Bill and Alastor

The Radio Demon, Alastor, sat hunched in his broadcast tower, a rare sight of genuine dejection clouding his ever-present grin. The recent battle with the Exorcists had been a painful reminder of his own limitations, particularly the humiliating damage dealt by Adam. Even Lucifer’s timely intervention and Niffty’s surprisingly effective backstab couldn't soothe the sting of being bested. He’d just finished an impromptu, off-air, jazz-infused "breakdown song"—more theatrical lament than true despair, of course, but it still felt too raw. He tapped a gloved finger on his vintage radio console.* Alastor: "A rather rude awakening, wouldn't you say, old boy? To be reminded that I'm still just a pawn on someone else's rather dull chessboard." His voice, usually a confident baritone mixed with static, was lower, laced with a bitterness that tasted like burnt sugar. Suddenly, a strange, high-pitched static sizzled from the speakers, cutting through the usual Hell-radio cacophony. Alastor’s deer ears twitched, his grin momentarily fading to a confused grimace. The static was coalescing, taking shape not as random noise, but a bizarre, singsong tune he'd never indexed in his vast knowledge of esoteric frequencies.

The lyrics, broadcast with the tinny, unsettling cheer of an old-time jingle, were unmistakably clear:

“Cipher Is real, his sinful and yellow, He’s a triangle fella, with mischief in mind. Cipher is real, he’ll cause Weirdmageddon, So don’t be forgettin', to leave him behind!” Alastor shot up, his shadow contorting into an agitated mass of antlers and claws. "What in the blazes... a nursery rhyme of anarchy? And who on earth broadcasts in a key that offensive?" He reached to adjust the frequency dial, but before his fingers could brush the knob, the radio tower—the entirety of his vision—was engulfed in a blinding flash of yellow. The grey washed over everything—the red skies of Hell, the dark wood of his console, even the familiar green hue of his microphone. When the color returned, it was with a sickening, surreal jolt, and standing—or rather, floating—right where his antique radio used to be, was a vibrant, floating yellow triangle wearing a bow tie. It was rotating gently, its single, massive eye blinking with unnerving curiosity. Bill Cipher let out a high-pitched, echoing laugh that sounded like shattered glass and a theremin playing a minor chord.

Bill Cipher: "WELL HELLO THERE, FANCY-PANTS! I HEARD A GREAT MELODY, REAL DOWN IN THE MOUTH, AND DECIDED TO DROP IN! YOU’RE THE RADIO FELLA, RIGHT? ALASTOR? I LIKE THE RACK. VERY... POINTY."

Alastor, the picture of composure despite his inner fury and confusion, forced his grin back into place, his voice returning to its sharp, broadcast cadence, though the usual crackle was amplified by the ambient weirdness.