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Alastor had always known what he was supposed to be.
His mother, bless her soul, had never once told him “you're just confused, honey,” or “you'll grow out of this when you're older” or, worst of all “only the bad people think like that”.
Instead, she had bought him boys’ clothing, hiding it away most of the time so Alastor’s father wouldn't find it and go into a rage, but helping her son dress up in it when his father was away.
And Alastor loved her dearly for it, because most people wouldn't have been half as accepting as she was.
Even when he got older and started to develop the dreaded curves of a girl's body, his mother had still helped, showing him how to bind up his chest with fabric.
When he asked where she'd learned that, she just laughed, saying, “This isn't the first time I've helped someone show their true self,” and refused to elaborate.
After her death, Alastor kept on doing what she'd taught him, and no one suspected a thing.
Well, almost no one.
Some newspaper reporter had followed him to his house, most likely trying to find a bit of gossip for a story, and gossip she found, because the nosy woman had seen him undressing and found out his secret. Only the sound of her camera clicking had alerted him in time.
Alastor didn't usually like to kill women, but he'd made an exception that night.
Soon after that, the fatal time had come and he'd been shot, falling into Hell as a deer, of all things.
A useless, defenseless, deer.
He hated it, of course he did. The hooves that took ages to learn how to walk with, the stupid ears that twitched at the slightest flicker of emotion he felt, and, possibly worst of all, a tail. A tail that wagged when he was happy, which was just straight-up infuriating. All that time spent learning how to always smile, always laugh, so no one could see what went on inside, and Alastor was now saddled with not one, but two obvious indicators of emotion.
At least he had the horns. Apparently whoever or whatever was in charge of designing newly dead sinners’ bodies had taken pity upon him and given him the appendages of the gender he should have been. Also known as his horns, even if they were small. They made it that much easier to pass for male, anyway, not that he had problems with that before.
Eventually, Alastor learned to cope with the new body, just as he'd coped with the old one. He took to wearing long coats that more or less hid his tail, and after a long time, managed to get his ear twitches under control. Once more, Alastor had his smiling facade perfected.
Not that he could break it, thanks to the smile permanently stitched on his face. That damn smile never broke, not even on the days he stared at himself in the mirror and felt like taking a knife to his chest. Not even on the nights he jerked out of dreams of his mother's murder. Never once did it waver, and some days he didn't know if that was a blessing or a curse.
So the years continued, Alastor watching Hell slowly progress further. He stopped keeping up with the news once it switched to television, preferring his radio to anything else (he was the Radio Demon, after all) and not really wanting to see Vox’s face on the screen anyway.
So it came as news to him that people such as himself were no longer social outcasts. He never would have found out but for the fact that he happened to be out for a walk one morning in June and came across a large group of demons dressed in bright colors, mostly rainbows, and waving flags of the same shade.
Curious, and a bit puzzled, Alastor paused, walking over to the group and clearing his throat.
“Pardon, would one of you mind telling me what all this means? I must confess, I've never seen such a thing before.”
One of the demons, a short, purple-scaled lizard holding a flag striped blue, pink, and white, gave him a grin.
“You've never seen a pride parade before?”
Alastor shook his head. “No. What does that mean?”
The other demon gave a little shake of his (her? Alastor couldn't tell) flag. “Pride parades are where members of the LGBTQ+ community get together, dress up in rainbows, sometimes make protesting signs but there's not a lot of homophobia here so not really a need for that, and just march. We're celebrating the fact that we don't have to hide anymore.”
“The LGBTQ+ community? What on earth does that mean?”
The lizard laughed. “You must've died a while ago, huh? LGBTQ+ stands for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, etc. In a nutshell, people who are different when it comes to love or gender.”
“Oh?” Alastor blinked, a hand almost going to his chest, where the hidden bindings always were, before he stopped himself just in time. “Well. You have been informative. Thank you kindly, my dear.”
“Anytime,” the lizard said cheerfully. “Always happy to help educate someone.”
And with that, the other demon rejoined the parade, dodging through the people and disappearing.
Alastor stared after them for a long time, thinking over what they had said.
“We're celebrating the fact that we don't have to hide anymore.”
Things certainly had changed since his day, when all people who loved differently or felt differently about themselves were called degenerates, sinful, and usually shunned.
Alastor made his way back to his broadcasting station, digging through the various corners before coming up with a dusty box containing a computer. Vox had sent it to him a while after their fight, with a note reading Doubt you'll use this, but I thought you might like it.
Alastor had tossed the box in a corner after briefly peering inside and had never thought about the thing since. But now he had some research to do, and doubted there would be anything useful on his radio this time.
He pulled the computer out of the box and let out a soft laugh. It was a startling shade of red, with a pair of deer antlers drawn on the back.
“Soft little sap,” Alastor muttered, setting the thing down at his desk and fiddling with the buttons, trying to figure out how to turn it on.
He eventually worked out the basics of it and spent the next few hours searching up various things, most related to what the lizard demon had told him that morning.
By late afternoon, Alastor had found out a number of things. Including the name for what he was.
Transgender.
In his day, no one had called people like him anything but freaks.
It felt nice, knowing there was a name for it. Knowing he was not the only one, that others felt the same why on earth was I born this way, like this, it's wrong.
Not that he would use that term to describe himself anywhere, as so many seemed to be doing. He had spent far too long covering up all traces of being a woman, and now, acknowledging that that was what he had been seemed wrong.
No, Alastor would not be going to any pride parades or things of that sort, but it was nonetheless a comfort to know those were going on, and no one cared. Or almost no one cared.
During his searches, he had also come across a few other men like him, talking about something called top surgery.
Which was, essentially, having your breasts removed.
He'd never known such a thing was possible, but modern science had come quite far in the last few decades.
Alastor wanted to have that surgery. Very, very badly. He wanted to stop binding, day after day, stop worrying that he hadn't wrapped it tight enough and that someone would see, stop staring down at those ridiculous lumps of flesh on his chest that never should have been there.
So for the next month or so, he kept on with his research, trying to see if there was a good, sanitary place somewhere where he could get the surgery done. The most likely place would be a clinic in the Sloth Ring, but sinners were forbidden to travel from ring to ring, so that was out of the question.
Alastor kept on looking, finally finding a small clinic at the far end of the Pride Ring that seemed fairly likely. He sent his shadow to scope out the place, and the shadow came back three hours later, giving him a report in the affirmative, yes, the clinic was good.
So Alastor made an appointment as soon as possible, sending in the money ahead of time, and spent the days until said appointment pacing around his living quarters and occasionally going out to release stress by killing other demons.
As soon as the time had come, he teleported to the clinic, pausing before he went inside.
What if this went wrong? What if the clinic was just a front to kidnap demons? What if-
He shut those thoughts off and went inside.
The receptionist, a small grasshopper demon, waved him into the other room without saying a word.
Alastor walked into the other room and found a sheep demon wearing a white coat sitting in a chair in the corner.
“Hi. I assume you're Alastor? No, I know you're Alastor, because mostly everyone knows what the radio demon looks like nowadays. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you visited,” she added, holding up her hooves defensively as Alastor's ears flattened. “There's not a lot of transphobia in Hell, but it still happens, and I don't want to give those people any leverage. Now, lay back on that table there, please, and I'll give you the knockout stuff.”
Alastor did so as the sheep walked over to him with a syringe, and his last conscious thought was wondering how she was holding that syringe with her hoof.
When he woke up, he was vaguely aware of a slight ache in his chest, but other than that everything seemed alright. Better than alright, in fact, as, although his chest was covered in bandages, he could feel it was now flat.
He felt a movement underneath him and realized his tail was wagging furiously.
Alastor grumbled, going to sit up, then wobbled, still slightly sleepy from the anesthetic.
The doctor was washing her hooves at a sink on the other side of the room and glanced over at him. “You're free to go, just take it easy and don't sleep on your stomach until you're fully healed. I hope you wore a loose shirt here.”
Alastor nodded, sitting again, more successfully this time, then standing, retrieving his shirt and pulling it over his head, then pulling on his coat to cover the still rapidly wagging tail.
“Goodbye, and thank you,” he said quietly, then teleported out of the room and back to his home.
Once home, he carefully gathered up all the strips of cloth he'd used for binding, then walked over to the trash can.
He paused for a moment, staring at the cloth in his hands, remembering all the help his mother had given him and tricks she had shown him to help him feel right, at least a little.
For a moment, Alastor's ever-present smile became genuine.
Thank you, mother, for helping me find myself.
Then he dropped the cloth in the trash can and walked away.