility."
"So," Angel blinked, "you're basically raising an Overlord?"
"A future Overlord," Alastor corrected. "If it chooses that path. And should it do so—"
His grin returned in full.
"—I intend for it to become the sort of ruler whose subjects follow willingly. Not because they're compelled. Not because they're incapable of refusing."
Pecharunt slowly lifted one tiny paw. A faint violet glow shimmered around it.
Alastor gently tapped the little Mythical on the forehead. "Nice try. No mind control."
The glow vanished. Pecharunt let out the most pitiful pout imaginable.
"...How did you even meet it?" Vaggie finally asked.
"Oh, entirely by chance," Alastor laughed.
"Naturally," she said, rolling her eyes.
"It had been alone for quite some time." Pecharunt nodded sadly. "It attempted to offer me one of its mochi."
"...You didn't eat it?" Vaggie asked.
Alastor looked almost offended. "Really now, Vagatha—"
"Still not my name."
"—I've survived Hell for decades. I know better than to accept suspicious confectionery from mysterious strangers."
Pecharunt puffed out its cheeks.
"It sulked for nearly three days. Therefore, it was an excellent learning opportunity."
Charlie glanced toward a large cabinet against one wall, a polished brass plaque hung across the front:
CONFISCATED MOCHI
Eat at your own risk. If you end up in indentured servitude, that's on you. You're in Hell and you accepted food from a stranger. Idiot.
Charlie wrote the final entry:
Pecharunt — Mochi type???
Produces Binding Mochi.
Possesses extraordinary leadership potential and an innate talent for influence.
Currently under Alastor's mentorship. Please don't let it end in disaster.
Potential Future Position: Overlord... hopefully the benevolent variety.
---
Charlie finally glanced back at her clipboard: nine pages. Thirty-seven doodles. Four coffee stains. Countless arrows. Entire sections circled three times.
One margin note simply read: WHY ARE THERE SO MANY BREAD DOGS? DO THEY NEED TO BE FIXED??
She cleared her throat. "...Okay. Final count." She tapped the paper with the end of her pencil. "...Fifty-two."
"Fifty-three," Alastor cut in.
Charlie blinked. "...What?"
He was already looking toward the kitchen. Everyone followed his gaze. A tiny shape peeked cautiously from behind Olivia's massive roots. It was round, green, and covered in leaves.
Nobody recognized it. Then, it blinked.
Alastor's smile softened, just a little. "When did you arrive?"
The newcomer chirped. Olivia lowered one graceful branch over it, protectively.
"...You don't know either?" Charlie asked.
"My dear. They simply arrive," he said, gesturing to the little one, "as all wonderful things do."
Charlie slowly closed the clipboard. She didn't write the new number down. There didn't seem to be a point anymore. Tomorrow there would probably be fifty-four.
By next week, who knows?
She pulled a decorative throw pillow over her face. Vaggie quietly sat beside her, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and leaned against her.
"I live in a hotel," she said into the pillow, "that has undergone spontaneous ecosystem formation."
Nobody corrected her. Because she wasn't wrong.
---
Across the room, Husk silently reached beneath the bar and produced a bottle, then another. He looked toward the orchard. Toward the haunted tea cabinet. Toward the medical wing. Toward the tiny future Overlord curled in Alastor's lap. He poured himself a drink, and a second one for good measure.
"...Long day?" Angel asked.
"...Long reality."
Nearby, Niffty sat triumphantly atop her throne of carefully arranged dead rats. Around her, an ever-growing congregation of Sinistea and Polteageist clustered like devoted little parishioners attending afternoon service. One balanced a teacup atop another's head while another gently adjusted Niffty's apron.
No one questioned any of it. They valued their sanity.
Across the room, Sir Pentious remained seated on the rug, happily entertaining the tiny Applin nestled around his shoulders while carefully cradling the egg Blissey had given him earlier. He rocked it absentmindedly.
"...Who's Daddy's little scientific miracle?"
The Egg Bois collectively gasped. "Ssssir!"
Near the fireplace, Pecharunt continued humming softly, curled comfortably in Alastor's lap, while creatures of every imaginable shape and flavor wandered freely through the hotel around them.
The Hazbin Hotel no longer resembled a rehabilitation project. It resembled a home. A strange one. A noisy one. An impossibly well-fed one.
And, if Charlie was being honest, one that smelled faintly of sulfur no matter how much cinnamon or cream anyone tried to bury it under. That, too, had started to feel like home.
Alastor surveyed the bustling hotel, the familiar crackle of radio static humming contentedly beneath his laughter. His smile softened, just for a heartbeat.
"My, my," he murmured. "Hell has just become a lot more interesting."
Around him, dozens of tiny voices chirped, barked, trilled, buzzed, and chattered in cheerful agreement.
Charlie smiled awkwardly. Vaggie groaned into her pillow. Husk took another swig. Sir Pentious continued cooing proudly over his egg. Angel stole a pastry when no one was looking. Niffty had gained even more worshippers.
And somewhere in the walls of the hotel, something new was already scurrying.
Alastor glanced toward the sound, his grin widening.
"Oh?" he said. "Well now, I wonder what you've brought us today."
The expanded version of my food pokemon au. A cool one-shot of Alastor showing the Hazbin, all of the Pokemon in the hotel.
What do you think?
@kitsunesongs @randomreader92 @sorathemasterofmasters @periguita @mermaid-of-the-valley @rosewillow666
I love all of this. I always imagined Alastor being incredibly competent and hyper independent, and the Pokémon he brought into the Hotel showing that competency and independence in a community setting is amazing.
Question: Do the Pokémon consider Alastor their 'Trainer'? I can easily imagine him teaching the Mons the basics of surviving Hell, and they took that knowledge to the extreme and basically created their own ecosystem wherever they settle, this showing in the Hazbin Hotel being near-entirely self-sufficient in terms of food outside of meat. Also, do they having sparring times?
I NEED to see Lucifer's reaction to the Hazbin Ecosystem in person.
For that matter, what if Charlie uses the Pokémon's residence as evidence that the Hotel is capable of working? Fully self-sufficient and self-reliant food supply, defense system, healthcare, and just general animal companionship. Emily would be in awe of all the adorable creatures just...living peacefully in Hell, of all places.
Though I'm sure the Applin line, and especially the Dippin line, would ignite Sera's paranoia like a freakin' BOMB.
